The House of Shattered Wings

“Mmm,” Madeleine said. She considered her options. He seemed worried, but not as bone-deep frightened as she’d been—was what she’d seen a hallucination induced by angel essence?

On the one hand, she emphatically didn’t want to be there when it came back; but on the other . . . with it gone, she couldn’t investigate further. She could take it up with Selene, but then there was a risk—a not insignificant one—that Selene would see she was on essence. “It won’t come back.”

Oris grimaced. “I don’t want it coming back, Madeleine. You saw it.”

“I did,” Madeleine said, doing her best to keep her voice level. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Are you . . .” Oris hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Madeleine said, with a glibness she didn’t feel, “It’s an old House. Not everything in it is entirely savory. You should know.” God knew Morningstar had had his share of darkness.

“I . . .” Oris frowned. “I guess I do?”

“You’ll be fine,” Madeleine said. “It’s gone. And if it does come back, you can call me. Anytime. I’ll come. Promise.”

She could feel Oris wavering—he trusted her and her opinions, and she seemed confident enough to sway him. She wished she felt as confident as she appeared to him.

“Look. Why don’t I stay here awhile tonight, and we’ll see what happens?”

It was a mark of how desperate Oris was that he readily acquiesced to this, without even a show of protesting.

But at the end of the night, there was no trace of whatever had frightened him out of his wits, nor could any of Madeleine’s spells detect any trace of an intruder. “Let me know if it comes back,” she said, as she left the room and went back to her own quarters for some much-needed rest.

Oris didn’t see anything the next day, or the next night, or for the next week. By then, Madeleine had lulled herself into thinking they’d just had a hallucination; or seen the last of a stray spell from the war, which had finally spent itself in manifesting to Oris. She went through the routine of her days at Silverspires: collecting breath and nail clippings from Fallen and making artifacts out of them; teaching the children in the House’s school the bases of alchemy—and through the routines of her nights, too, inhaling angel essence and glorying in its futile rush of power.





FOUR


MARKET OF BETRAYALS


PHILIPPE found Aragon in his office, reading a file yellowed by age. How old was Aragon, really? All he had told Philippe was that he owed Morningstar a debt, and this was the reason why he gave part of his time to Silverspires, taking away from his valuable practice—it had no small value, to be an independent doctor in a polarized city.

Aragon’s office was a small room that looked like a cross between church stalls and hospital: the lower half of the walls was covered with wooden panels, while the upper half bore a thick layer of white paint, over which Aragon had aligned pictures and paintings. The room had a faint, unpleasant smell—a remnant of bleach or some other chemical, mingling with the heady one of wood varnish.

Beside Aragon was Emmanuelle, who gave him an embarrassed smile. “Selene told me to report on the exam.” She, too, had a file in her hands. She didn’t sound altogether happy, or approving.

Aragon nodded, curtly, at Philippe. They’d been observing each other warily in the weeks that had preceded, and had had a few desultory exchanges, nothing particularly deep or meaningful.

“Sit here,” Aragon said, pointing to an examination table covered with a white sheet. “I will come in a moment.”

Emmanuelle pulled her chair away into the farthest corner, staring at the images of human bodies on the wall—there was a cross section of lungs, accompanied by information on magical rot and on the nonexistent ways to prevent it; a detailed anatomy of a Fallen, compared point by point to a human, with peculiar emphasis on the muscles of the back—paying particular attention to the muscle pairs that had been used for lifting and pulling down wings; and a detailed map of Paris, charting the points of greatest magical pollution.

After a while, Aragon closed the file. “So,” he said. “A complete exam. Selene seems to think I have time to waste.”

“You certainly took your time humoring her,” Emmanuelle said, with a tight smile. “It’s been weeks.”

“I had other things to do,” Aragon said, stiffly.

Emmanuelle shrugged. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”

Aragon didn’t deign to answer.

“She doesn’t like insolence. Or mysteries.”

That last was clearly directed at Philippe. Mysteries. As if he were a thing, to be prodded and analyzed; and then he realized that, to Selene, he might well be.

The arrogance of her . . .