“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 the pescheria. 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 market had 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.”

A FEW HOURS later, Séverin made an uncomfortable discovery: the divine lyre had a heartbeat. It was as if the instrument was slowly coming alive the closer they got to Poveglia. Séverin could feel it against his own pulse, a persistent thump, thump, thump.

If hope had a sound, this would be it.

His friends looked cold and miserable in the dingy boat. At the helm, the fisherman did not spare them a glance and had been adamant about his responsibility to them.