“I hate that you’ve made me do this,” said a familiar voice. “But I know you’ll understand, my dear.”

29

ENRIQUE

When it came to silence, Enrique always thought to fill it.

He’d thought that for something to be powerful, it needed sound to match in the same way a background growl of thunder turned the lightning ominous. Or the way words peeled off a page and spoken, gave them a new heft and weight.

The first time he had been chosen as a speaker for his debate team, he had been flattered. People trusted the weight of his words even when his topic of interest—Universal Stories: A Defense of Filipino Folklore—hadn’t first seemed to grab any of his escuela secundaria classmates. All night, he prepared for his speech, his nerves practically fizzing. He’d even attended morning mass and prayed that he didn’t get tongue-tied. But moments before he stepped onto the podium, a classmate handed him his lecture.

“What’s this?” Enrique had asked, confused.

None of the writing looked familiar.

The classmate laughed. “Don’t worry, Kuya, we did all the work for you.”

“But…” said Enrique, limply holding up his own speech.

The classmate waved it away. “Oh, don’t worry about that.” His classmate lightly patted his cheek. “Your face will do all the convincing. Now get up there!”

Enrique remembered the cloying warmth of the theatre, his fingers leaving damp presses in the paper, and the audience exchanging smirks or looks of pity. Did he want to be heard for his face or philosophy? Or did he merely want to be heard? Cowardice chose for him. He spoke, reading off the page. Later, when they handed him the award of first place, Enrique went home shamefaced, shoved the trophy under the patio, and never whispered a word of it to his parents. Years later, he could not remember what it was that he’d said.

But it didn’t really matter.

Enrique thought of that moment now as he analyzed the treasure before him. Maybe for the first time, he was doing something that mattered. The key to saving Laila’s life could be—had to be—here. And none of it required speech. Only the silence of keeping his head down, his face away from the light.

Enrique looked at the door, then back at the table. That was the second time he’d done that since Zofia had left for the ice grotto twenty minutes ago. He told himself that was just because he didn’t like being alone and the work went slower without her. And yet, he had to admit that he liked glimpsing the world through her eyes. It was like a curtain drawn back to reveal the slender, mechanical mechanisms holding up the stage, a world he didn’t know how to see.

Enrique reached for another artifact. There were only three more treasures left on the table. A jar of feathers, a small and rusted harp with dull metal strings, and a handful of long, oval masks covered with cold, Forged flames. Enrique was about to reach for the harp when he heard a sharp knock at the door. He frowned. It was too soon to be Zofia. And though he needed the help, he wasn’t ready to see Hypnos. Thinking of him—or rather, the disconnect between what he wanted and what they had—was like touching a fresh bruise.

“Hello?” he called out.

“It’s me!” said a familiar voice. “Ruslan!”

Enrique wiped his hands on his smock, then went to open the door. Ruslan stood in the doorway, holding a plate of food in his one hand, while the other, as always, lay in a tight sling across his chest.

“Your hair looks very rumpled,” said Ruslan, casting a critical eye over him. “Troubling thoughts, perhaps? Or a lack of a comb?”

“Both.”

Ruslan raised the platter. “It looks like the Midnight Auction got delayed, and I thought you might want some food and company?”

Enrique flashed a tight smile. Truthfully, he didn’t want to waste a second that could spare Laila pain. And if he was going to work with anyone, it was Zofia.

“That’s kind of you,” he said.

“… but not particularly wanted?” prompted Ruslan, his smile tugging down. “It’s quite all right, I understand. I figured once I saw the state of your hair, which, forgive me, is exquisitely dismal—”

“No, please,” said Enrique, remembering himself. “Come in. You have every right to be here. You’re the patriarch who commissioned the expedition, after all.”

Still, Ruslan didn’t move, and Enrique had a sudden feeling that he had said precisely the wrong thing.

“I would rather rely on the strength of my personality than my privilege,” said Ruslan quietly.

Enrique softened. He looked back at the table full of artifacts and sighed. Perhaps Ruslan could be of help. Séverin used to be strict about who was allowed to assist them, but these days Séverin was a ghost who couldn’t even muster the interest to haunt them.

“I could use the help,” said Enrique.

Ruslan gave a little hop of joy and then followed Enrique inside.

“What are you examining?” asked Ruslan, eyeing the table.

Enrique pointed at the symbol he’d found on the muses’ palms and the outside of the box they had mistaken for The Divine Lyrics:

“That’s what we’re looking for, but on one of the other objects,” explained Enrique. “I think it might be the actual symbol of The Divine Lyrics. The book that Séverin and Hypnos found was hollow, so perhaps it’s not a book at all? Or a book inside of a book? I’m not sure.”

Ruslan seemed to absorb this carefully. “You think it may not be a book? Why?”

“Well, the word itself was an incomplete translation,” said Enrique. “As far as we know, we only have the letters: THE DIVINE LYR to explain what it is … which may not be a full picture. There’s certain iconographical missteps that keep leaping out to me, but I don’t know what it means. For example, all the muses in this room are carrying broken objects, which was identical to what we saw when we followed the Tezcat portal to Istanbul. We know the Lost Muses guarded The Divine Lyrics, and we know their bloodline allowed them to read the book. Perhaps that’s what connects the paintings in Istanbul and”—Enrique crossed himself—“the dead girls in the grotto. Their hands had been removed, perhaps as a nod to restraining their power from, I don’t know, holding the book? Turning its pages? It’s still unclear to me, but it demonstrates restraint of power—”

Abruptly, Enrique stopped. He felt a twinge of self-consciousness when he spoke. He didn’t normally talk that long before most people told him to stop. Laila never did, of course, but he could always tell when she grew bored because her gaze went unfocused … and then Zofia. Well, actually, Zofia always leaned forward. Zofia always listened.

“I apologize,” he said quickly. “I sometimes get carried away with my thoughts.”

He looked at Ruslan, and saw that he was rapt. The sight was deeply humbling.

And deeply awkward.

“Er, if you want to help, could you start by picking up the objects on the far right side of the table to look for the symbol?” asked Enrique. “Some of them are a little dirty and need to be cleaned beforehand.”

“Oh, of course!” said Ruslan, hopping to the table once more. He reached for the jar of feathers.