“Friends?” One of the members laughed loudly. “Some friends if all they give us are some useless toys!”

A small knot of members seated at the man’s table began to agree loudly.

“It’s true!” said another. “Why should they have all the glorious treasure for themselves—”

“I say we try to take something else—”

But perhaps the object was done being taken.

For the next moment, it burst apart, showering the room in shards of blue and gold so that it seemed as if the morning sky had crashed around them.

Manila, Philippines, 1890

Esmerelda was hiding outside of her father’s study when it happened. Clutched in her hands was a stolen copy of La Correspondencia de Manila. Her parents refused to let her read the newspaper, but Esmerelda hungered for proof that the world was larger than she imagined.

At fourteen years old, Esmerelda had become convinced that her parents would prefer it if she spent the rest of her days with her hair neatly pinned back, her hands neatly folded in her lap, and everything so neat and dainty and orderly that a stray wind would send her into hysterics.

“What’s next?” she heard her father scoff in his study. “Did you see the petition from the women of Malolos?”

“They want to go to night school,” said one of his friends, laughing.

“Have they forgotten their place so completely?” asked another.

From behind the closed door, Esmerelda scowled. She had read all about the women who had delivered a petition to allow them to study. They’d delivered it straight to Governor-General Valeriano Weyler himself. She wished she could have walked alongside them, inked her name, and watched it dry on the paper. She wished she could follow in the footsteps of her brothers and cousins and learn.

And that was when it came.

Years later, Esmerelda secretly imagined that the angels above had heard her that day. That perhaps the sound that ripped through her home was the celestial trumpeting of a thousand horns, the kinds that she saw painted on the inside of cathedrals … the kinds that signaled that God was on her side.

37

SÉVERIN

It had happened.

SÉVERIN STANDS AT the top of the ziggurat.

A short distance away lies a jewel-encrusted platform draped in translucent silks. It is surrounded by the melting stubs of candles that flicker like so many caught stars. An attar of roses fill the air, and a hum of distant lutes and chiming bells adorns the evening sky like precious ornaments.

This, Séverin understands, is hallowed ground.

But why is he here?

In your hands lie the gates of godhood, let none pass.

He knows this is not godhood, but it is something sacred all the same. Séverin blinks, and feels the heady weight of responsibility filling his chest. Though he has played the divine lyre, this is the highest status he might attain.

He is here as an emissary to the heavens.

He is here to commune with something higher than himself.