Laila sipped her tea, assuming an expression Enrique had come to recognize as “smug cat.”
“I knew I was in the wrong era,” she said, before glaring. “Butno morereadings. I’m no instrument.”
“What about an instrument of destiny?” he asked, wiggling his fingers.
“No.”
“Instrument of—”
“Enrique.”
“Instrument of Enrique? Unorthodox, but I like it.”
Laila had swatted him, but they’d spoken no more of it once Hypnos had entered the music room.
Ever since, the conversation had lingered with Enrique.
Laila neededThe Divine Lyricsto live. But didThe Divine Lyricsneed…Laila? His earlier research aboutThe Divine Lyricssuggested that only someone descended of the Lost Muses bloodline could read the book.
What if… what if Laila were one of them? It wasn’t a thought he wanted to broach with the others. Not yet, at least. If the evidence within the Sleeping Palace fit, then he would tell her. Thetroikafire had unnerved him. He’d thought no one was watching their movements, and now he didn’t know who was. The last thing he wanted was to draw their eye to Laila.
By now, he’d made his way to the meeting place in the Oriental Room. The moment he pushed open the door, he grimaced. The Oriental Room was clearly something dreamed up by someone who had never visited the Orient. The room felt like a bone set wrong. On the shelves lining the walls, he recognized a Tibetan prayer wheel placed as a beater for the percussive Chinese gong. Delicate ivory and agatenetsuke—once used in Japanese menswear—lay scattered across a chessboard as surrogate pieces.
“You haveexcellenthair,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Enrique startled, nearly dropping the documents in his arms. A tall, light-skinned man stood from an armchair situated in the shadowed part of the room. He was young, Enrique saw. And bald. When he stepped into the light, Enrique noticed a slight tilt to his eyes that hinted at East Asian descent.
“What do you do? Egg masks? Olive oil?” asked the man. “Can I touch it?”
Enrique stared at this bizarre person. “No?”
The man shrugged. “Very well. Maybe you’re born with it.” Hetapped his bald pate. “My own inheritance is a touch sparser than I’d like.”
When he drew closer, Enrique saw the man’s arm was in a sling, though it was concealed by the drape of his sable coat.
“Ruslan Goryunov the Bald at your service,” said the man, bowing low.
This close, he could see how young the man was… no more than in his late twenties.
“Enrique Mercado-Lopez.”
“Ah! The historian!” said Ruslan. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Enrique’s face burned. “You know me?”
He’d never imagined anyone had ever heard of him. It made him wonder if he should’ve worn something more… official-looking… more interesting than his usual black suit and simple cravat. Then again he wasn’t sure how exemplary it was if the only person who recognized him was someone who went by Ruslan the Bald.
“I knowofyou,” said Ruslan. “I knowmostthings. Except for how to resurrect a hairline. Alas. I rather enjoyed your article concerning the return of artwork to colonized countries. My understanding is that you’ve been a historian and linguist to Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie at L’Eden Hotel for quite some time now. Do you like it there?”
Enrique nodded, hating that the first—and probably thelast—time he was being recognized in public was also the only time he couldn’t find the right words. He kept panicking that his voice would come out far deeper than he intended. Or that he might spontaneously belch and therefore destroy all semblance of credibility.
Ruslan grinned, then glanced behind Enrique to the clock above the door threshold. He frowned.
“I’ve gotten the time wrong,” he said. “We will have more time to talk soon, I am sure.”
“What are you—” Enrique started, then stopped. He didn’t want to seem rude.
“Doing here?” finished Ruslan with a laugh. “I thought I’d be here for a meeting, but then I got distracted by a beetle, then a daydream, and finally that painting.” He bowed. “It was an honor to meet you, Monsieur Mercado-Lopez.”
