The House of Shattered Wings

She had thought herself unworthy as the head of the House; she hadn’t expected to be the one who saw its demise. Unless . . . Unless.

Morningstar was behind Emmanuelle, watching the office with bright, curious eyes. Selene looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “It doesn’t matter, Selene,” Emmanuelle said. She reached out, but Selene evaded her grasp.

“You didn’t come here for that, did you?”

“Oh no,” Emmanuelle said. “I came to tell you I’d found something.”

“Nightingale’s grave?”

Emmanuelle grimaced. She pulled one of the chairs to her: one of the old Louis XV ones, with a pattern of embroidered flowers on red suede. “Forget the exorcism,” she said. “A ghost like this, with this kind of power, enough to summon the Furies in the hour of her death . . . you can’t exorcise, not that simply. But you can destroy her curse.”

“How?”

Emmanuelle bit her lip. “I know what kind of tree this is, Selene. It’s a banyan.”

“And—?” The name meant nothing to Selene.

“It’s a tree from the tropics. He was, after all, the catalyst for the spell—it quite probably drew from his memories.”

Selene scowled, but forced herself to listen. Emmanuelle regularly forgot how much the subject of Philippe was a sore point.

“The point is, it’s a strangler tree. Starts as a seed borne by the wind into a tree’s branches, and then extends roots until the tree it encases shrivels and dies.”

Just like Silverspires. Selene shivered. “I don’t want to think on that.” She shook her head. That was childish, and beneath her. “How do you destroy a banyan, then?”

“Destroy its roots,” Emmanuelle said. “But most of all—because this is no ordinary banyan, Selene—there is a place that’s of particular significance.”

“Which one?”

“The hollow,” Emmanuelle said. “The place left by the encased tree when it dies. You could say that’s the banyan’s secret. In the Far East, they say that’s where the spirits of the tree reside.”

In the Far East . . . Perhaps they should have found Philippe in the end; but no, she didn’t want to think on Philippe. It was only because of him that they were here.

Because of him, and Morningstar, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind. If he had not betrayed Nightingale . . .

But no, she couldn’t think that: because, without Morningstar, there would be no Silverspires, no refuge in Notre-Dame. He had done what was necessary to maintain the House, and so would she, if it came to that. Because it was her duty as head of the House. Because the Fallen now staring at her, puzzled and without any comprehension, was nothing like the distant, radiant head of the House; the powerful magic wielder who had taught her, who had worn wings as a reminder that he was the only Fallen who had dared to wear what they had been stripped of; who had dared to use it as a weapon.

“The hollow,” she said. “What about it?”

Emmanuelle handed her something, which she almost dropped, because the malevolence contained within was almost palpable. But she wasn’t about to be defeated by a mere artifact. “A mirror,” she said, aloud. Made of obsidian and not glass, an odd affectation that placed it somewhere two centuries ago, perhaps? When anything from the New World had still been new and fascinating.

“Isabelle gave me this,” Emmanuelle said. “She says she and Philippe found it, and that it’s what started it all.”

Selene closed her eyes. “The source of the curse?” She didn’t ask whether Isabelle could be trusted; how the loyalties she still very obviously held both for Philippe and for Madeleine impacted on this. She had to trust Isabelle, because she had no other choice. “You mean to destroy it?”

“Symbolically,” Emmanuelle said. Her face was set. “In a place of power, in the hollow of the banyan. If that doesn’t work—”

If that didn’t work, then they’d all be out of a House, but it was all they already faced. “Even if you could get there—” Selene’s lips moved, silently, as she contemplated the consequences. “She will be there, won’t she? You said it was the place of the spirits.” Of ghosts; and of the restless, unavenged dead. “Waiting.” And Selene doubted it would be easy to defeat her. The Furies might be gone, but Nightingale would have other tricks up her sleeves.

“Nightingale?” Emmanuelle nodded. “That’s almost certain. I haven’t found a solution to distract her.”

Selene turned her gaze to Emmanuelle, resolutely; refusing to stare at Morningstar or at the wings that so fascinated him. “I have,” she said, slowly, carefully.

They were his weapon, and he had retained the mastery of it. What they cut would not regrow—she knew it in her heart of hearts. And, more important, he was the only one who could provide what they so desperately needed.

A distraction.

“Morningstar?”