The House of Shattered Wings

MADELEINE took a deep breath and forced herself to look at Oris’s corpse.

He lay in the abandonment of Aragon’s hospital room, opened up from neck to pubis to the searching of scalpels and scrapers; the inner organs taken out, labeled and weighed by the nurses; the face bloodless and staring upward, with a faint tinge of blue under the eyes.

There was something . . . utterly final about Fallen corpses, some irretrievable loss of lightness, of grace—the skin going blotchier, the hair losing its luster, everything suddenly becoming squatter, heavier—the mortal world’s final act of catching up, its final embrace and good-bye, a Fall more definite and eternal than their original one. What lay on the cold metal table, under the ceiling of the H?tel-Dieu, was Oris, but Oris stripped of everything that had made him such a joy to behold; and only God knew if there was a soul, or where it had gone.

She would never again reprove him for not knowing what to do; or discuss his latest translation from ancient Greek, and argue with him over whether Fallen were exempt of the original sin—half-amused, half-angry, discussing a theology she only had scant time for. She’d always had scant time for Oris—had always fought her annoyance at him, wishing he would stop asking her questions and just get on with things.

She had always had scant time for him, and now there was no time left. None at all; and he was forever gone; forever out of reach—not until the Resurrection and its breaking open of tombs, a thought that was as much dread as it was comfort, for what would God think of Fallen, there at the end of time?

Watch over him, she thought, to her uncaring, cruel God—the one whose existence she couldn’t deny, but in whom she had no faith. Please, watch over him.

Her fault. Her own fault, for not believing him, for reassuring him that his nighttime experience had been an illusion, that he need not worry about anything; for concealing his fears from Selene because she’d been afraid of being exposed as an angel-essence user.

Coward.

Selene was standing by her side, staring at the corpse; as usual, effortlessly elegant, effortlessly arrogant. Behind her, her bodyguards leaned against the wall of the room; and the nurses were folding used sheets and clearing a table; laying on a tray the scalpels Aragon had used, and everything that had touched Oris. One of them—Pauline, the big woman with the gentle touch—smiled at Madeleine apologetically.

Of course. Of course, the tray was for her, the alchemist of Silverspires. Not one drop of blood would be wasted; the way of life in all Houses, the only one she had ever known. Madeleine took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling of her hands—trying to make the blurred world swim back into focus.

Without warning, Pauline was by her side, laying a callused hand on her shoulder. “You all right?” she asked.

Madeleine shook her head, trying to swallow the salty taste in her mouth. “I’ll—be fine,” she said, and Pauline shook her head.

“Of course you won’t.” Pauline squeezed again—a little painfully, but not unkindly. “Come by the office later, if you want. We have strong stuff.” Alcohol, of course; Cointreau or chartreuse or pastis: a pleasant way to pass the time, but not what she wanted or needed. The ache for angel essence was enough to make her hands shake—she couldn’t afford that, not now. She took a deep breath, and stilled their trembling.

“Thanks,” Madeleine said.

Pauline smiled, and withdrew.

Behind her, Selene and Aragon were getting on; of course there was no time for something so trivial, so insignificant as grief. “He was found in the cathedral?” Selene asked Aragon.

“Arms spread, clothes torn,” Aragon said, curtly. He removed his gloves and surgical mask; the magic that had been surging through him flickered and died, leaving the room a little less warm, a little less oppressive.

It was a small audience for an autopsy: Emmanuelle and Selene were there; and Madeleine, of course. Oris had been her apprentice, her responsibility.

“What did he die of?” Madeleine asked.

Aragon stood ramrod straight, putting her, incongruously, in mind of a soldier reporting to his commander. “Difficult to say. There’s nothing wrong with him, per se. The major organs are intact—everything is clean, or at least as clean as it can be for a Fallen of his age.”

“But he’s dead,” Emmanuelle said, from her place by the door. Her face was set in stone; her skin pale; her hands clenched in front of her, so tight blood had fled her fingertips. It was her, years ago, who had welcomed Oris into the House; who had seen him grow from a naive Fallen into an infuriating apprentice alchemist.

“Yes,” Aragon said. “He is dead.”