The House of Shattered Wings

PHILIPPE went to see Isabelle, afterward—to check up on her, ensure that she was still around. He wasn’t sure why, but the interview—and Aragon’s promise—had left him shaken, no longer sure of what he ought to do.

He found her in the kitchens, stubbornly trying to handle a wet, sticky dough under the amused gaze of Laure. “She’s getting better at this,” Laure said to Philippe when he arrived. Her husband, Gauthier, was nearby, showing two junior cooks how to prepare flaky pastry for bouchées à la reine. “Though still a bit of a disaster, if you ask me.”

Philippe forced a smile he didn’t feel. Laure was kind, and he couldn’t fault her; but right now he couldn’t handle another House dependent—except for Isabelle.

Isabelle was kneading the dough as if it had personally offended her—bits and pieces of it were clinging to her fingers, the work surface—and even her hair.

“I take it the lesson with Choérine didn’t go well,” Philippe said. He didn’t really need to see the state of the dough; this close, he could feel her frustration through the link—strong enough that it drowned everything.

Isabelle snorted. “Just tiring,” she said. “She wanted me to hold a spell for a long time—and it’s hard.”

“You’ll get it, eventually.” The small things were always harder—especially for a Fallen whose raw power was too strong, too uncontrolled.

“Of course. Choérine said it could take time, with . . . young Fallen. How did the exam with Aragon go?”

Philippe shrugged, with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Not as bad as it could have gone.”

She looked at him for a while. “Performing like a circus animal? Did that make you happy?”

Again, that odd mixture of na?veté and shrewdness—thrown around with the subtlety of a club. “I suppose not.”

Isabelle tore the dough back from the wooden table, stared at it for a while. “Laure says there’ll be financiers for dessert tonight. With real almonds. I can beg some if you want.”

Philippe suppressed a smile. “Trying to distract me with food?”

“Trying to distract both of us,” Isabelle said, sharply—clearly still unhappy about the lesson with Choérine. “What do you think?”

“Of course,” Philippe said. He was never quite sure of what to tell her—already, she moved in a world different from his—a world of magic lessons and etiquette courses, while he got taken apart by Aragon and Emmanuelle—observed, to see what he could do; what his value as a weapon was.

But it wasn’t going to last, not if Aragon kept his word.

“Do you miss home?” Isabelle asked.

He shrugged again. From her—from her face, and the faint link between them—only concern. “It was a long time ago.”

“Liar.”

He couldn’t put it into words. “I can’t return,” he said, at last, and that was true.

“Because of the Fallen?” Isabelle asked.

Because . . . “Because of the Houses, yes. Because there are no boats left, except for dependents. Because, even if I did get on board one, the Jade Emperor—you would call him God, I suppose, if God was in Annam—wouldn’t accept me back.” He left it at that; didn’t mention offenses that were never forgiven—what was the point? It was, as he had told her, a long time ago in another land.

“The Jade Emperor.” She rolled the name on her tongue, as if it were some foreign, exotic ingredient. “Does he rule over Annam?”

“No, of course not,” Philippe said, bitterly. “That would be the Fallen.”

“I mean, before the Fallen.”

“He . . . is the guardian of Heaven,” Philippe said. “The keeper of Heaven’s will and its closest personification. But no, he doesn’t rule over mortals. Just over spirits. The mountain spirits, the dragons, the village protectors . . . they all bow down to him.”

“But you’re not a spirit,” Isabelle said. “So you could come back. Just not in his court.”

“I wanted to,” Philippe said. “Even if I didn’t really know what kind of life I’d have, back there.” He hadn’t really had time to get adjusted to his exile from court before the Fallen swooped in—but he’d had a life as a mortal, once—had tasted rice and fish sauce and all the sweetness of banquets; had once known contentment as he’d rounded the bluff and seen his home, with the smell of jasmine wafting from the door. He was still Immortal enough that his body didn’t age, that his powers didn’t fade; but . . . “I suppose I could,” he said, finally. “Do something else, be different from what I was—before.” It was an absurd, childish idea, but Isabelle’s matter-of-fact tone made it all seem real.

Isabelle watched him for a while. “You should,” she said fiercely. “There will be boats. Maybe not today, but tomorrow or in five years, or in a decade, and you’ll find one you can board.”