“Ah, my dear man! So thoughtful, is he not?” he said, grabbing Zofia’s face and pressing his thumb over the lifting mustache. “What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty … uh…”
Enrique stalled. That was about all he knew of Hamlet, honestly, but then Zofia spoke.
“—In form and moving how express and admirable,” she said, her voice pitched low.
Enrique stared at her.
“You must forgive the eccentricities of my friend,” she said smoothly to the butler, remembering her lines. “Would you be so good as to show me some of the rooms? A short tour is all that is necessary, but I want to ascertain whether any other photographs will be required for the article.”
The butler, still wide-eyed, nodded slowly. “Right this way…”
“I will stay here,” said Enrique, turning in a slow circle. He tapped his temples and took a loud, deep breath. “I want to soak in the art. Feel it, before I may be so bold as to write about it. You understand.”
The butler flashed a strained smile. “I leave you to what you do best.”
And with that, he led Zofia to a different part of the house.
Once they were out of sight, Enrique drew a Forged sphere from his pocket and threw it into the air, watching as it slowly scanned the room for any detection devices. The butler’s words curdled in his gut. What you do best. He thought of standing in the atrium of the National Library, his damp fingerprints smudging his notes for the presentation that no one attended … and, later, the letter from the Ilustrados.
… Write your inspiring articles on history. It is what you do best …
It still stung. Enrique’s references hadn’t mattered at all. He had expected the weight of his professors’ and advisor’s words might not mean much to them, but he was shocked Séverin’s influence had done nothing. Séverin’s public support meant a universally appreciated influence: money. But maybe his ideas were so foolish that no amount of money made them worth listening to. Maybe he simply wasn’t enough.
What you do best.
Enrique clenched his jaw. By now the spherical detection device had settled on the floor. The room was safe. Footsteps resounded on the other side of the hall. Zofia and the butler were returning. In a moment, they’d enter the Chamber of Goddesses where they would find the Tezcat spectacles and with it, The Divine Lyrics. The Ilustrados thought he did nothing but master dead languages and pore over dusty books, that his ideas were worthless, but there was so much more to him. Getting The Divine Lyrics was all the proof he needed. They wouldn’t be able to deny, then, that his skills could procure power.
Now all he had to do was get it.
* * *
THE CHAMBER OF GODDESSES nearly brought Enrique to his knees.
It was like the foyer of some forgotten temple. Life-size goddesses leaned forward from recessed niches. Above stretched an elaborate cerulean ceiling, mechanized so the stars rotated slowly, and the planets spun as if on an invisible axis. The artwork made him feel small, but gloriously so, as if he were part of something greater than himself. It was how he used to feel every Sunday when he went to mass, drinking up the reminder that he was surrounded by a divine love. This room was the first time he had felt like this in years.
“The chamber is truly overwhelming,” said the butler in reverent tones. “Though it does not last.”
That sharpened Enrique’s attention. “What? What do you mean?”
“The Chamber of Goddesses has a unique function, one that we don’t fully understand but that we hope will become more clear once your article publishes. You see, the Chamber of Goddesses … disappears.”
“Excuse me?”
“Every hour,” said the butler. “The goddesses sink into the walls, and all these gilded trappings turn white.” He consulted his watch. “By my estimate, you have about twenty minutes left of this before it disappears and returns at the next hour. But I figured that would be sufficient time to take your photos and take notes. Besides, it becomes nearly freezing in here once the door is shut. We believe the original artist installed a Forged temperature-control mechanism, perhaps for the preservation of the stone and paint. Anyway, do let me know if I can be of any assistance.”
And with that, the butler left, shutting the door behind him. Enrique suspected his heartbeat had changed to: Oh no oh no oh no.
“Where’s Hypnos?” asked Zofia.
A muffled sound caught his attention. Nearly hidden by a pillar and propped against one of the gilded chamber walls stood a large, black luggage piece marked: photography equipment. Zofia quickly unlocked the cabinet hinges. The door swung open and a very annoyed-looking Hypnos stepped out and shook himself.
“That was … awful,” he said, heaving a dramatic sigh. He blinked against the sudden light and beauty of the room. A naked wonder lit up his face, but it faded when he turned to the two of them. “Zofia, you’re a charming man, but I much prefer you without a beard … and why is it so cold in here? What did I miss?”
“We only have twenty minutes before this whole art installation of goddesses disappears,” said Zofia.
“What?”
While Zofia explained the situation, Enrique focused on the actual statues inside the room. There was something strangely unifying about the goddess statues around them. He thought the goddesses would be from different pantheons around the world … and yet all ten of them wore the same flowing, marble tunics common to Hellenic-era deities … except for one. They looked almost identical, save for a distinguishing object here and there: a lyre or a mask, an astronomical device or a sprig of herbs.
“These goddesses strike me as odd,” said Enrique. “I thought they’d be varied. I thought we’d see Parvati and Ishtar, Freya and Isis … but they’re all so similar?”
“Spare us the art lecture for now, mon cher,” said Hypnos, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Focus only on where the Tezcat spectacles might be.”
“In a goddess?” asked Zofia.
“No,” said Enrique, eyeing the collection. “I know how Fallen House safety boxes work … they always hide a riddle. And they wouldn’t have done anything that required destruction of the property itself.”
“Cold is the baseline temperature,” said Zofia, almost to herself.
“I think we know that, ma ch-chère,” said Hypnos, shivering.
“So change the factor. Add heat.”
Zofia pulled off her jacket, and, with one smooth move, she ripped out the lining. Hypnos shrieked. “That’s silk!”
“It’s soie de Chardonnet,” said Zofia. She reached for a match behind her ear. “A highly flammable silk substitute that was displayed at the Exhibition in May. Not good for mass production. But excellent for a torch.”
Zofia struck the match and dropped it, then held up the flaming cloth, warming the air in a bright rush. She cast the flame around, but nothing on the walls or the faces of the statues changed. The Chardonnet silk burned fast. In a minute, it would hit her hands, and she’d have no choice but to drop it to the floor.
“Zofia, I think you were wrong,” said Enrique. “Maybe heat doesn’t work—”