Séverin fell silent for a moment, tipping the liquid map backwards and forwards, the replenished remnants of smoke swirling inside the glass.

“A siren’s song is something that lures us … something beautiful that promises to end only in death,” he said slowly. “What does it have to do with the temple beneath Poveglia? Does it require music or some kind of harmony to unlock the entrance?”

Enrique stared at him. For all of Séverin’s perceptiveness, he seemed to be forgetting the one explanation that stared him in the face.

That the bust of a siren’s head could be nothing more than a warning.

“What if it means the temple itself is the siren’s song,” said Enrique. “In which case it would be the last, beautiful thing we’d see before death.”

Hypnos and Zofia fell quiet. Enrique had thought Séverin would be angry with that line of reasoning, but instead, he grinned.

“Maybe it’s a matter of perspective,” he said. “I seem to remember you showing me a piece of Slavic art that also depicted a being with the head of a woman and the body of a bird. Not unlike the deadly siren.”

“A Gamayun,” said Enrique.

He remembered the piece. It was the size of his thumb and crafted entirely of gold. It was Forged to speak in the voice of the artisan’s dead mother. A curious, haunting thing. He had declined to acquire it for L’Eden’s collection. It seemed wrong to hold a dead voice hostage in the halls.

“What’s a Gamayun?” asked Hypnos.

“A bird of prophecy … said to guard the way to paradise,” said Enrique. “Presumably, she knows all secrets of creation.”

“Siren, gamayun … death or paradise,” said Séverin. “Perhaps what waits for us in Poveglia might have traits of both depending on what we do.”

“Perhaps,” Enrique allowed.

He felt a little foolish for his dramatic conclusion, but he wasn’t entirely convinced that he was wrong …

That cavern did not seem like a place that knew paradise.

“And what do we make of the skeleton at the cave’s entrance?” asked Séverin.

Séverin paced the room. Enrique watched as his hand went to the front of his jacket, the place where he used to reach for his tin of cloves to help him think. Séverin frowned as his hand came away empty.

“The Greek translates to ‘Forgive me,’” said Enrique.

“So … they must have done something wrong?” asked Hypnos.

Enrique remembered the ice grotto inside the Sleeping Palace, the message carved into the rock and left for them to find. But before he could say it, Zofia spoke:

“To play at God’s instrument will summon the unmaking,” she said.

“You think the apology is for playing the instrument?” asked Hypnos.

Zofia shrugged. “It makes sense.”

“Or it could be something else,” said Séverin. “A ritual, perhaps, a sacrifice made before an act was committed.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Hypnos. “There’s still someone dead, a dark lake with God knows what inside of it, and a very eerie cave which is putting me off any appetite for godhood.”