“The bed was too small,” she said.
“I hope its owner wasn’t,” he said. From his jacket, he pulled out a letter with Séverin’s seal. “I imagine you were also summoned.”
Laila answered by holding up her own letter. Hypnos grinned, then made room for her in the carriage.
“Ride with me,ma chère. There’s no time to waste.”
A pang dug into Laila’s chest.
“How well I know it,” she said, and stepped into the carriage.
3
ENRIQUE
For the fifth time in the past minute, Enrique Mercado-Lopez smoothed his hair and patted his immaculate shirtfront. Then, he cleared his throat. “Gentlemen of the Ilustrados, I thank you for joining me today for my presentation on ancient world powers. For this afternoon, I have assembled a selection of Forged artifacts from around the globe. I believe that as we advance the sovereignty of the Philippines, we should look for guidance in history. Ourpastcan reshape ourfuture!”
He paused, blinking. Then he muttered, “Wait,ourpast… orthepast?”
He looked down at his notepad where he’d crossed and recrossed, underlined and blotted out nearly half of his original presentation that had taken weeks to prepare.
“Thepast,” he said, making another note.
He looked out over the reading room of theBibliothèque nationale de France. It was one of the most beautiful libraries he hadever seen, the ceilings vaulted like the rib cage of a slain monster out of myth, and full of stained glass windows, book-lined walls, and Forged reference books that perched on slender golden racks, preening and flapping their covers.
It was also completely empty.
Enrique glanced at the center of the room. In place of a chandelier rotated a great, glowing orb displaying the time:half past eleven.
The Ilustrados were late.Toolate. The meeting was to start at ten. Perhaps they had gotten the time wrong. Or had they lost the invitations? No, that couldn’t be it. He’d double-checked the addresses and confirmed their receipt. They wouldn’t ignore him like this… would they? Surely, he had proven his worth as a curator and historian. He’d written articles forLa Solidaridadand eloquently—or so he thought—argued his case for the equality of colonized civilizations to its colonizers. Besides, he had the backing of Hypnos, a patriarch in the Order of Babel and Séverin Montagnet-Alarie, Paris’s most influential investor and owner of the grandest hotel in France.
Enrique put down his notebook and stepped from his podium to the dining table arranged in the middle of the room and set for the nine members of the Ilustrados inner circle… soon to be ten. He hoped. The hot gingersalabattea had begun to cool. Soon, he’d have to cover up theafritadaandpanciton their heating platters. The bucket holding champagne was more water than ice.
Enrique looked at the spread. Perhaps it would not have been so bad if non-Ilustrados members had come. He thought about Hypnos, and warmth pleasantly curled through his body. He’d wanted to invite him, but the other boy tended to balk at any sign of too much commitment and preferred their casual not-quite-friend and not-quite-lover territory. Gracing the end table was a beautiful bouquet of flowers from Laila, who he knew wouldn’t attend. Once, he’d woken her up before ten o’clock in the morning and was met with a wrathful growl, a red-eyed glare, and a vase flung at his head. When she eventually stumbled downstairs closer to noon, she had no recollection of the incident. Enrique had decided never to meet pre-noon Laila again. Then there was Zofia. Zofia would’ve attended and sat straight-backed in her chair, her blue-as-candle-hearts eyes alive with curiosity. But she was returning from a family visit in Poland.
In a moment of desperation, he’d considered inviting Séverin, but that felt callous. Half the reason he had arranged this presentation was because he couldn’t stay as Séverin’s historian and curator forever. Besides, Séverin wasn’t… the same. Enrique didn’t blame him, but there were only so many times he could accept a shut door in his face. He told himself he wasn’t leaving Séverin, but choosing life.
“I tried,” he said aloud for the hundredth time. “… I really tried.”
He wondered how many times he’d have to say it, for guilt not to creep into his veins. Despite all his research, they’d found nothing that could lead them to the Sleeping Palace, the place full of the Fallen House’s treasure and the one object within that Séverin was determined to find:The Divine Lyrics. Taking backThe Divine Lyricswould be the final blow to the Fallen House. Without it, their plans to rejoin the Babel Fragments would crumble. They neededThe Divine Lyrics, and perhaps then, Séverin would feel as though Tristan had truly been avenged.
But it was not to be.
When the Order said they would take over the mission, Enrique had felt nothing but relief. Tristan’s death haunted him. He’dnever forget that first breath he took after he knew Tristan was dead—jagged and harsh, as if he’d fought the world for the privilege to draw air into his lungs. That’s what life was. A privilege. He wouldn’t waste it chasing vengeance. He would do something vastly more meaningful, more important.
After Tristan died, Laila had left L’Eden entirely. Séverin became as cold and unreachable as the stars. Zofia had stayed more or less the same, but she’d gone to Poland… which left Hypnos. Hypnos who understood his past enough, perhaps, to want to be part of his future.
Behind him, a voice called out, “Hello?”
Enrique leapt to attention, straightening his jacket and fixing a bright smile on his face. Maybe all his worry was for nothing. Maybe everyone reallyhadbeen running late… but as the figure walked toward him, Enrique deflated. It wasn’t a member of the Ilustrados at all, but a courier holding out two envelopes.
“Are you Monsieur Mercado-Lopez?”
“Unfortunately,” said Enrique.
“These are for you,” he said.
One letter was addressed from Séverin. The other from the Ilustrados. Heart racing, he opened the latter, skimming it as a knot of hot shame coiled in his gut.
