The House of Shattered Wings

Her eyes were closed; she lay on her side, with the bulky wings on her back resting on the ground, looking so much like an angel that he could have wept. He found, by touch, her left hand; and rested his fingers in the hollow where two of hers were missing.

Where to start—what to say? “I’m sorry” didn’t cover anything; didn’t even begin to hint at what they’d had and how it had ended. He still wasn’t entirely sure what had drawn him back to the House, a mixture of self-pride and pigheadedness; and the desire to prove that he wasn’t ruled by the curse that still lay within him; and a will, in the end, to help her. To turn back time, and not be the one who had failed her, time and time again, until she turned into the symbol of all that he despised.

“I wasn’t fair to you,” he said, at last, holding her hand tight in his; his eyes dry and fixed on her still, vacant features. “I should have—”

But he had come too late; and there was nothing he could have done. “I wasn’t fair to you,” he said, again. Wedging his hands under her, he rose, taking her full weight in his arms; and walked through toward the side door he remembered from his night of endless, bloodied crawling.

He didn’t know where he was going; only that he couldn’t leave her in the House, where she would be dissected for her magic, everything collected by the alchemist who would come after her: skin reduced to powder, hair cut and saved in jewelry cases, all inner organs weighed and cataloged, every scrap of magic put into service again.

She had done her duty to the House, to its bitter end; and he would give her the rest she deserved.

*

WITH Nightingale dead, the roots stopped growing and regrowing; and they at last managed to cut away some of them. The hollow trunk of the banyan, though, remained, completely wrapped around Notre-Dame, a grim reminder of what they had survived. Aragon returned, grumbling, as though nothing had ever happened; and took Madeleine and Morningstar, neither of whom had woken up, to the hospital wing.

They didn’t find Isabelle’s body, or Philippe. Selene gave some thought as to whether they should search further; but Isabelle had died for the House, and Selene didn’t feel callous enough to hound her after death. Morningstar’s wings were a loss, but one she could deal with.

Ironic, given that she had been callous enough to watch Nightingale die—and sent Morningstar to die—the fact that he had survived it didn’t change anything.

Selene walked back into her office, which was a little worse for wear, with cracked walls and unusable furniture, though Javier found her a chair from the less damaged part of the House. She sat down before her broken desk, and stared at the wall for a moment.

Morningstar’s heir. Heir to a rotten throne, a rotted House, while all around them vultures circled, eager for their pound of flesh.

Speaking of vultures . . .

A knock at the door heralded the coming of Emmanuelle; and behind her, Asmodeus.

He had dressed soberly for once, with a white shirt and minimal amounts of ruffle; and pressed, impeccable trousers that conveyed quite effectively the fact that Hawthorn had suffered no damage whatsoever in the affair. “Selene. What a pleasure.”

“I’m sure,” Selene said, sourly. “Do make yourself at ease. I’d offer you a chair, but I’m afraid we’re a little short.”

“On many things, I should think.” Asmodeus smiled. “I won’t bother you for long. I’m here to collect my dependent.”

“Your dependent? Oh. Madeleine. Emmanuelle told me something of this.” She wasn’t clear on the sequence that had brought Madeleine back, or what she had been doing in the cathedral—probably running after Isabelle again—whatever her other faults, one had to grant her loyalty to her apprentices. “That’s fine by me.” Not that she was in a position to raise any objections. But still . . . “Asmodeus?”

“Yes?” he said, halfway to the door.

“I need to know where you stand.”

“Why, where I have always stood.”

“You know what I mean.”

He turned then, his eyes unreadable behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “What do you want, Selene?”

“You know what I want. Space and time to rebuild, without having all the Houses at my throat.”

Asmodeus smiled. “You lost a game, Selene, not the war. The days of destroying Houses are over. What would I gain by gutting Silverspires?”

“You seemed quite happy to help,” Emmanuelle said, quite pointedly.

“To help you fall? Of course,” Asmodeus said. He put on his white gloves again, taking an exaggeratedly long time; finger by finger, with the elegance of a pianist stretching before a concert. “As I said, my position hasn’t changed.”

“I’m sorry,” Selene said, finally. “About Samariel.”

His face didn’t move. “We declared the matter closed, I should think. But thank you.” He turned again toward the door. “I won’t interfere, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I see,” Selene said. She didn’t. She didn’t understand him at all; never had.