A long dead flicker ofsomethingstirred weakly in Enrique’s heart. He pushed away Hypnos’s hand. That wasn’t what he wanted from him.
“I know I behaved badly,” said Hypnos.
Around them, the house was quiet. The candles in their sconces flickered. It felt like time could not touch them here, and perhaps that was what moved him to speak the truth.
“And I know I saw what I wanted to,” said Enrique.
Hypnos looked up at him. His frost-colored eyes looked unexpectedly warm. “When I said that I could learn to love you… I meant that… that someone like me needs time.”
Enrique stared at him. When Hypnos had spoken those words to him a few days ago, that was not how he had interpreted them. The words had hit him like a rejection, as if he were someone difficult to love. Now, a confused warmth spread through his chest.
“I—”
Hypnos shook his head. “I know now is not the time,mon cher. I merely wanted you to understand what I meant…” The other boy reached out, gently brushing the back of his hand against his bandage. “I am not here to hurt you. I am not here to tell you what a future such as ours might look like. I merely wanted you to know that at the very least, I can be your friend. I can hold your secrets, if you’d let me.”
A sigh loosed from Enrique. He did not move away when Hypnos stroked his face. An ache he did not realize he’d carried eased off of him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Does that mean we are friends at least?” asked Hypnos hopefully.
At least. His mind would have to untangle that… later. Perhaps days later.
Enrique sighed. “I suppose.”
“Excellent,” said Hypnos. “Now. As your friend, it is my duty to tell you that your outfit is abominable, and as I fully expected this, I have another one already steamed, pressed, and ready for you to wear.”
TEN MINUTES ANDsome cursing later, Enrique—in a completely different set of clothes—waited in the Piazza San Marco.
Normally the piazza was crammed with people, but the day was cold, and the sunrise was little more than a wisp of gold on the lagoons. And so, for the past twenty minutes, he shared the view with no one but the pigeons. Eventually, the pigeons realized he had no food and abandoned him with a coo and a huff, fleeing for the gilded eaves of St. Mark’s Basilica which crowned the public square.
For a long while, Enrique could do nothing but stare at the piazza. This early, the square was alive with magic. The pale basilica seemed carved of antique moonlight and old snow. Its half-moon archways bore scenes of St. Mark’s bones arriving in Venice. Atop the precious porphyry marble columns, the four bronze horses stolen from the thirteenth century sack of Constantinople looked ready to burst from the church’s facade and take flight. Enrique had been to the piazza before, but he had never experienced it like this… as if history had pinned him to one place.
On one side of the basilica stood the Doge’s Palace—with its hundreds of columns and arches like frozen lace—and the rust-colored bell tower on the other. Around him, the square seemed to whisper in a thousand languages and traditions. Domed Islamic lanterns and jewel-encrusted North Africanalfizarches stood side by side with the grand basilica. Inside it, the bright Byzantine gilding tempted one to imagine that the church had sliced out squares of sunshine and fixed the pieces one by one to form the cupolas’ gleaming bellies. Here, time had softened the lines of history and alchemized them into a collective story of humanity.
In that second, Enrique felt as though the buildings were watching him.
“Tabi tabi po,” he whispered.
Please excuse me.
He hoped his lola’s words worked, that the spirits in the buildingsregarded him not as a trespasser but a humble visitor. Or perhaps a pilgrim. Someone looking for their place in the world.
His ear throbbed in the winter air, and Enrique touched it gingerly.
“Could you give me a sign?” he asked the silent buildings. “Please?”
Enrique closed his eyes. He felt the wind on his face. The stark February sun folding away the mist—
Something tugged at his jacket. Enrique’s eyes flew open. For a second, he almost imagined anenkantopeering up at him… its long fingers holding out a prize.We accept the trade, it would say, eyeing his lost ear.
But it was not anenkantothat stared up at him, it was a child. A boy no older than eight, wearing dirtied pants. His unruly hair was shoved under his cap.
“Per te,” said the child, dropping a red apple in his hand.
Enrique frowned, trying to hand the child back the apple. “No, grazie—”
The boy stepped back, scowling. “L’uomo ha detto che questo è per te.”
