“Not thirsty?” asked the matriarch.
His throat felt scorched with smoke, but he shoved aside the glass.
“No,” he said, pushing himself from the table and gesturing to Hypnos. “We have work to do.”
* * *
SÉVERIN HESITATED OUTSIDE the mahogany doors of the music room in the tea salon. Laila, Enrique, and Zofia waited for him inside. Hypnos had gone before Séverin to tell them of the matriarch’s demands, but Séverin hesitated. How would he show his face to them after all his choices had nearly killed them?
Inside, the music room was small and well-lit. In one corner stood a harp. In the other, a piano, where Hypnos sat and plunked at the keys. A handful of couches and satin settees dotted the room, but Zofia and Enrique sat at a table near the entrance. Their heads were bent in conversation. In front of them, the Tezcat spectacles shone brightly beneath the chandelier. Beside the frame, on a square of velvet, sat the lens taken from Vasiliev’s chain. Laila walked in from a separate entryway, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. There was even a cup for him. He didn’t know what to make of that.
Enrique saw him first and immediately pointed at Zofia. “Zofia just tried to set fire to the Tezcat spectacles.”
Zofia scowled at him. “I tried to see if the lens and the spectacles might be welded together.”
“And?” asked Laila, setting down the tray.
“And it was unsuccessful.”
“House Kore couldn’t manage it either,” said Laila soothingly.
“The symbology around the instrument is fairly strange too,” said Enrique. “A mix of cosmic iconography … including, I believe … planets.”
“Those aren’t planets, mon cher, those are silver balls,” called Hypnos from the piano.
“They’re artistic renderings of planets.”
Séverin bent to examine the Tezcat spectacles. They looked like a strange pair of goggles. The frames were thick and decorated with bulging silver spheres that were indeed planets, judging by the Latin script on each shape. The screws, temples, and hinges each bore decorations of clouds and constellations.
“They’re ugly,” said Hypnos. “And I’m not usually one to judge when—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” said Laila.
Hypnos looked over his shoulder, flashing a wicked grin as he played a quick, ominous tune on the piano.
“Wait,” said Séverin. “Did you see that?”
On the Tezcat spectacles, he could have sworn he saw the faintest glow around the lens and the empty frame of the spectacles.
“See what?”
“As if … as if there was a reaction from the spectacles. From the music.”
“Does this make me irresistible to animate and inanimate things?” asked Hypnos. “Because that pleases me.”
Laila flexed her fingers and mused, “Interesting that it reacts to music when it seems as though whoever removed the lens did so in utter silence.”
Hypnos made a pah! sound. “How would you figure that, ma chère?”
Laila shrugged. “Let’s say I have a knack for it, shall we?”
Zofia sat up a little straighter. “The hollow angel held a sound barrier of cork and wool when we were retrieving the box.”
Séverin lifted the Tezcat spectacles and lens, turning them in his hand before raising them eye level. He knew it hid the location of the Sleeping Palace. But what about the instrument itself? Herein lay the secret to unlocking riddles and finding treasure … What was the context, what did the maker want and see? Why all the silent measures taken to protect it?
“This was locked in the Chamber of Goddesses. Part of it hung around someone’s neck with the utmost care, and the frame is full of a twisting universe. When lifted to the eye, it was meant to behold the whole world in one glimpse,” said Séverin, talking more or less to himself. He ran his thumb along the metal, imagining he was the person who’d first held the object. “No one but a god can create a universe, and the world can be remade through the eyes of God. Whatever key triggers the positioning of the frame, it will relate to movement and planets … sound. Or, more likely, music, which to some might be considered prayer. In which case, there’s only one theory that would fit with unlocking this. Musica universalis, or the Music of the Spheres. That’s the key to opening this.”
When he stopped talking and looked up, the others were watching him.
“How did you do that?” demanded Hypnos.
“How else do you think he hunts treasures?” asked Enrique, glancing smugly at Séverin.
Séverin’s stomach turned, and he quickly put down the glasses. Each acquisition used to be a symphony of Zofia’s engineerings, Enrique’s knowledge, and Laila’s readings. And then there was his role, a quiet way of slipping behind the eyes of kings and priests, monsters and monks—anyone who had something worth hiding. Whenever his role came into play, those small gestures—Zofia’s approving nod, Laila’s slow smile, Tristan’s trust, and Enrique’s pride—used to anchor him. But now it felt thieved. He had no right to find peace in it.
