The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had changed texture. Instead of a vertical downpour, it was a drizzle that seemed intent on seeping through the pores, like a nosy vapor. Vetranta never contented itself with soaking raincoats; it tried to dilute people into its streets.
I followed the cobblestones toward Piazza dei Girasoli, Fiora’s notebook pressed against my ribs. Each step weighed more than it should, as if the leather wanted to root itself in my ribcage. Mara had given me a rendezvous “at the hour of splinters”—an expression absent from any calendar, but one everyone here seemed to understand. In plain terms: the span between the moment the sun breaks through the clouds and the moment it remembers it has something else to do.
A whistle cut the air. Not a bird, not a kettle, but the hiss of bicycle tires against wet pavement. Hermes, of course. Not the toga-and-sandals version; no, the Vetranta edition: tight jersey, courier’s satchel, cycling cap with the visor flipped up. His calves were arguments in favor of the gods’ existence. He slalomed among pedestrians with annoying elegance and skidded to a stop right in front of me.
“Ivo, you’re already late for tomorrow,” he said without catching his breath.
“That’s conceptually unfair,” I grumbled.
“Divine deadlines always are.”
He handed me a parcel. Not big, not small, just the perfect size to trigger paranoia. Wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with red string. No address on it. Only a water stain shaped like a spiral. Hermes smiled, his white teeth like well-placed commas.
“Don’t open it yet.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“To test your obedience.”
He laid a hand on my shoulder. Friendly gesture, except his palm vibrated like a hidden engine. In the reflection of a nearby shop window, I didn’t see his fingers; I saw a pair of wings, flapping forward and backward. It made me nauseous, like a delay between mismatched subtitles.
Mara burst out of the bakery, flour on her apron. She rolled her eyes, sighed:
“Still putting on theater, Hermes?”
“It’s not theater, it’s logistics.”
He shrugged, spun his bike like a ballerina, and added: “Out of the saddle, as they say.”
He rode in circles around us, faster and faster, until the rain itself hesitated to fall into the vortex. The world blurred; only Mara’s warm bread and the parcel in my hands stayed sharp. Then everything snapped back into place, as if nothing had happened—except Mara’s watch read 12:42 and mine read 11:11. A minute lost, or an hour gained, depending on who was doing the math.
“What he delivered isn’t a package,” Mara said softly. “It’s a key. But it doesn’t open a lock.”
“And what does it open, then?”
She only smiled. The kind of smile that makes you realize the question is premature, like asking a seed why it hasn’t bloomed yet.
I tightened my grip on the parcel. Fiora’s notebook pulsed against my ribs, as if approving the botanical metaphor. Hermes, already far away, was tossing newspapers randomly onto balconies, as though distributing news from an impatient future. Each paper flared briefly in midair, then folded back into mere damp sheets. Free show or a glitch in the simulation? In this city, the difference is negligible.
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