“No.”
“Mythologically speaking, we’re talking about something that is thought to guard or hide things,” he said. “There are ten goddesses here, maybe one of them has a story about hiding something?”
“How can you tell which goddess each is?” asked Hypnos.
“Iconography,” said Enrique. He stared at the ten statues, all of whom looked the same to Zofia except for whatever object they might be carrying. And then, Enrique snapped his fingers. “I get it now… these are the ninemusesfrom Greek mythology, goddesses of the arts. See that lyre?” He pointed at one of the blank-faced statues clutching a golden harp. “That’s for Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. Beside her is Erato, the muse of love poetry with her cithara instrument, and then Thalia, the muse of comedy, with her theatre masks.”
Zofia watched, rapt. To her, these statues were feats of Forging technology. They were marble and affinity. But that was all their shapes told her. When she listened to Enrique, though, it was like a new light turning on in her mind, and she wanted to hear more. Enrique paused in front of a statue with outspread wings.
“Strange,” said Enrique. “There’s a tenth statue… This one doesn’t fit. But whymuses? It might be a nod to the Order’s lore of the Lost Muses who guardThe Divine Lyrics?”
“The Order didn’t construct this art, though,” pointed out Zofia.
“True,” said Enrique, nodding. “And then there’s this tenth statue, which doesn’t fit at all. It’s strange, honestly, look at the shape of—”
“This isn’t the time to ponder!” said Hypnos, gesturing at the floor. “We’ve got about fifteen minutes left by my count.”
By now, the white tinge had spread across nearly half of the room and had begun to creep up the legs of half the goddess statues.
“I don’t think this one is a goddess,” said Enrique. “No distinguishing iconographic aspects. There’s some gold leaf on the wings, but that doesn’t tell us much. And the face is devoid of expression.”
Zofia didn’t move, but there was something familiar about the statue… something that made her think of her sister.
“I want to see too,” grumbled Hypnos, walking over to the statue. He eyed it, then scowled. “IfIlooked like that, I wouldn’tdemand worship either. None of that outfit says ‘pay me obeisance, mortals.’”
“It’s not a muse… it’s a seraph, anangel,” said Enrique.
He took a step closer, then ran his hands along its face, across the shoulders, and down the body of the statue.
Hypnos whistled. “Rather forward of you…”
“I’m trying to see if there’s any depressed spots,” said Enrique, “some sort of release mechanism to get at whatever might be hiding inside here.”
By now, the white tinge had gotten to the statue of the angel. It started at its feet, slowly pulling the marble back into the walls. Zofia’s breath plumed in front of her. The longer she stared at it, the more an old story and game that she and Hela used to play came to mind. She remembered her sister whispering,Can you keep a secret, Zosia?
“Hypnos? Zofia? Any ideas?” called Enrique.
“The nose knows not the scent of secrets, but holds the shape,” Zofia repeated, touching her mouth. Zofia started to cross the room to them. “Hela and I used to play a game from a story our mother told us about angels and children… Before you are born, you know all the secrets of the world. But an angel locked them up by pressing his thumb right above your lips. That’s why everyone has a dent right above their mouth.”
Hypnos frowned. “That’s a pretty tale—”
But Enrique grinned. “It fits… it’s demonstrating the concept ofanamnesis!”
Zofia blinked at him.
“Is that a disease?” asked Hypnos.
“It’s this idea of a cosmic loss of innocence. The thumb print of a seraph right below your nose fits with the riddle because the nosewould not know the scent of secrets, butholds the shape. It’s the philtrum! Or the Cupid’s bow! That dip right above one’s mouth—below one’s nose. In fact, in Filipino mythology, there arediwataswho—”
“Stop lecturing us and get on with it, Enrique!” said Hypnos.
“Sorry, sorry!”
The white tinge had crept up the seraph’s waist now, and the hands had begun to lose their shape. Quickly, Enrique reached up. He pressed his thumb to the angel’s upper lip. A sound like rushing water emanated from inside the seraph statue. Immediately, it split down the center, the two halves swinging open like a hidden door. Inside the hollow angel stood a slender onyx pedestal, and on that sat a small, shining metal box no bigger than the span of Zofia’s hand. Slender cracks networked across its surface, as if it had been fused together long ago.
“We found it,” said Hypnos, awed.
Enrique reached in, pulling on the box… It didn’t budge.
