Séverin studied the room, a familiar prickle of awareness sweeping through him. This used to be his favorite part of acquisitions, the quiet way in which a room revealed its secrets. There was no obvious door, and thus the statues must operate as both exit and entrance. He turned, as if to tell someone beside him.

But Enrique, Zofia, Hypnos, Tristan, and Laila were not here.

There was no one to feed him history, summon more light in the room, jest about the smell, conjure strange flora, or tease out the secrets of an object.

There was only him. But he would find them. He would make amends.

Séverin looked up. There, shimmering as if suspended in the water, glowing writing appeared:

TO ENTER ANY UNKNOWN, WE WALK THE PATH OF THOSE WHO CAME HERE FIRST.

He smiled in understanding.

Arrogance might lead someone to pick the winged lion. It was the mark of Venice after all. But where did attributes such as wings come from? The present was a palimpsest, built upon the layers of that which had been sacred or profane from years past. The lion was meant to protect … but before the lion was an older version, an older symbol of protection.

This was House Janus’s test of humility.

They considered themselves the guardians of cartographical treasures after all, and perhaps knowing where one stood in the world was a treasure in and of itself.

Séverin walked to the lamassu, resting his hand on the rough stone of its body. They had nearly acquired such a piece from the kingdom of Prussia. Enrique had said the lamassus would have once been more than four meters tall, part of a pair flanking either side of the lapis-lazuli entrance to a palace.

“The king was considered semi-divine, and as such, he would be guarded like the location of heaven itself,” Enrique had said.

Séverin slid into the bench embedded in the back of the lamassu. Immediately, the wings lifted off the statue’s body. It rose unsteadily. Tiny rocks dislodged, hitting the ground. Where the wall had once been solid, now it thinned to translucence. Beyond it, Séverin could make out the distant glimmer of chandeliers, the blurry color of rich costumes. The lamassu lurched forward, preparing to take him through the wall.

Séverin felt his heartbeat rise steadily. With each step of the lamassu, the lyre rubbed against his skin. Its steady, uncanny hum wound through him, as if it had woven itself into his very heartbeat. He imagined Laila, Hypnos, Enrique, and Zofia standing before him, and hope glowed in his chest.

Behind him, the writing on the wall slowly vanished. Séverin kept his gaze forward, his senses alert. Even so, he felt a little smug.

It was natural that he would walk the path of the ancients.

He thought of his mother’s voice, the power in his veins.

He was meant for this.

17

ENRIQUE

Alone in the library, Enrique quietly breathed into his palm and sniffed.