Enrique went still. “… What are you doing?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Hypnos thoughtfully. “I believe it’s called ‘comforting,’ though such emotional exertion seems exhausting. If you require a distraction instead, you know I enjoy distracting you.”

A long dead flicker of something stirred weakly in Enrique’s heart. He pushed away Hypnos’s hand. That wasn’t what he wanted from him.

“I know I behaved badly,” said Hypnos.

Around them, the house was quiet. The candles in their sconces flickered. It felt like time could not touch them here, and perhaps that was what moved him to speak the truth.

“And I know I saw what I wanted to,” said Enrique.

Hypnos looked up at him. His frost-colored eyes looked unexpectedly warm. “When I said that I could learn to love you … I meant that … that someone like me needs time.”

Enrique stared at him. When Hypnos had spoken those words to him a few days ago, that was not how he had interpreted them. The words had hit him like a rejection, as if he were someone difficult to love. Now, a confused warmth spread through his chest.

“I—”

Hypnos shook his head. “I know now is not the time, mon cher. I merely wanted you to understand what I meant…” The other boy reached out, gently brushing the back of his hand against his bandage. “I am not here to hurt you. I am not here to tell you what a future such as ours might look like. I merely wanted you to know that at the very least, I can be your friend. I can hold your secrets, if you’d let me.”

A sigh loosed from Enrique. He did not move away when Hypnos stroked his face. An ache he did not realize he’d carried eased off of him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Does that mean we are friends at least?” asked Hypnos hopefully.

At least. His mind would have to untangle that … later. Perhaps days later.

Enrique sighed. “I suppose.”

“Excellent,” said Hypnos. “Now. As your friend, it is my duty to tell you that your outfit is abominable, and as I fully expected this, I have another one already steamed, pressed, and ready for you to wear.”

TEN MINUTES AND some cursing later, Enrique—in a completely different set of clothes—waited in the Piazza San Marco.

Normally the piazza was crammed with people, but the day was cold, and the sunrise was little more than a wisp of gold on the lagoons. And so, for the past twenty minutes, he shared the view with no one but the pigeons. Eventually, the pigeons realized he had no food and abandoned him with a coo and a huff, fleeing for the gilded eaves of St. Mark’s Basilica which crowned the public square.

For a long while, Enrique could do nothing but stare at the piazza. This early, the square was alive with magic. The pale basilica seemed carved of antique moonlight and old snow. Its half-moon archways bore scenes of St. Mark’s bones arriving in Venice. Atop the precious porphyry marble columns, the four bronze horses stolen from the thirteenth century sack of Constantinople looked ready to burst from the church’s facade and take flight. Enrique had been to the piazza before, but he had never experienced it like this … as if history had pinned him to one place.