The House of Shattered Wings

Asmodeus’s entourage had almost cleared the bridge: they had finished negotiating with the guards at the booth that guarded Pont-au-Double. He saw her then, bowed gravely, without a trace of irony, and turned right into the heart of the food market. Madeleine was surprised to realize her fingers had clenched into fists.

Breathe. She had to breathe. He had seen her, and turned away. She had nothing to fear from him: it was just her memories of that time that wouldn’t be banished. He had no interest in her, no grudge: she had been among the lowliest of the low in Hawthorn, and he must have been barely aware that she existed. And then, with a feeling of dread that pulled her bowels into knots, she remembered that he did know who she was. Else why would he have bowed to her?

Surely he—

Her gaze, roaming through the market—somewhere, anywhere she wouldn’t have to look at him again—fell on the rear of the procession, where three of the escort had stopped for a moment while one of them readjusted the straps on a large basket; which, judging from the movements from inside, probably contained some large, live animal. The first two were the kind of pale, faded women Asmodeus enjoyed having around; the third one, head bent over the basket, was a brown-haired man. . . .

No.

There was something—something in the tilt of his head, something in the bearing of his body . . .

And, having finished with his work, he raised his head, and she saw.

He, too, hadn’t changed much: he was perhaps younger, less hardened, with the particular mix of innocence and agelessness of newly manifested Fallen. But the face—she would have known that anywhere.

Elphon. Oh God, Elphon.

It was impossible. Elphon was dead. She had seen him die; had felt his heart stutter and stop, seen the radiance fade from his translucent skin until there was nothing left but dead meat. Then, weeping, she had started the long crawl that would lead her to Silverspires and Morningstar’s arms.

Surely it was another Fallen; surely . . .

He rose, precariously balancing the basket against his waist, and smiled at his two companions, in a way that was engraved into her memory.

No. That wasn’t possible. The dead did not walk the earth again; not even dead Fallen.

“Wait here,” she said to the others, and elbowed her way through the crowd of Pont-au-Double, struggling to reach the little group before they moved away from her. By the time she caught up with them in front of a fowler’s stall, her ruined lungs were protesting; and, at the worst possible moment—when she stood in front of them—a bout of coughing racked her body and left her, wrung, to stand in their path.

“Excuse me,” she said.

They looked at her, puzzled. The older woman pinched her lips as if noting the unkempt state of Madeleine’s dress, or her hoarse voice, or both. “You’re the alchemist for Silverspires?” the woman said at last. “What can we do for you?”

“Can I speak to your friend?” Madeleine asked, pointing to the Fallen who looked like Elphon.

The woman shrugged. “If you want. Elphon?”

Madeleine’s heart skipped a beat; seemed to remain suspended in her chest in an agony of stillness. But when Elphon looked up, there was nothing but mild interest in his eyes. “Good morning,” Elphon said, looking at her with puzzlement. “What can I do for you?”

Show some hint of recognition. Something, anything that would explain why he was there—why he still bore the same name, still behaved the same, but he didn’t recognize her. “How long have you been in Hawthorn?”

Elphon shrugged; and even that gesture was heartbreakingly familiar, a dim but treasured memory from the depths of the past. “A few months,” he said. “Lord Asmodeus found me near Les Halles.”

A few months? That was impossible. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Elphon’s voice was mild, but it was clear he was wondering about her sanity. So was Madeleine. This conversation could in no way be described as sane. “Are you trying to recruit me to Silverspires? I assure you I’m already spoken for.”

“No, of course not,” Madeleine said, feeling the blush start somewhere in her cheeks and climb, burning, to her forehead. “I wouldn’t dare. It’s just . . . I knew someone very much like you, once.”

“Some Fallen look very much alike to mortals,” Elphon said, with a tight smile. He hefted his basket, and made to rejoin his companions. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . Lord Asmodeus will be expecting us, and he has little patience for tardiness.”

“I have no doubt.” Asmodeus had little patience for anything. He’d chafed enough, in what he viewed as an inferior position in Hawthorn; had waited just long enough to be certain of his coup. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” Madeleine said. “It seems I was mistaken.”

Elphon bowed—low, old-fashioned, the same bow he’d used to make to her, all those years ago, half in mockery, half in earnest. “There’s no harm in it. Good-bye, my lady.”