The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(17)
Everything was fine …
It was a hope Séverin was still clinging to when his butler came in with the mail.
“For you.”
Séverin glanced at the envelope. An elaborate letter H was emblazoned on the front.
Hypnos.
He dismissed the butler, and then stared down at the envelope. Bits of brown flecked the front, like dried blood. Séverin touched the seal. Instantly, something sharp stabbed into the pad of his finger, a Forged thorn concealed in the melted wax. He hissed, drawing back his hand, but a drop of blood hit the paper. It sank into the envelope, and the elaborate letter H shivered, unraveling before his eyes until it opened into a short missive.
I know you stole from me.
PART II
Excerpt from Reports of New Caledonia Admiral Théophile du Casse, French faction Order of Babel 1863, Second Republic of France under Napoleon III The indigenous population, the Canaque, are becoming rather agitated. Through our translators, we have surmised that Forging is considered the provenance of native priests. None of their artisans appear to possess an affinity for mind. Instead, they are mostly gifted in matter affinity of salt water or wood. Each of their homes is adorned with a fléche fa?tière, a carved finial where their ancestors—whom they worship—supposedly reside. But we have discovered another use of these finials.
As you know, sir, we discovered the presence of nickel along the banks of the Diahot River. While our colonists have taken great pains to extract the mineral, the best instrument for detecting its presence comes from their supposed sacred finial monuments. Regretfully, I must inform you of an event that occurred last week. During the hours of dawn, one of my men had been working hard to tear down the finial from the top of a Canaque hut. Though he was successful in removing the finial, the family refused to tell us how to make the Forged finial respond to nickel. A skirmish arose. The Canaque man took his own life, declaring that “some knowledge is not meant to be known.”
We have not found a way to make the Forged finials work.
But I will persevere.
6
ENRIQUE
Enrique had been summoned to the bar of the grand lobby.
In different circumstances, that might be his favorite summons of all time, but Séverin’s note had been uncharacteristically brusque. Enrique checked the grand clock of the lobby. Five sharp. His appointment with Séverin wasn’t until half past five, which left just enough time for one cocktail.
Encircling the lobby was a grand ouroboros, an infinity symbol represented by a snake biting its tail. A huge, Forged brass serpent twined in an endless circle, candlelight rippling off its metal body. Refreshments and bouquets were nestled in the golden scales of its back, and every day at noon and midnight, it finally snapped hold of its tail and shining confetti rained from the ceiling. Around him, heiresses wearing plumed capes and artists with ink-smudged fingers strolled toward the gardens or the dining room. In one corner, politicians schemed together, their heads bent, eyes obscured by the clouds of smoke from their pipes. As usual, Enrique tuned out the sounds. There were too many languages to keep track of, so it was easier to let the sounds wash over him. Here and there, he caught dialects sharpened by the desert sun, languid vowels worn smooth by the waves of coastal regions. All of it unfamiliar music until one phrase caught his ear: “Magandang gabi po.” Good evening. The language was his native Tagalog. Enrique swiveled toward the speaker and recognized him instantly: Marcelo Ponce. From across the room, Ponce caught his eye and waved a hand in welcome.
Along with Dr. Rizal, Ponce was a member of the Ilustrados, a group Enrique had joined because, like him, all the members were European-educated Filipinos who dreamed of reform to their Spanish-controlled country. But to them, he was only just a member … not a visionary. Not someone who charted the course of a new future no matter how much he wanted to be part of their inner circle.
“Kuya Marcelo,” said Enrique respectfully.
He still felt a flash of awe that he got to call the great Marcelo “brother,” but it was more tradition than intimacy.
“Kuya Enrique,” said Marcelo warmly. His gaze dropped to the pen in Enrique’s hand. “Working on another article to submit to La Solidaridad? Or translating a new language?”
“Um, some of both,” said Enrique, flushing. “Actually, if you have time, perhaps I might share my new writing with you? I—”
“That’s wonderful news, truly. Keep up the good work,” said Marcelo distractedly. He looked over Enrique’s shoulder. “I’m actually meeting someone who might help us petition the queen of Spain.”
“Oh!” said Enrique. “I-I could help?”
Marcelo smiled. “Ah, but of course! Enrique Mercado-Lopez: journalist, historian, and debonaire spy.” Before Enrique could answer, Marcelo patted his cheek. “Of course, it must be easy to spy when you hardly look like one of us. We’ll see you at the next meeting. Ingat ka, kuya.”
Marcelo squeezed his shoulder as he walked past him. Enrique forced himself to keep walking, even though his face burned and his limbs felt leaden.
Of course, it must be easy to spy when you hardly look like one of us.
Marcelo spoke with no malice. In a way, that was worse. At birth, Enrique had favored his father, a full-blooded Spaniard. In the Philippines, many considered this a good trait. They called him mestizo. His aunts and uncles even joked that his dark-skinned mother must not have been in the room when he was conceived. Perhaps this was why the Ilustrados did not let him into their inner circle.