Zofia nodded in understanding.
“There was an article published in 1872 that talked about the discovery of cuneiform tablets in the Library of Ashurbanipal near Nineveh…” said Enrique, glancing at the frame. “When they translated the tablets, they found another mention of the deluge. It was the first time people realized there were various instances of a ‘great flood’ occurring across the world… across different cultures, different traditions. As if this one great event didn’t belong to a single people. It’s groundbreaking, really, though the Order of Babel has tried to block further research and translation of the tablets ever since.”
“So they no longer wish it to be proven?” asked Zofia, frowning.“The higher the frequency of a recorded event, the higher the likelihood that it actually happened.”
“Not if it contradicts their view of themselves, I suppose,” said Enrique.
He couldn’t hide the bitterness that snuck into his tone. In the past, he would have been livid. He remembered an essay he had written at university arguing that such practices were an effort to take a paintbrush and pair of scissors to history, an act that no human had a right to commit. At the time, anger shook through him, turning his handwriting scratchy and feverish.
But now, he felt curiously flat. What was the point of his frustration? Of his essay writing and plans for great speeches? Would it even make a difference in the world, or did the right to make a difference only lie in the hands of the privileged few?
The Order of Babel riffled through history as if it were a drawer. To them, culture was little more than an appealing ribbon or glittering ornament. Then there were those like Séverin and Ruslan… people who could flip the world order, but only if their wants were at the center of it all. And then there was Enrique, suspended between it all like a useless jewel left to hang between them—wanted merely for appearance’s sake.
“Their view of themselves,” said Zofia slowly. “Perhaps they do not know how to see.”
“Perhaps,” said Enrique.
His gaze went to the mirror on the far side of the wall. He didn’t understand why the matriarch had placed it there. It did not fit amongst the books and objects. It didn’t even seem to face the rest of the room. From this angle, it was unevenly skewed to show the library’s entrance. Perhaps it was to keep track of strangers entering the room? At first they had suspected it might be a Tezcat door, but Zofia told them it was not.
How does a treasure wish to make itself known?Séverin used to say when it came to finding something.What does it want you to see?
Enrique shoved the words out of his head. The last thing he wanted to do was think of Séverin.
“I have not found anything,” Zofia announced. “No key. No object that changes.”
Enrique blew out a breath. “I figured as much.”
“On Isola di San Michele, you said Janus was a god of time.”
“And?”
“And time does not share the same traits as a key,” said Zofia.
“The key was more of a manifestation of the setting he rules over,” said Enrique, waving his hand. “Art is very self-referential and such…”
He sank into the nearest chair, letting his head fall into his palms. Hypnos would be back within the hour, and he would have to admit that he’d been wrong. There was no hint about House Janus here. He would have to watch Hypnos’s smile turn smug and sympathetic, hear him fawn over howSéverinwould have known what to do—
“Tell me more about the setting he rules over,” said Zofia loudly.
Enrique looked up, torn between annoyance and the faint flicker of joy at the thought of explaining anything about myths and symbols. None of the others had asked about Janus’s particular role in the Roman pantheon. Leave it to Zofia to question him when he had no wish to discuss further.
“He is said to guard passages of all kinds,” said Enrique. “He was a god of dualities and transitions… oftentimes worshipped in the same breath as Zeus, who they called Iupiter. Janus also went by Ianus, which lent its name to Ianuarius and, thus, the month of January. As the first month of the year, it’s the moment where we may look backwards and forwards at once. It’s why Janus is oftendepicted presiding over doorways and doorframes. Why, even the Latin word for door isianus—”
Enrique paused. A faint tingling sensation traveled down his spine. He stood slowly, then turned to face the mirror. He saw his stained bandage and the slight bulge where his ear had once been before Ruslan sliced it off. But beyond that—beyond the way the world had marked him—he saw the threshold of the library.
He had never noticed it before, the wood carved into elaborate shapes and set with gold trimming. It had seemed like another beautiful, decorative thing in a house full of beautiful, decorative ornaments. But now his gaze snagged on a faint, glowing spot set into the wood. At first glance, it seemed like a trick of the light… the flame of a candle or sconce bouncing off the silver mirror. It was situated up high, almost near the joint where the mantel and the frame met. A place no one would have cause to examine too closely.
“Zofia,” said Enrique. “I’m beginning to think you really are a genius.”
“You sound surprised,” said Zofia. “Why?”
Enrique grinned as he walked past her, his hand outstretched to the door… the traditional haunt of the two-faced god.
“Is there a stool?” he asked, casting about.
Zofia picked one up, bringing it to him. Enrique clambered onto it, kneeling. He touched the glimmer set into the wood. It poked out like an innocent splinter.
Enrique pinched it and slowlypulled.
