“I will get there as fast as I can, and I will not wait for you. How you make your way back is on your head, God help you.”

As the wind whipped around them, Séverin imagined his mother’s voice carried along its path. In your hands lie the gates of godhood. Let none pass.

He was meant to play the lyre.

He was meant to save Laila.

He was meant to protect his friends.

Séverin risked a glance at Laila. She managed to look regal even in this dingy boat. Her back was ramrod straight, the fur of her jacket ruffling around her neck as she twisted her garnet ring. She had pulled her hair back in a braid, but strands of black silk twisted free to frame her face. Her full mouth was pursed tight, and he noticed the rich brown of her skin had lost its sheen overnight.

When he looked at her, all that power he’d felt tipped uneasily inside him.

He had failed her a thousand times, but in this, he would succeed.

The islands of Lido and Poveglia ahead of them turned sharper, larger. Silver brume clouded the water, swallowing the silhouettes of cathedrals and docks, so that it looked like a residence for ghosts.

“I don’t understand why this place has to be on a plague island,” grumbled Hypnos.

Enrique, who had grabbed a rather crusty-looking blanket, now peered at them from underneath it. “Did you know—”

Hypnos groaned. “Here we go.”

From under a waterproof rubber tarp, Zofia poked her head out curiously to listen to Enrique.

“The word ‘quarantine’ comes from the Italian ‘quaranta giorni’ for ‘forty days,’ which was the number of days that a ship must stay away from Venice if it was suspected of harboring plague. Islands like Poveglia were one of the first lazaret, or quarantine colonies. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Even in the rainy, frigid gloom, Enrique beamed expectantly at everyone.

Séverin sat up a little straighter. Enrique had doubted his support. He would do better this time.

“Fascinating!” he said loudly, clapping his hands.

Everyone stared at him.

Too late, he suspected his actions lacked a certain subtlety.

He looked at Enrique. For the first time, the historian looked as if he were holding back not a scold … but a laugh.

“How … enlightening?” tried Laila.

“Why the number forty?” asked Zofia.

“That I don’t know,” said Enrique.

Zofia frowned, disappearing under the tarp once more.

“I feel like I’m going to get the plague the longer I stay on this godforsaken boat,” muttered Hypnos.

Eventually, the boat came to a stop, docking beside a curious statue of an angel with her wings hunched and folded around her head. The moment the fisherman threw down the anchor, the statue drew back its wings and raised one stony arm that pointed back to Venice. The message was clear:

Leave.

At first glance, Poveglia didn’t strike Séverin as a place for ghosts. There was dirt on the ground, not soft ash. The gossipy caw of ravens rasped through walled-up grottoes, and above the line of trees, the old bell tower kept a watchful eye on the island.