The House of Shattered Wings

Who was also dead.

A terribly convenient coincidence, if it was a coincidence at all.

“That’s an awful lot of questions,” Emmanuelle said. Her eyes narrowed. “Why the curiosity?”

Demons take him; he’d pushed her too far. He couldn’t let her press further; she was perceptive enough to realize that he was hardly asking about Morningstar for the good of the House. “I guess I’m trying to understand Selene,” he said, falling back on the first excuse that came to mind.

Emmanuelle stared at him for a while, but he’d had lots of practice staring Ninon and Baptiste down. “I see,” she said. “Don’t get any ideas, Philippe. I’m not the pathway into her mind.”

“No,” he said, glibly, and left her staring at her book—going back to his biography of Morningstar.

*

ISABELLE found him, hours later, halfway through the book and not much more advanced. The names of Morningstar’s students were in there, all blurring together like glass on a windowpane: Hyacinth, Seraphina, Nightingale, Leander, Oris . . .

Hyacinth had been a minor mortal of the House, a laundry servant vaguely dissatisfied with his life but not overly power-hungry: after Morningstar was done with him, he’d risen to be the personal valet of a high-rank Fallen, and, insofar as Philippe could see, had remained in that position all his life. Seraphina had been found by Morningstar himself, on a night when he was prowling the city—lying weak and helpless in the wreck of the Arc de Triomphe, and taken in tow like a child until he had grown bored with her. Nightingale had been mortal: one of the House’s minor witches, noted for her wild theories about spells and her unorthodox way of doing magic—probably what had drawn Morningstar’s eye in the first place. Leander was mortal, too, and ambitious—unlike Nightingale, he had been steadily rising through the ranks, becoming one of the House’s foremost magicians, powerful enough to rival Fallen. And Oris . . . Oris had already been an alchemist’s assistant, and after Morningstar gave up on him, he’d simply gone back to his beloved artifacts and charged mirrors.

Without preamble, Isabelle pulled a wooden chair toward her, and sat facing him across the low table. “You owe me a few explanations.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

Isabelle shook her head. She wore pale clothes, which only emphasized the cast of her olive skin, and the mortar-and-pestle insignia of alchemists sat uneasily on her breast—skewed, showing large swaths of the adhesive patch that was meant to keep it in place. “I came here to listen,” she said. “Like what you were doing with House Hawthorn.”

Philippe set the book aside, and looked up. They were alone in this section of the library—where the bookshelves were half-empty; the books torn and stained, not painstakingly put back together by Emmanuelle’s hands; and the smell of rotten, wet things rather than comforting mustiness.

“That’s my own business,” he said at last.

Isabelle smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought I could trust you.”

He hadn’t seen her since the market—he’d have said she was avoiding him, but he was, too—not sure of what he could tell her.

“You’ve changed,” he said, slowly. “What has Madeleine done to you?”

She sat straight-backed—her skin a pale golden rather than the shade he was used to, but her bearing regal. “Madeleine? Nothing.”

“Oris—”

Her gaze remained steady. “I had to take Oris apart. Madeleine was trying not to cry the entire time. It wasn’t so bad for me—I didn’t really know him, after all.” She worried at the hole on her left hand; the two missing fingers—how did you scrape flesh and muscle from bone, with half a hand? Badly, he guessed.

“But it wasn’t easy. I’m sorry.” It was rote, and thoughtless, and it was the absolute wrong thing he could have said.

“You’re not. And don’t change the subject, please.”

What could he tell her? He ought to lie; ought to make life easier for himself; but staring into those wide, shining eyes that still reflected the light of the City, Philippe found himself unable to twist the truth. “I’m not House, Isabelle. I’m only here under duress. You know that.”

“So you want to escape.” There was no condemnation on her face; only an odd kind of thoughtfulness, as if she’d found a behavior she couldn’t quite explain. In a way, that was worse. “Into another House.”

“No,” Philippe said. Anywhere but Houses. Back on the streets, or into Annam—waiting, as she herself had said, for a boat, for regular traffic to resume, or security on maritime commerce to grow slack. “But I can’t stay here, not on Selene’s terms. You have to see that.”

“I do.” Isabelle’s voice was still thoughtful. “I do understand. But this can’t be the right way to go about it.”