“What, exactly, is the Music of the Spheres?” asked Hypnos. “It sounds like a terribly boring play.”
“It’s an ancient philosophy that gained a lot of popularity in the fifteenth century,” said Enrique, looking bemused as he turned from Séverin. “Theoretically, there’s a governing rhythm and movement to celestial bodies, like the sun, moon, and stars.”
“Can any kind of music unlock it?”
Hypnos started playing, but the glow around the lens of the spectacles only dimly flickered.
“It would have to be music or rhythm with a universal property,” said Zofia. “Try the golden ratio.”
“What is that?” asked Hypnos, shaking his head. “What I do know is that when it comes to tuning a piano, there’s an agreed-upon method. One tunes pianos by way of fifths. That’s universal enough, I believe. Here. I shall demonstrate with C Major.”
Hypnos flexed his fingers and played the scale. At once, the circumference of the lens lit up and so did the frame. The small, silver planets on the outside hummed and spun. Séverin fitted the lens into the empty frame, pressing hard. When Hypnos stopped, the lens had sealed into place. Across the glass, a liquid-silver script appeared:
55.55°N, 108.16°E
Hypnos turned around on his seat. “That’s how—” His gaze fell to the Tezcat spectacles and lens, and he fell quiet. Everyone’s gaze snapped from Hypnos perched on the piano seat to the Tezcat spectacles in Séverin’s hands.
“Those are longitude and latitude coordinates,” said Zofia.
Enrique leaned forward, his jaw slack. “An exact map to the Sleeping Palace.”
“Am I … am I a genius?” asked Hypnos. Without waiting for anyone to answer, he leapt from his seat and bowed.
Enrique clapped indulgently, and Hypnos beamed at him.
“Alert the matriarch,” said Séverin. “Let her know we leave at dawn to follow these coordinates.”
When he looked at the group, their faces shone with victory, and he wanted to let himself feel it too. But that faint stench of smoke clung to their clothes from the troika fire. Beneath it all, he caught a whiff of Tristan’s roses left to rot. He nearly gagged.
“Years of practice have led to this,” said Hypnos proudly, “… putting together broken glasses. Voila!”
“Years?” repeated Laila. “I can’t imagine you working at anything for years.”
The light in Hypnos’s eyes dimmed a little. He busily straightened his sleeves and lapel.
“Well, one had little choice in these matters,” he said brusquely. “I had to entertain myself quite a lot as a child … Music helped take away the silence.” He cleared his throat. “But enough of that. Let’s celebrate before certain doom, shall we?”
Hypnos looped his arm around Enrique’s waist, pulling him a little closer. Out the corner of his eye, Séverin caught Hypnos’s questioning glance, but he didn’t meet it. Let them go, he thought. F
or the sake of what he needed to do, he had to be apart, not a part. Séverin busied himself with the Tezcat spectacles, ignoring the chatter until the others left the room and he heard the door shut.
But when he looked up, a part of him jolted. Laila hadn’t left with the others. She leaned against the doorframe, and he noticed she’d changed out of her golden dress from the opera and now wore a cotton dress and dark blue robe.
“I need something to call you,” she said, crossing her arms.
He blinked. “What?”
“As your mistress.” Laila crossed her arms. “I need something to call you.”
Mistress. The fire and the tea salon had nearly made him forget. But she was right. The charade he thought she wouldn’t have to indulge for long had become real in a matter of hours.
“Séverin,” he said.
“A friend calls you Séverin.”
“Monsieur—”
“No. An employee calls you Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie. I am your equal. I need a pet name. Something humiliating.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Humiliating?”
“We debase ourselves for the ones we love.”
There was another name that seemed to hang in the space between them. Majnun. The name she had given him years ago. The name that had once felt like a talisman in the dark.
“I don’t know. Just pair a trait with an article of clothing,” said Séverin.
“Stubborn shoe.”
He glared.
“Bull-headed glove.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“Irrational brassiere.”
