The House of Shattered Wings

He could—no, demons take Isabelle—for a moment he’d had this mad dream she’d given him, that he could, somehow, go back to Annam, make a life for himself again, away from the pomp and decorum of the Jade Emperor’s court—again, that warm feeling in his belly, the beginnings of a hope he’d started to cling to but shouldn’t afford; of a dream he should lose faith in.

Samariel lifted his head again, to stare at the sky—his nostrils flared, though not a muscle of his face moved. Something. He’d smelled something?

Philippe looked up. The air was tight, as heavy as before a storm; the few birds overhead moved sluggishly, dwarfed by the dark clouds that covered the horizon.

Something was wrong. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“That’s a bargain, then,” Samariel said. “Until we meet again.” He bowed, as dapper and as lithe as ever, and withdrew, but not before Philippe had caught a glimpse of his hands—and the slight tightening of his fingers that marked wariness, or anger, or both.

He was alone in the courtyard, staring at the storm clouds gathering in the sky; and there was a pounding against his head, a slow dimming of the light as if something large and winged had flown across the sun; but the sun was already hidden, so it couldn’t be that.

With difficulty, he tore himself from the contemplation of the sky—and saw Isabelle, who stood at the entrance of the courtyard, a half smile on her lips.

“You—” How much had she seen? “Why are you here?”

“Because I felt what you were doing. Through the link.”

She smiled, her face smooth and innocent, and as deceptive as Samariel’s. “You could have trusted me. We had a bargain.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” The pounding was getting worse; that feeling of standing at the edge of an abyss.

“Liar,” Isabelle said. “I saw him leave. I caught some of what you were thinking.”

The link again—why was it much stronger in her—why could she read his mind sometimes, while he could only feel her in moments of calm and silence; or when they were physically close to each other?

“It’s no business of yours,” Philippe forced through clenched lips. “And nothing that need concern you.” She was part of the House; but how loyal was she? How much would she report to Selene?

She was there at the back of his mind; angry, scared for the House—and scared for him.

He’d have been afraid, too; if he didn’t feel so sick.

“Philippe? Is something wrong?”

But he wasn’t with her anymore; he stood in the courtyard, and the buildings around him had the warm golden color of limestone. The courtyard was packed with people: with the old-fashioned clothing he’d seen pictures of in Indochinese schools—the top hats, the swallowtails, the voluminous dresses and corsets.

He knew, even without turning around, that Morningstar would be by his side. The other’s presence had an intensity that seemed to distort the very air around him. He wore a top hat, too; and the wings were folded; though he still had the sword, which he leant on as if it were a gentleman’s cane.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? We stand at the pinnacle.” He smiled; and Philippe’s entire being was suffused with warmth. “This,” Morningstar said, pointing to the crowds and the buildings and the blue sky above, “this will last forever.”

No, it won’t, Philippe tried to say, but the words were stuck against his palate. You have a few decades, at the most, and then comes the war; and then comes the decline; and then you vanish, you become nothing, a figure in the history books. You become . . . lost.

And the darkness was within the blue sky, too—the flocks of white seagulls would soon drop dead from exhaustion, the storm clouds were gathering; the House itself was built on cracked foundations, on secrets and guilt and buried pain; the mirror was below the throne in the cathedral, and one day it would release its nightmares into the streets. . . .

“Philippe!”

Isabelle was shaking him. “What is wrong with you?”

Ash and blood on his lips: a memory of her blood, except it was dry and tasteless, and instead of giving him power it had drained him of all his strength. “I—” He struggled to breathe through parched lips. “We have to go.”

Isabelle did not question him as to why. “Where?” She pulled him upright with surprising strength in a body so slight. “Show me where.”

Philippe closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the world was still whirling around him, and the darkness was still rising from within him—as if he were the mirror, cracking from end to end. But it wasn’t a pall over everything—rather, it was intensely focused, as sharp and as heavy as a thrown spear.

“This way,” he said.