The House of Shattered Wings

“Yes?” Faint bewilderment, nothing more, in the voice. Isabelle might have unlocked some memories, but he didn’t know; he couldn’t know what it had been like, when he was head of the House.

She thought of Asmodeus, telling her she was too squeamish to be head of the House; and of the enormity of what she was about to do. They barely had had time to get used to his presence again, and here she was: a jumped-up apprentice who had become head of the House only because everyone else had died or disappeared, and she would dare . . .

She had to. It was the only choice. “You have to go,” she said to Morningstar. “It’s what you started. It’s you who should fix it.”

Beside her, Emmanuelle took a deep, shocked breath; held it. “You know—” she started, and Selene squeezed her shoulder so hard that Emmanuelle gasped. Not now, she mouthed.

Morningstar’s face was puzzled. “Go where?”

“Inside,” Selene said. She looked up at last. There was only guileless innocence in his blue eyes, and she tried to swallow past the salty taste in her mouth. “I need you to open the way to the banyan’s heart. They’re your wings. You’re the one who should wield them.”

Morningstar looked puzzled—for a moment she thought he would see it; that he would comprehend the magnitude of what she had just done, but he simply nodded. “I see. Is there no one else?”

“You’re the most powerful Fallen we have,” Selene said, simply; the lie tasting like ashes on her tongue. He was the most powerful, but also the most naive, the one who couldn’t master his own powers. He was the one they could spare. “We need you.”

Surely he wouldn’t believe that—who did? Surely . . .

But he merely nodded; and she knew, then, that her old master was dead and buried; that she had already grieved for him in the crypt beneath the chapel; and that there would be no return. “I’m honored by your trust.”

Emmanuelle spoke up, at last, her voice as dry as dust. “Selene—you’ll still need someone—”

“I know,” Selene said.

“You can’t go,” Emmanuelle said. “I’ll do it.”

Selene shook her head. “I’ll find Isabelle. Or someone else.” Someone powerful, someone else they could spare—as if there was such a thing. “I’ll send them right after you,” she said to Morningstar.

It was enough. It would be enough. Nightingale thought Morningstar was dead; taken away by the Furies. She would be surprised; and they would have a chance.

A small, insignificant chance they’d need to grasp in the moment it was offered; but it would be more than anything they’d had so far.

Morningstar shrugged. “Don’t wait too long.”

“I know,” Selene said.

Emmanuelle closed her eyes. “Isabelle isn’t on the grounds right now.”

“What—?” God, not another loose cannon somewhere. She was tired of dealing with those. “Does no one in this House know how to obey orders?”

“It’s a House, not an army,” Emmanuelle said. But then her face grew more serious. “I could go.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“I can do my duty to the House, just as you do.”

No. She had lost the House, or almost as good as; she wasn’t going to lose Emmanuelle as well. It was selfish and ill-placed, and she was aware that she would have sent Emmanuelle if there had been no one else, but in this case . . . “Locate Isabelle, wherever she went; tell her she is to come to Silverspires, immediately.”

“I will. But if she doesn’t come back in time . . .”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Selene said.

“As you wish,” Emmanuelle said, but she sounded dubious. And disappointed. Selene knew the feeling: powerlessness, slowly watching the House being choked to death. For once, they could do something—even if it was such a stab in the dark, even if it was just a likelihood of success rather than a certainty. . . .

She watched Morningstar heft the wings; and slowly and awkwardly adjust them onto his back; watched him assay a few thrusts here and there: they were astonishingly graceful, proving that the body, if not the mind, remembered something of what it had been before. She could have looked away, but she didn’t.

After all, she’d just sacrificed him, as callously as he’d once sacrificed Nightingale.

You’d be happy, she whispered to the memory of Asmodeus. I have taken the decisions that needed to be taken, for the safeguarding of the House.

And, in her mind, Asmodeus merely smiled, showing his white, pointed teeth; and said nothing.





TWENTY-TWO


MORNINGSTAR’S HEIR