“It was the Fibonacci sequence,” cut in Enrique.
If Zofia got started on numbers, they’d be here all day.
“Praise Fibonacci,” said Laila, pressing her palms together.
“Well, Fibonacci can have some credit, but not all. He was brilliant, of course. But did you know—”
Zofia groaned. Enrique ignored her.
“—the Fibonacci sequence itself appears as early as the sixthcentury in Sanskrit treatises by the Hindu scholar Pingala. Isn’t that fascinating?”
Laila made a face. “So who do we thank?”
“Me, naturally.”
The tunnel drew to a close, and the three of them stood before the amber entrance to the library. By now, the adrenaline coursing through his veins had faded. Exhaustion crept into the edges of him.
Enrique braced himself for what lay on the other side of the door. The Horus Eye. As Zofia reached for the doorknob, Enrique wondered if it was possible for time itself to pause and expand, as if it were a vast pupil dilating to let in the light. Because he felt as if he could sense each second passing against his skin. As if every dream of his hung low and ripe as fruit for the plucking. If Marcelo Ponce and the rest of the Ilustrados group could see him now, then maybe they’d see him as more than a clevermestizoboy, but a hero in the making. Like Dr. Rizal. Like someone who illuminated the dark.
The door swung open.
Warm air gusted over them, and his skin shivered. Once in the dark, and now on the threshold of light, his eyes adjusted.
Across the room, a second door swung open, and two shadows stretched across the floor.
19
SÉVERIN
Séverin’s fifth father was a man he called Pride.
Pride had married into the Order of Babel. His late wife had been the second-born daughter of a patriarch. Though born wealthy, an investment in far-off salt mines had left them penniless, forcing them to sell their possessions. Bitterness grew like a crust over Pride’s home. Pride showed them the collection catalogues of the Order, whispering which items had once belonged to him and his wife. He showed Séverin and Tristan how to take back what belonged to you. How to make a harness that let one slip down roofs and into windows, how to pay off the right guards, how to step with a light foot.
He never used the word “steal.”
“Take what the world owes you by any means necessary,” Pride had said. “The world has a shit memory. It will never pay its debts unless you force its hand.”
SÉVERIN THOUGHT OFPride now as he met Hypnos at the entrance to the subterranean library. Hypnos slipped the copied key into theamber door. The door swung open, revealing a long trail of steps that descended into the dark. Séverin took a moment to bow his head, the closest he would come to prayer. He whispered the words Pride spoke every time he went to repossess an object: “I’ve come to collect my dues.”
Before him, the whole of the subterranean library sprawled. The room was the size of an amphitheater, and though the floor and ceiling was packed earth, a luminous underwater shine danced across the top. A small moat surrounded the library. It looked to be a built-in coolant system to regulate the temperature of the treasure room. Forged lanterns and thuribles floated down the neat aisles that sprang out of the ground. Objects loomed into sight: caryatids and drinking horns, broken crowns and canopic jars, mirrors that floated in midair, and an azure jug that poured a continuous stream of wine.
“Oh no, shiny things,” moaned Hypnos, clapping his hands to his heart. “My weakness.”
Though the library could bring kings to their knees, it wasn’t the sight Séverin craved. He walked down the aisle, toward the back end of the wall where an amber door identical to the one they had walked through now swung open. Three figures stepped into the room. Enrique, with a stunned expression on his face. Zofia, bewildered and clutching her necklace. And then Laila… streaked with what looked like ash. Laila in that same dancing costume he hadn’t been able to shake from his thoughts ever since she’d thrown him the key.
Hypnos waved hello, and then he leaned down to whisper in Séverin’s ear, “You’re staring.”
Séverin looked abruptly away. He reached into his jacket for the silver tin of cloves and popped one into his mouth.
“Any trouble?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Zofia, matter-of-fact. “There was a fireball and the ground broke, and we thought Tristan and Enrique were dead.”
“What?”
“Tristan is fine,” soothed Laila. “He’s upstairs now, standing guard.”
“Did you say fur ball?” asked Hypnos. “Like a puppy? How endearing.”
