The House of Shattered Wings

*

MADELEINE wrapped her things carefully; not that there were many of them, of course. Isabelle watched her in silence, leaning against the doorjamb of the laboratory: she’d come in the middle of Madeleine’s packing, and had settled in her current position without a word. At last she said, “You don’t have to—”

Madeleine winced. She’d scoured her drawers before Isabelle had arrived, and had found only one small locket with a little angel essence; nothing like what she’d have needed to take. A vague edge of hunger seemed to overlay everything she did. It wasn’t a craving, not something irresistible that would have left her in tears; merely a faint sense of discomfort that seemed to be slowly increasing. She refused to think about what it would mean for her, out there. “Selene gives me no choice.”

Isabelle’s hands clenched. “Selene can’t drive everyone away.”

“Philippe, you mean?” Madeleine asked. She’d never liked him, so she couldn’t say she was sorry for him. But anything that would rile up Selene had her approval at the moment. How dare she—how–

Her throat was closing up. She took a last look at her laboratory: at the old, battered chair she’d sat in during her wild nightmare nights; the secretary desk, with the first drawer that always jammed—if she closed her eyes, she could still see Oris, sitting at the table with a frown on his face, trying to understand what she wanted from him.

Oh, Oris.

She blinked back tears. She’d never been one for sentimentality: she and Selene had that in common, at least; and she wasn’t about to collapse in tears in the middle of her laboratory.

“Madeleine?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. She had her bag. All the containers within belonged to the House, but she didn’t think Selene would begrudge her a battered leather bag, so old it could have seen the days of Morningstar. “You should—” She closed her eyes. She couldn’t feel the House; couldn’t even reassure herself that she would be safe. And she’d had so little time to know Isabelle; but she and Emmanuelle were the one shining spot left in the desolation. “Take care of yourself, will you?”

Isabelle smiled sadly. “That’s what Philippe said. Do you all think me such a child?”

“No,” Madeleine said. She laid one of Isabelle’s containers on the now-empty table. “But you’ll be House alchemist. That’s a big responsibility, trust me.” One that she’d never been quite up to, she suspected; but she’d done better than her predecessor, at the least. And she’d trained a successor, in all too short a time. If only she could have stayed longer . . .

“I know.” Isabelle shook her head. “I didn’t . . . There was no time, Madeleine.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Madeleine sought words; never something she’d been good at. “You’ll do fine. Believe me.”

Isabelle laughed bitterly. “Perhaps. You will write, won’t you? Send news—”

Madeleine shook her head, unsure of what to say. Tears blinked at the corners of her eyes; she didn’t move. No sentimentality. “Of course.” It was a lie; why bother Isabelle with the remnants of a sad, washed-out alchemist, a teacher who couldn’t even provide enough knowledge? “Of course I’ll write. If it makes you happy.”

Isabelle’s smile seemed to illuminate the entire laboratory; no, it wasn’t merely an illusion; it was a radiance from her skin, so strong it cast dancing shadows upon the walls. “Not as well as your staying, but I’ll take it,” she said.

Madeleine’s heart clenched in her chest. She couldn’t do anything more for Isabelle; couldn’t protect her, or even give her more than a modicum of the knowledge she’d gained. It would have to do; because Selene had left her no choice; but oh, how it hurt, as if she were betraying Oris all over again.

She hadn’t had much, and hadn’t hoped to bequeath much; save for the hope her apprentices would do better than her.

She left Isabelle in the laboratory, moodily staring at the container, and took the shortest way out, toward the ruined cathedral and its parvis.

There was something—something in the corridors that wasn’t quite usual. On her way, she bypassed the school. She could hear Choérine’s voice, explaining the finer points of Latin, and the giggles of some of the girls, but the noise was overlaid by something else, some other sound she couldn’t quite identify. A breath, a tune she couldn’t quite catch; voices whispering words on the cusp of hearing—but, no, it wasn’t voices. It was . . . a sound that was the creak of a mast on the sea, a rustle like cloth; a breath like the wind in outstretched sails.