The House of Shattered Wings

“There—” Philippe opened his mouth, and then shut it. It was hard to argue, in the face of her faith—as pure and as incandescent as a falling star. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, slowly. It was a lie, a mad dream; but it was in his belly like warm rice; like a comfort he’d forgotten, years and years ago.

Isabelle said, as if utterly oblivious of the struggle within him, “I asked Selene.”

“About what?”

“Lifting the spell.”

“You—” He was going to say she was insane, and then measured the import of what she’d said. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Isabelle shrugged. “She wouldn’t listen. She smiled and patted me on the head, as if I were a child.”

You are a child, Philippe thought—but he could feel her in his mind; could feel her anger—that pure, sharp rage of the young at injustice. His heart twinged, in his chest, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what he could tell her.

“That’s not what I meant.” And, because he owed her something, anything, in return, even if it was worthless fancies, he added, “I get those flashes, sometimes. Those traces of something familiar, almost as if I only had to turn a corner to be home. It’s . . . not a pleasant feeling.” The cathedral; Aragon’s office—impossible dreams that he should be adult enough to set aside.

Isabelle’s gaze was disturbingly shrewd. “Sometimes, dreams are true things.”

“Not these ones,” Philippe said; and thought of the other ones; the suffocating nightmares about the darkness; his waking drenched in sweat, breathing hard, as if he’d run ahead of a tiger in its own territory.

These ones, too, had to be false—please, Heaven, let them be false.

*

“SELENE?”

Emmanuelle came into Selene’s office, carrying a stack of books—one that was so large it threatened to dwarf her.

“Oh dear,” Selene said. “What are those?” She got up from behind her desk, helped Emmanuelle divest herself of some of the books, before the whole precariously balanced pile fell down.

“Lady Selene?”

“Oh.” Behind Emmanuelle—equally dwarfed by a pile of books, although in this case it was a much shorter one—was Caroline, the six-year-old daughter of two dependents of the House. “Here, let me help.”

Caroline shook her head. “I can do it,” she said, walking slowly but with determination to the desk—where she attempted to put the entire pile of books in one go, with predictable results.

The noise the books made when they tumbled onto the parquet must have woken up the entire House. “Sorry.” Caroline shook her head and picked up the books, one by one—standing on tiptoe to reach the desk and lining them all up one by one.

Emmanuelle watched her, trying very hard to suppress a smile. “She insisted on helping.”

“I see.” Selene considered the books while Caroline continued her ever-widening invasion of her desk. “My Three Years in Annam by Gabrielle Vasseur, Annamite Myths and Legends by Antony Landes. You’ve been busy, I see.”

“I thought I’d keep you busy,” Emmanuelle said. “Since the examination was unsuccessful . . .” She didn’t sound altogether grieved about that. Selene wasn’t sure why she gave so much leeway to Philippe—had she forgotten what the young man had done, so readily?

She was right, however: Aragon’s examination had been singularly unsuccessful. Philippe’s blood, examined under Aragon’s microscopes, appeared nothing more than human. His lungs were quite free of the rot she associated with angel essence (she hadn’t thought he was an essence addict, but one never knew); in fact, they were surprisingly healthy, even for a young man—Aragon’s face had been creased into something almost like surprise when he gave her the results. All that remained was this strong, unexplained magic that he seemed to wield as easily as he breathed.

“All done!” Caroline stood, proudly. Behind her, the desk was covered in books—she’d been too small to make piles of more than two or three, and had had to expand to either side—a good thing Selene hadn’t yet sorted out the paperwork on her desk, because Caroline had pushed things left and right to fit the books where she could, heedless of whether that disturbed anything.

“Very good,” Emmanuelle said, while Selene made a deliberate effort not to step forward and pile everything properly. “Now go find Choérine, will you?”

“Thank you,” Selene said gravely to the little girl.

Caroline nodded. “I’ll tell all my friends I helped you with House business, Lady Selene!”

To which Selene had no answer; except watching the little girl rush away while Emmanuelle struggled not to laugh. “She means well.”

“I know.” Selene smiled, then gathered all the books into a pile, which she slid onto one corner of her desk, atop the older reports, the ones she always put off reading. “I presume you didn’t come just to deliver books.”

“Of course not,” Emmanuelle said. “Knowing you . . .” She pulled a chair, and sat down. “Consider they come with a reading guide. You asked about Annam, and what it was like.”