Barcelona is a walled city, lean streets and tall houses interspersed with the skeletons of Roman ruins. A massive citadel sits along the marina, more ominous than the guardian presence of Notre-Dame in Marseilles.
There isn’t the traffic of Paris, but it’s certainly a loud place, and a bright one. The sun on the water is dazzling and the streets seem reflective, cobblestones flecked with muscovite that shines like glass. The shop fronts and awnings and even the ladies’ dresses seem a brighter hue than we’ve seen elsewhere. It’s not gilt like the finery in Paris, but it’s vibrant, fresh-cut flowers rather than wax ones.
We arrive on a sweltering day, the sun livid and the sky the hazy yellow of melted butter. The heat seems to pack tight between the walls and cradle the stones. Most of the people we come across speak French, mixed in with Catalan, which I recognize from the fair. Felicity does most of the talking. Pascal’s grandmothers weren’t wrong in their assessment that the Robleses are a known family—we only have to inquire after them twice before we’re directed to their house in the Barri Gòtic, the old quarter of the city with medieval structures masquerading behind classical facades.
The house itself is less than I expected. For the manor of an old court family, the front is unimpressive—gray with no adornment, and so narrow it seems to have been squashed between the buildings on either side, with the excess oozing out the top. The portico is a mosaic of stone and brick, stunted balconies sprouting beneath the windows and the railings chewed with rust. All the curtains are drawn.
When I pull the bell cord, the waxed door smothers the echo of the chimes. Felicity looks up at the house, fine strands of hair stuck to the sweat glistening upon her neck. “We’re rather off the edge of the map now, aren’t we?”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” I look over at Percy. He’s staring up too, though his gaze isn’t as high as Felicity’s. I follow his eyes and notice a death’s-head carved above the door frame, thin, choppy lines intertwining into a bare skull flanked with feathery wings.
Bolting suddenly presents itself as a very promising option. But I run my fingers along the edges of the box in my pocket and root myself on that stoop.
“I don’t think anyone’s—” Percy starts, but the door swings suddenly open and I am face-to-face with a woman probably a decade older than us. Long, glossy black hair hangs loose around her shoulders, framing her face, and her olive skin is stretched taut over a pointed chin and high cheekbones. Also a tight dress and fantastic figure—it’s rather hard not to notice. I ruffle my hair on reflex. It must be a sight.
“Bona dia,” she says, stiff as starched sheets. She’s hardly got the door open wide enough for us to see her. “Us puc ajudar?”
I was expecting French, and I fumble. “Um . . . English?”
She shakes her head and suddenly she’s speaking aggressive Catalan at me. I haven’t a clue what she’s saying, but I take it it’s not friendly.
“Wait,” Felicity says behind me in French. “Please, we only need a moment.”
The woman starts to shut the door, but I thrust my foot out and catch it. She gives that no heed and keeps trying to slam it, which about folds my foot in half, but I manage to whip the puzzle box out of my pocket and thrust it into the narrow space between us.
She freezes, her eyes widening. “Where did you get that?” she says, this time in English.
It’s hard not to be petulant to a woman who nearly amputated my toes with her entryway, so I say, a bit bolder than is likely wise, “Oh, that’s odd, I didn’t think you spoke English.”
I feel someone poke me in the back—whether Percy or Felicity, it’s difficult to say.
“Where?” the woman demands.
“Unwedge my foot from beneath your door and we shall tell you.”
“We were told to give it to Professor Mateu Robles,” Percy says from behind me. “Could we see him?”
“He isn’t here,” the woman replies.
“Will he be back soon?” Felicity asks. “And could you let Monty’s foot go?”
“I’ll take the box for him.”
Felicity gives me a nod, like that’s my cue to hand it over, but I don’t let go. I’m a bit nervous the woman will slam the door in our faces as soon as it’s in her grip and we’ll have no chance to speak to Robles. “We were told to give it to the professor. And we were hoping to speak to him. About some of his work with alchemy—”
“I don’t know anything about that,” she says.
“Well, yes, so if we could speak to him—”
“He’s dead.”
Which is just the rancid icing on a crumbling cake. I resist doing a rather dramatic flail of despair onto the doorstep. “Well. I am certainly glad we came all this way to find that out.” I try to yank my foot out from under the door but the little bastard is really under there. I swear the woman is pressing harder to keep me pinned.
“But if you’d like to speak to my brother,” she says, “he’s here. Mateu was our father—I’m Helena Robles. The box belongs to my brother Dante now.”
“Yes,” Felicity pipes up. “That would be good, thank you.”
Helena opens the door fully, then turns on her heel and starts through the house, beckoning us after.
I prop myself up on the frame so I can get a grip on my foot and try to rub the pain out. “I think she broke my toes.”
“She didn’t break your toes,” Felicity says.
I stamp my foot hard against the ground a few times, then start to follow Helena, but Felicity makes a snatch at my arm. “Monty, wait—”
Her expression alone says This is not a good idea. Percy’s says it too. He must have been backing up the whole time we were arguing because he’s nearly to the street, his fiddle case held before him like a shield.
“We found him, didn’t we?” I say. “The professor. Or, we found out he’s kicked it. We’re supposed to give it to him, and he’s not here, so we should talk to the son. It makes sense.”
Percy looks over my shoulder into the house. “Yes, but—”
Helena appears again suddenly, like an apparition. We all three jump. “Are you coming?”
I look back at the pair of them. They’re both still staring at me like I’ve finally lost my mind. “Well, are you?” I ask.
Felicity follows me. Then, with slightly more hesitation, Percy does too.
The house is dark and narrow, thick drapes blotting out all the windows and giving the room an angled, smoky light. I was hoping for some relief from the heat, but the house is stifling. It’s like stepping from the smithy into the forge.