A knock at his office door released Séverin from his thoughts. “Come in.”

Enrique appeared, a hopeful smile on his face and a sheaf of papers in his arms. “Are they here yet? Because I was thinking—ahh!”

A loud squawk erupted through the office, and Séverin turned to find Argos stalking toward Enrique.

Argos was … strange.

The one-year-old peacock had been kept in the cramped apartments of a brothel madame, who abandoned the creature on the street with his plumage plucked. When he had come to L’Eden, he had snapped at everyone who tried to care for him, except Séverin. A month later with good food and more space to roam, Argos had grown into a beautiful and illustrious creature. Argos had also, for reasons unknown to the staff and despite frequent attempts to shepherd him elsewhere, taken to following Séverin everywhere.

“Will you call off your demonic guard?” asked Enrique.

“Argos,” said Séverin mildly.

The peacock huffed, settling himself by the fireplace. The bird did not take his eyes off Enrique, who inched around him.

“Honestly, that thing makes me actually prefer the company of Goliath.”

“He’s not so bad,” said Séverin. “Perhaps a touch overprotective, but he means well.”

Enrique fixed him with a look. “Argos nearly ran off the new chef.”

“The chef overcooked the halibut. I can’t say I disagree with Argos in his assessment of the man.”

Enrique snorted, then handed over the papers. “These are the newest potential acquisitions.”

Now that Forging was regarded with suspicion, the Order of Babel’s power was gone and they had been forced to sell their considerable treasures to the highest bidders of the public. Wealthy industrialists and railroad magnates vied for the chance to display history in their sitting rooms, while Séverin and his family fought to return those artifacts either to their original owners or, barring that, museums in their native lands.

In the past, Séverin had stolen out of the hubris that he could take from the Order of Babel. Now, he was humbled by the thought of shepherding history into different homes. History might be shaped by the tongues of conquerors, but it was not a fixed shape or story, and with every object they repatriated, it was like adding or recasting a sentence in a book whose pages were as wide and infinite as a horizon.

Séverin leafed through the research. “Good work. I’ll take a look, and we’ll finalize a project for the fall.”

Enrique nodded, his gaze darting to the window. “Are you ready for this?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, at least you’re honest,” said Enrique with a small laugh. “Don’t worry … you’ll have help.”

“I know.”

“I think … I think she’d be happy … to know what you’re doing,” said Enrique quietly.

Séverin smiled. “I think so too.”

He thought, but he didn’t know for certain. He had gathered, in bits and pieces, that the others dreamt of Laila. In their dreams, she even spoke to them. But she never spoke to Séverin.