Once, these Forged objects would have been—in their own way—alive.

Now, they were perfectly still.

All over the world, the phenomenon of ancient, Forged objects losing their animation was now known as the Great Silence. Some people blamed God. Others, industrial pollutants. But no matter where the blame was placed, the consequence was the same: Forging would soon be a flourish of the past.

Even popular Forging artistry—floating chandeliers and illusions that muddled the senses—had become suspect. For the first time in all the years Enrique had worked at L’Eden, the lamp fixtures had been bolted into the walls instead of serenely floating through the foyers. It made the whole place feel oddly hollow.

“What are you doing? I’m not used to seeing you standing alone in the dark.”

Enrique turned to see Séverin at the entrance of the hallway. He waved, and Séverin made his way over to him.

“I’m trying out new hobbies,” said Enrique. “Pensive brooding, dramatic walking … I might even take up long, aggrieved exhales.”

“Sounds like an excellent use of time,” said Séverin. “I happen to excel in pensive brooding if you ever wish for instruction.”

“How generous of you.”

“Generosity is my new habit of late,” said Séverin, eyeing the collected boxes. “Though I doubt the Order sees it that way. I believe they still think I’m after my old inheritance. They even offered it to me once more, which was … odd.”

“What are you after?” asked Enrique.

Séverin’s gaze turned distant, and he fell quiet. He had changed considerably in the past two months. Every day, he insisted that they all ate together. In the evenings, he would ask questions about their lives and sometimes he even laughed. True to his word, Séverin had not disappeared inside himself, and yet there were moments when it seemed that in his new lapses of quiet, he was somewhere else entirely.

“I think I’m after peace … whatever that might look like,” he said, before gesturing at the assembled boxes. “My purpose feels clear enough.”

There was a soft clarity to Séverin’s voice. A sort of wistfulness that made him seem older. Séverin reached into his jacket, popping open his tin of cloves. Enrique wrinkled his nose.

“Must you?”

“I’m afraid I must,” said Séverin. As he returned the tin of cloves, he tugged out an envelope. “Also, I thought you’d want to see this. I believe this would be, what, your sixth letter from them?”

Enrique recognized the script on the envelope. It was from the Ilustrados. Since the Great Silence, it seemed that some of the Ilustrados groups were finally interested in Enrique’s treatises about the cultural power of objects.

“Something like that,” said Enrique.

Séverin sighed. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

It had been, thought Enrique. But no longer.

“At the risk of sounding exceptionally pompous, I must ask whether any perceived … weakness on my part is holding you back,” said Séverin. “I will support you no matter where you go, Enrique.”