The House of Shattered Wings

But of course there were. Of course there would be good people like her, like Laure—within Silverspires, within Hawthorn—even within House Draken, where Theophraste the tailor had been kind, and sorry to see the Annamite troops drafted in the war, and made his best effort to cut them uniforms with flowing patterns like those on Annamite silk, and handed them scraps of cloth they could use as blankets against the killing cold. It hadn’t changed a thing. Such people’s lives were richer, easier because of the House system. And in turn, the House system existed only because such kind, gentle people kept pledging themselves to it and strengthening it from within. They were all complicit, without exception.

And so was Isabelle.

“What threatens the House?” Emmanuelle asked again.

Philippe shrugged. “A ghost,” he said, feeling the memory of darkness within his chest. “Anger. Revenge.”

Not revenge, Madeleine had said. Justice. But was there such a difference to be found in Paris, anymore? The Houses were their own enclosed systems, making their own laws; and bowing only to he who had the greater power.

Morningstar was hovering on the edge of his field of vision, smiling that terrible seductive smile, his wings gilded with the last of the dying light. My world, he whispered. From beginning to end. Will you not play by the game’s rules?

Never.

Then the game will crush you, and grind your bones into dust.

But Philippe wasn’t the one whose bones were dust; wasn’t the one whose dreams had come to an end in the crypt beneath the altar. He was alive.

Emmanuelle was still watching him. “A ghost. One of the dead. Someone we wronged.” She didn’t sound surprised, or shocked. Of course. She was still part of the House. She still knew about what it did, for its supposed own good.

“One of your precious Morningstar’s students.” He hurled it at her like an insult; weary of it all; of Morningstar and his senseless plots, of Selene and her damnable pride, of Asmodeus and his casual cruelties. “You betrayed them. Sold them like a pound of flesh.”

To buy peace.

As if that had ever been a reason for anything.

Emmanuelle said nothing for a while. Her eyes were closed; her face pale. When she spoke again, her voice was level. “Sold to Hawthorn, wasn’t she? In reparation for two murders that Lord Uphir threatened to turn into a bloodbath.”

“Who? How did you know this?”

“I can read.” Emmanuelle’s voice was mild. “And you asked for books when you came into the library, some time ago. History books. I had . . . a refresher course on who might have cause to hate the House.”

“What was her name?” Philippe asked.

“Nightingale,” Emmanuelle said. “It was a long time ago, Philippe. Before the war.”

“And you—” She didn’t seem to see anything wrong with it, with what Morningstar had done.

Isabelle said, “I remember her. She was quick to smile; quick to anger; like a beloved child.”

“How—how do you know that?” Emmanuelle asked.

“I don’t know.” Isabelle looked bewildered for a while. “I had this image—and then nothing else.” An image from Morningstar, Nightingale through his eyes.

Philippe took a deep, trembling breath; forced himself to think. He couldn’t afford to jump at fancies; because the darkness was with him, and it was real, and deadly.

“I need to know,” he said, pulling a chair; and felt as though he had set a foot on loose rock; and stood, perilously balanced, in the instant before everything came tumbling down. “Who is Nightingale?”

“You must understand that I don’t remember her,” Emmanuelle said. “Her name was Hélène, I think, before Morningstar chose her. She was mortal. She studied with him for a couple of years. He’d have grown bored with her, in time; dissatisfied, as with any of his other students. But something happened first.”

“The betrayal.”

“There were two murders,” Emmanuelle said. “It was . . . messy, I remember. Two dependents of Hawthorn, in broad daylight, as they came out from Notre-Dame.” She frowned. “Uphir thought it was our fault. That, even if we weren’t behind it, we should have protected them better.”

“And were you? Behind them?”

“How should I know?” Emmanuelle said. “Morningstar never admitted to anything. But yes, it might well have been him. Who else would have had the gall to commit murder on the steps of his own House?”

“Go on,” Philippe said. He felt the darkness, rising within him; the room, growing fainter and fainter; the memory of pain; of anger; of disappointment. He wanted to ask how they could do this; how they could sell their own; but he knew the answer she was going to give him.

“There’s not much else,” Emmanuelle said. “That I know of. Morningstar went to negotiate with Uphir. He might have accused Nightingale, because she was convenient. Expendable. I assume . . .” She paused; Philippe only saw her through a haze of rage like a living fire. “He must have left tracks. Traces of his own magic that Uphir saw. And he pinned it on Nightingale—”

“Because she was his student and had learned his magic.” Isabelle’s voice was sharper than usual.

Memories. Visions. Philippe closed his eyes—the room was receding, and he could feel only Nightingale’s thoughts, drowning his.

They’d come for her one day in the courtyard; Morningstar smiling like a sated cat; telling her she needed to go to Hawthorn, to sort out something for him; a minor detail in an agreement with Uphir. And she had gone, trusting him; until the gates of Hawthorn closed on her, and she saw Uphir’s cold, angry smile . . .