Wordlessly, Séverin pointed to a heavy tome situated on the table nearest him.

“Go ahead and look,” rasped Séverin.

Enrique approached cautiously while Zofia trailed behind him.

As Enrique had suspected, there was some tracing of gold on the cover, and it was certainly made of animal skin. The dimensions were quite large for a book, and there was the suggestion of buckles along the binding, almost as if it was intended to be a book that held something within. Pressed into the surface was a burned marking … like a small, slanted W. The image bothered him, but he didn’t know why he recognized it. Within the book lay nothing but empty space, with the vaguest depressions of something having been inside of it that was no longer there.

Enrique swallowed hard, letting his fingers coast down the spine.

“What if we’ve missed something?” he asked. “Maybe if we—”

“There’s no point,” said Séverin. “There’s nothing left.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even make eye contact. But the air bent around him, and it was like skittering away from a sudden opening in the world. Enrique felt his face flush red. He wanted to scream at him. He wanted to tell him that Laila would die without their help. But in the end, his promise to her kept him silent.

Séverin rose from his seat. From the pocket of his jacket, he withdrew an envelope and handed it to Zofia.

“This came for you,” he said tonelessly. “You can return to your sister as early as tomorrow. It doesn’t matter.”

Zofia took it, the line between her brows furrowing.

“Congratulations to us all,” said Séverin tonelessly. “We found one of the greatest collections of treasures man has ever known.”

Just as Séverin made his way to the door, Hypnos appeared at the threshold looking out of breath and confused.

“I was wondering where everyone went,” he said, turning an accusing eye to Enrique. “I thought you and Zofia would come back, but you never did. If I’d known you were going to see Séverin, I would have joined you immediately.”

Enrique felt Hypnos’s words settle heavily inside him. Was Séverin the only reason he would have joined them?

Séverin pushed past him.

“Where are you going?” asked Hypnos. “We have to get ready for the celebrations later!”

Séverin walked out the door, leaving Hypnos to groan and throw up his hands. He adjusted his suit, took a deep breath, and made to go after Séverin when something in Enrique forced him to call out, “Wait!”

Hypnos looked at him, irritation flashing across his face.

“What is it, mon cher? Can it wait?”

Enrique felt a lump in his throat as he made his way to Hypnos. He felt, suddenly, foolish. The shadows of today curled darkly in his heart, and he craved the light and warmth of another person before he threw himself into examining the treasures. He thought Hypnos would have recognized that plea in his face, but the other boy hadn’t noticed. In fact, Hypnos looked ready to bolt.

“I could use your help?”

Even as he asked, he knew the answer.

“I cannot,” said Hypnos quickly, his eyes going to the door. “Séverin needs me—”

“What if I needed you?” asked Enrique. And then, softly, “Would it even matter?”

“Séverin is the closest I have to family,” said Hypnos. “I have to go to him.”

Pity flashed through his heart.

“I don’t think Séverin sees it that way,” said Enrique gently. “Trust me, Hypnos … I recognize what one-sided affection looks like.” His hand fell to his side. “At least, I recognize it now.”

Hypnos went still. In his stillness lay all the answer Enrique needed. He saw, with a weary clarity, everything he hadn’t wanted to notice. How he had reached for something Hypnos wasn’t willing to offer. How the other boy seemed happiest when he was with the group, instead of just him. Hypnos had told him from the start that this was casual, and yet Enrique had kept trying to make it … more. An ache settled behind his rib cage. The room felt larger, and he felt all the more diminished.

Hypnos’s mouth twisted with guilt.

“Oh mon cher, it is not one-sided, it is merely—”

“—Not enough,” finished Enrique, looking down at his shoes.

Hypnos moved closer. Dimly, Enrique felt the other boy’s warm fingers tipping up his chin.

“I am quite charmed by you, my historian,” said Hypnos. “You and I … we understand each other’s pasts.”

But a shared past didn’t make a future. And Hypnos seemed to know this too.

“I think, with enough time, I could learn to love you,” said Hypnos.

Enrique reached up, slowly removing Hypnos’s hand from his face. He held the other boy’s hand, then curled it into a fist, brushing his lips once against Hypnos’s knuckles.

“Perhaps we both deserve someone who is not so hard to love,” said Enrique.

“Enrique—”

“I’ll be fine,” said Enrique. “You broke no promises to me. Just go.”

Hypnos opened his mouth as if he’d say more, but in the end, chose silence. He met Enrique’s eyes, nodded stiffly, and left the room.

Enrique stared out the empty door. He felt hollow, as if a stray winter wind would blow right through him. Haltingly, he took a deep breath. The library smelled of paper and ink … and possibility. And that, in the end, was where he turned his attention. He needed the sanctuary of work, and judging from what he’d glimpsed of the treasures, there was much work to be done. It was only when he turned fully from the door that he realized he wasn’t alone. Zofia stood there, twirling a lit match between her fingers and eyeing a table full of treasures. She’d stayed, and he didn’t know what to make of that. She looked him in the eye, her blue eyes fierce.

“Do you need help?” she asked.

* * *

AROUND THEM, THE LIBRARY seemed to take on new meaning. The caryatids of the muses had folded their hands against their breastbones, the iconography of their particular fields gleaming on their person and wrought in stone. Enrique saw the lyre of Calliope, the chief of the muses and the muse of epic poetry; the cornet of Clio, muse of history; the aulos of Euterpe, muse of music; the kithara of Erato, muse of love poetry; the tragic mask of Melpomene, muse of tragedy; the veil of Polymynia, muse of hymns; the lyre of Terpsichore, muse of dance; the shepherd’s crook of Thalia, muse of comedy; and the compass of Ourania, muse of astronomy. A shiver ran down his spine as he regarded them. Once, they had been revered as the goddesses of inspiration, but what had they inspired in this place except murder? And why were all their objects broken?

“What are we looking for?” asked Zofia, walking to one of the tables laden with treasure. “Where else could the book be?”

Zofia reached out, touching a delicate Medusa crown, a Forged object from ancient Greece capable of rendering small objects to stone. One of the little stone serpents recoiled at her touch, and its body tightened to a sharp crimp … the shape struck Enrique as deeply familiar. Like a figure eight. It looked like something he’d seen only moments ago. He walked to the nearest muse, studying the sign he’d found etched on each of their palms days ago: