The House of Shattered Wings

Selene didn’t say anything. Whether it was by choice or not, there was nothing she could do for Madeleine. The House was certainly not in a position to go making demands of anyone. And she had abdicated responsibility for Madeleine. She had to remember that. If she did not stand by her decisions, who would? “Whatever the case,” she said. “We can discuss this when we survive. If we survive. Isabelle, I’m sorry. I know you deserved more time. I know you didn’t have it, but right now you’re my only choice, and our only hope.”


Isabelle said nothing. She nodded at last, but didn’t sound remotely happy. “I’ll try,” she said. “Will that do?”

As long as she didn’t do anything rash. Selene made a mental note to ask Emmanuelle or Javier to keep an eye on her. “As to the rest—” She took a deep, deep breath, not looking at Morningstar. One had to recognize when one was beaten, and plan accordingly. “I’m sorry it has come to this, but we will have to evacuate the North Wing as well, and regroup around here.”

Here. Her office. Her living quarters. The center of the House; and, it seemed, the place where they would make their last-ditch attempt to defeat Nightingale’s curse.

*

PHILIPPE’S return to the gang had been anticlimactic. Bloody Jeanne had smiled, and hugged him; though perfunctorily, with an expression that suggested she would stick him in the ribs if it served her purposes. Baptiste and Alex had been more circumspect, but everyone had seemed almost happy to have him back. It ought to have touched him; or to make him feel wary, or something—anything, but it didn’t.

He sat down in the little courtyard at the back of the shop, watching the flowers on the arbor, as if, with enough attention, he could still time enough to watch them grow: he had done this once, in another lifetime, in another land; but this felt so far behind him it might as well be dead.

Aragon had been right: for him, there would be no return to Annam. That dream was gone, nipped in the bud before it could ever blossom; crushed in the egg before it could stretch legs or wings.

“You look thoughtful,” Ninon said. She slid down, easily, by his side, all loose limbs and easy smiles. “You’ve hardly said a word since you came back.”

“Yeah, I know,” Philippe said.

“Is it because of what happened in the Grands Magasins?” She bit her lips. “I shouldn’t have left you behind—but I thought you were dead. I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Philippe said. He was thinking of Silverspires; of Isabelle, restless and angry, somewhere at the back of his mind. Why could he not be done with her; with the continual, distant awareness of where she was, of the power running red-hot through her—through her bones and her lungs and every sinew of her body? He could feel her; could almost taste her worry about the House, about Selene—about Madeleine. There was something about Madeleine; a glimpse of a fear he couldn’t quite focus on.

He . . . he had left her behind; had left the House and its buried darkness behind—and yet, he kept thinking about her—kept expecting her to walk up to him, to reminisce about Annam with him—to argue with him about what he needed, about what he ought to do in that infuriatingly direct way of hers. He . . .

It was none of his business. The House was none of his business. They would fail, and fall, because ghosts like Nightingale couldn’t be stopped; because what fueled her was nothing human or Fallen, just the relentless anger and love she’d felt when she died. For this, there was no exorcism; merely prayers to guide her to rebirth, and a better life—and those would have required a monk, or a priest; and he was neither. He owed them nothing, save his stiffened hand, save the memory of a night when he had been taken apart piece by piece—the same thing that had happened to Nightingale in Hawthorn.

Most of all, he owed Isabelle nothing. She had chosen, too; chosen the House and its darkness; the House and the secrets that would choke it—Morningstar’s grisly and unjustifiable legacy. They were worlds apart now; in fact, they had always been. He’d been a fool to hope otherwise.

He . . . It had all made sense, back at the House, back within its oppressive boundaries, when all he could think of was how fast to leave it; but now he sat outside, under overcast skies—breathing in the smell of flowers, with Ninon worriedly looking at him, trying to apologize for leaving him behind—when he was the one who had left Isabelle behind. . . .

“Philippe? Philippe!”

But he didn’t need to close his eyes to guess at the silhouette of Morningstar, sitting beneath the arbor; didn’t need to meditate to feel the darkness trapped within his chest, the remnants of the curse even Chung Thoai hadn’t been able to banish.

“If you go back, you will die.”

He had gone back, and got out, and he was still alive.

He ought to stay out; to rebuild whatever life he could out of the shattered remnants of his time in Silverspires; to learn as much as he could from this experience, to make of himself a living blade that nothing and no one could harm. He should forget Isabelle, forget her betrayed look as he left her, her presence at the back of his mind like a wound that wouldn’t close. . . .

Someone was shaking him; Ninon, he realized with a start. “You haven’t spoken for an hour,” she said. “Just staring off at the sky. . . .” She shook her head. “What did they do to you in that House, Philippe?”