On one side of the basilica stood the Doge’s Palace—with its hundreds of columns and arches like frozen lace—and the rust-colored bell tower on the other. Around him, the square seemed to whisper in a thousand languages and traditions. Domed Islamic lanterns and jewel-encrusted North African alfiz arches stood side by side with the grand basilica. Inside it, the bright Byzantine gilding tempted one to imagine that the church had sliced out squares of sunshine and fixed the pieces one by one to form the cupolas’ gleaming bellies. Here, time had softened the lines of history and alchemized them into a collective story of humanity.

In that second, Enrique felt as though the buildings were watching him.

“Tabi tabi po,” he whispered.

Please excuse me.

He hoped his lola’s words worked, that the spirits in the buildings regarded him not as a trespasser but a humble visitor. Or perhaps a pilgrim. Someone looking for their place in the world.

His ear throbbed in the winter air, and Enrique touched it gingerly.

“Could you give me a sign?” he asked the silent buildings. “Please?”

Enrique closed his eyes. He felt the wind on his face. The stark February sun folding away the mist—

Something tugged at his jacket. Enrique’s eyes flew open. For a second, he almost imagined an enkanto peering up at him … its long fingers holding out a prize. We accept the trade, it would say, eyeing his lost ear.

But it was not an enkanto that stared up at him, it was a child. A boy no older than eight, wearing dirtied pants. His unruly hair was shoved under his cap.

“Per te,” said the child, dropping a red apple in his hand.

Enrique frowned, trying to hand the child back the apple. “No, grazie—”

The boy stepped back, scowling. “L’uomo ha detto che questo è per te.”

Without a second glance, the boy fled the square, leaving Enrique with the apple. Enrique’s Italian was fairly decent, but it took him a moment to parse the words:

The man said this is for you.

All this time he’d been expecting Séverin, but he hadn’t shown. On the one hand, it would’ve been too difficult otherwise. And yet, Enrique felt a little foolish staring down at his carefully chosen clothes and polished shoes … on some level, all of his armor had been for nothing. And yet, when he stared up at the buildings, he felt oddly watched. As if he had caught the attention of something greater than himself, and so perhaps his finery was not a waste.

Enrique turned the apple in his palm. In its rind, he noticed the tiniest slit. He pressed his thumbs around the crack, and the fruit broke open, revealing a folded-up note:

Harbor #7

The Phoenix’s fire must hold through midnight.

Be there in three hours.

15

ZOFIA

In the early-morning hours, Zofia held two halves of a broken heart, each made of glass and about the width and length of her smallest finger.