“Unmaking?” repeated Zofia aloud.
The word reminded her of the last time they had seen writing on the wall.
TO PLAY AT GOD’S INSTRUMENT
WILL SUMMON THE UNMAKING
What did it mean?
A glint in her peripheral vision caught her attention. A small object had fallen near the base of the altar. She bent down, picking it up off the floor—
It was a golden honeybee.
Zofia had not seen a honeybee pendant quite like that since the catacombs where the doctor opened his arms and let the Fallen House members flood the Paris catacombs. Panic zipped through her veins. She needed to warn the others. Zofia stepped backwards, but her foot slipped on the step, and she slammed into…someone. For a moment, all she felt was the rise and fall of their breathing.
Instinct took over.
Zofia dropped to a crouch. The ground beneath her turned damp and slippery. Her foot skidded as she leapt to one side, sending her crashing to the floor. Zofia clawed at her necklace, desperate to grab her incendiary device when a cloth-covered hand clamped over her mouth and nose. An ether-like odor tinged with sweetness filled her nostrils, and her eyes began to close.
“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 andspoken, 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 hisescuela secundariaclassmates. 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 beheard? 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?”
