The House of Shattered Wings

MADELEINE didn’t know what she’d expected when Asmodeus summoned her again, but she certainly hadn’t bargained for Isabelle.

They were in a room of the House that she couldn’t place, a sitting room with a harp and pale green conversation seats. It certainly wasn’t part of Asmodeus’s quarters, merely a place he had chosen to talk to his current guest; by the looks of it, trying to make it as uncomfortable as possible for her, giving her a metal chair with a high back, set in the middle of unadorned parquet floor. He lounged, as satisfied as ever, in a much more comfortable chair, his hands gracefully resting on the teak desk in front of him.

Something was wrong with him, though: it took Madeleine a moment to realize that the unreadable expression on his face was as close as he would ever come to showing shock.

Isabelle, by contrast, looked utterly out of place; and yet not—radiating a magic that had passed beyond Asmodeus’s reach long, long ago. Something had changed; or perhaps it was something that had always been there: a harshness to the planes of her face, coalescing into sharp focus through the last few days. “You have some nerve,” Asmodeus said, softly, “walking in here and asking me this.”

Isabelle smiled; a sharp, wounding expression that Madeleine had never seen on her. “What bothers you so? It’s business between Houses.”

At length, he raised his eyes to Madeleine; pinned her where she stood, fighting the urge to turn away, the rising nausea in her throat. “You are aware,” he said, slowly, softly, “that to bargain from a position of weakness is demonstrably inefficient.”

“Weakness?”

“Your House collapses, even as we speak.” Asmodeus did not even smile. “Morningstar’s little schemes have finally borne fruit; and behold, it’s as rotten as the heart of Silverspires.”

“Do you truly think there is a House whose heart is not rotten?” Isabelle didn’t look at Madeleine. She sounded—old, weary, cynical; Madeleine ached to wrap her into her arms, to tell her everything was going to be all right. But of course it was too late; had been too late for a long while.

Asmodeus laughed. “Of course not. We are all equal, are we not? One day, the many schemes of Hawthorn might bear the same kind of fruit as Silverspires’. But I would be a fool to intervene while a rival is removed.”

“Only if you’re sure that’s how things will work out.” Isabelle smoothed her silk skirt, with that same smile that was like a knife twist in Madeleine’s heart. “If we should survive, in any fashion—” She let the words hang in the air for a bare moment. “—then we would remember those who helped us in our hour of need.”

“Your survival is unlikely,” Asmodeus said, dryly.

“But then again, I’m not asking you for much, am I?”

Asmodeus’s eyes had not moved; they were still on Madeleine, with a peculiar expression she could not name. “I went to some trouble to recover her,” he said, still not talking to her. “It wasn’t to let her go at the slightest threat.”

“Do you fear she’d never return?”

Her. They were talking about her. Madeleine turned her eyes from Asmodeus’s horn-rimmed gaze, and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Isabelle had come back for her. She had—“I know she wouldn’t,” Asmodeus said. “Would you, Madeleine?”

She didn’t know what was expected of her; what would help, what would hinder Isabelle. Negotiations had never been her strong suit, and she struggled to understand most of the undercurrents in the scene before her. Asmodeus’s fingers drummed, lightly, on the surface of the desk.

“Answer me.” The voice was light; the threat unmistakable.

She ought to have lied; but she couldn’t. Nothing but the truth would come, springing from some deep place, as uncontrollable as the first flow of a spring. “I’m not your toy. I’m not your whim or your project. You spared my life; that doesn’t mean you own it.” She was angry, and frightened; and she wasn’t even sure if she ought to return to Silverspires; to a House that wasn’t hers, that might well be fading away—once her perfect refuge, her dying place, her quiet and undisturbed grave.

There was silence, in the wake of her words. She turned her head, slightly: Asmodeus was watching her with the same faint, amused smile on his face. Isabelle might surprise him; but it seemed Madeleine didn’t—couldn’t. You don’t own me, she repeated to herself, and wasn’t sure how much of that could be true.

“Commendable,” Asmodeus said, “but I own the keys to your jail. And did you truly think that Selene didn’t own you? We’re all, in the end, the toys of someone else.”