He didn’t mean to, and he had no idea how it happened … but he laughed. The sound rattled him to the core. Worse, was the softened expression in her eyes. Laila had made a habit of demanding weakness from him. He set his jaw. There would be no softness here.
Séverin’s gaze went to her bare throat, and his eyes narrowed.
“Start wearing that diamond necklace.”
13
ENRIQUE
Enrique awoke two hours before the morning meeting. As he made his way to the meeting place in the Oriental Room of the tea salon, he clutched his research material. Now that they knew the coordinates of the Sleeping Palace, his research had taken on a new light, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The coordinates confirmed his suspicions: The Sleeping Palace was somewhere in Siberia.
Today the matriarch of House Kore and the representatives from House Dazbog would be taking them to the Sleeping Palace where his research would either be proven valuable or—he prayed otherwise—worthless. Ever since Laila had told him and Zofia about her beginning and, possibly, her ending, all his knowledge gained a terrible new weight. It wasn’t just a career or a future depending on what he knew; it was a member of his family. After Tristan, he couldn’t lose Laila too.
To him, Laila was like a fairy tale plucked from the pages of a book—a girl with a curse woven into her heartbeat. In all the time he’d known her, part of her seemed to hum with the force of her secret. Who was she? What could she do? Last evening, he’d tried testing her abilities while they waited for Séverin and Hypnos to join the three of them.
“Enrique,” Laila had sighed.
“Now read this!” he’d said, pushing another object onto the table.
“Is this your underwear?”
“It’s freshly laundered! I just fetched it from my suitcase. Were you able to tell by touch? Or was it the shape—”
Laila threw it in his face. “Haven’t you had enough? You’ve already given me a watch, a briefcase, two teacups, and asked me to touch the couch, which I am still recovering from.” She feigned a shudder. “At least Zofia spared me.”
Zofia shrugged. “An object’s personal context does not affect its utility.”
“Not true!” Enrique had said. “It could be proof of something. Laila, you’re practically a goddess.”
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. “But no more readings. 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 needed The Divine Lyrics to live. But did The Divine Lyrics need … Laila? His earlier research about The Divine Lyrics suggested 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. The troika fire 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 agate netsuke—once used in Japanese menswear—lay scattered across a chessboard as surrogate pieces.
“You have excellent hair,” 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.” He tapped 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 know of you,” said Ruslan. “I know most things. 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 the last—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 f
or 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.”
He swiftly made his way to the exit, leaving Enrique to ponder what, exactly, just happened. Self-consciously, he reached up and touched his hair. It was nice, he had to admit.
Enrique made his way to the back of the room. The mural Ruslan had mentioned lay half in the shadows. At first, the mural was hard to discern amongst the clutter of the room. It merely looked like ugly wallpaper. But the closer he got, the more the images made themselves known. The mural showed dark-skinned villagers holding out a basket of tea leaves, and pale-skinned soldiers, priests, and kings extending their arms to receive the gift. Natives and Europeans. It wasn’t an unfamiliar pattern, but as Enrique stared at it, he felt the quiet panic that had haunted him since childhood. Where did he exist in this arrangement? He stared at the empty middle ground of the painting, and a familiar ache settled in his chest.
There was danger in not belonging. He’d learned that at a young age in the fish markets of the Philippines. When his mother had taken him, he’d lost her in the sea of people. He remembered running up and down the market aisle, the smell of fish and vinegar stinging his eyes. Finally, he’d spotted her in her bright pink dress, turning wildly in the market, her basket swinging from her arm as she called his name.
“Mama—” he cried, pointing.
A woman grabbed hold of his hand, caught sight of his mother, and laughed. “That can’t be your mother, you look nothing alike! Come now, I’ll take you to the Civil Guard—”
He howled in terror, and only then did his mother see him and fetch him, folding him against her where he sobbed and refused to be put down. Later, she laughed off the incident, but all he saw was her brown face, and how dark her arms looked next to his. He had the shape of her eyes and the curve of her smile and her habit of hoarding pillows … but something about him was not enough to belong to her.
Enrique was still staring at the painting when he heard the door open once more. Hypnos grinned at him as he made a quick scan of the room.
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