“And you’ve apologized…?” asked Hypnos.
“Obviously.”
“And reminded her about the, um—” Hypnos wiggled his ring finger.
“Interestingly enough, reminding the woman I love that she’s been carrying around a death sentence didn’t factor into my romantic agenda,” said Séverin coldly.
Enrique smacked Hypnos on the back of his head.
“Ow!” said Hypnos. “It was just a thought! Near-fatal situations make me, ah,comment dire, very amorous,non? Hungry for life! All the more so when you know your situation will soon be remedied.”
“I doubt she would feel similarly,” said Séverin.
Hypnos frowned then snapped his fingers triumphantly. “I know! You should try showing up naked in her bedroom. I call it,La Méthode de L’Homme Nu.”
Séverin and Enrique stopped walking and stared at him.
“The Naked Man Method?” asked Enrique. “Are you serious?”
“I’d rather be naked.” Hypnos crossed his arms. “Trust me, it works. If the lady or gentleman is not intrigued, then they leave the room.”
“And probably burn their bedsheets for good measure,” muttered Enrique.
“And if they consent, well, then you have made the process of intimacy that much easier. You should try it.”
“No,” said Séverin and Enrique at the same time.
Hypnos huffed. “Enjoy your utter lack of inspiration.”
By then, the lovely mercato had changed. The baking smells and perfume of sliced fruit soured as they approached thepescheria. Housed beneath lichen-splattered vaulted Gothic arches on the banks of the Grand Canal, the fish market was a smelly landmark of the city and, for better or for worse, the meeting place for their transport. Even from a distance, Séverin could see the pale, writhing piles of freshwater eels. Water Forging artists walked among the fish stalls, levitating blocks of ice into the stalls to keep the catch fresh.
“There he is,” said Hypnos, pointing his chin at a grizzled man leaning against one of the pillars. The fisherman nodded in acknowledgment.
“I’ll finalize payment, and then we’ll be off,” said Hypnos, walking toward the fish market.
Séverin couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone with Enrique. Before, they used to have an easy camaraderie… but now, every sentence felt like a heavy step on thin ice. Enrique didn’t look at him. He had turned his attention back to the stretch of market kiosks before the street turned into fish stalls.
“She likes flowers,” said Enrique quietly. “You could start with that?”
Séverin followed Enrique’s gaze to a little market stall operated by an old woman who was already dozing even though the markethad just opened. On the table before her was spread out a handful of delicate, glass artwork: chrysanthemums with milky quartz petals, roses carved from thin slices of carnelian stone. Séverin’s eyes fell on a glass lily, its artistry so vivid that each petal looked snipped from a flame
Enrique nudged him. “Go on.”
Séverin hesitated. “You don’t think it’s a lost cause?”
“If I believed in lost causes, you would be at the bottom of the lagoon,” said Enrique primly.
“Fair enough. And what about yourself? You don’t want to get her flowers?”
“Who? Oh…” Enrique glanced away. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only when you stare,unblinking, at her.”
“I think she’d be more interested in the mathematical ratios of the petals than the flower itself. I have to find something that would be like a flower to her.” Enrique frowned. “Something flammable, I’m afraid.”
“I’d be afraid too.”
“You are not helping.”
