The House of Shattered Wings

HOUSE Lazarus stood a few hundred meters west of the Grands Magasins, though the contrast could not have been greater. The House had cleared its own surroundings. The streets were grime-splattered, the buildings stained with the black of magical residue, but everything was clear of debris: the railings freshly painted a shade of dark green, the clock on the frontispiece on time and chiming the quarter hours, and every window of the building decorated with elegant baize curtains. There were even a few cars parked in the large plaza in front of the House—though, judging by their worn-out appearance, they were more likely to belong to minor Houses or wealthy independents. Then again, Madeleine wasn’t sure how she’d have reacted, if she’d seen one of House Hawthorn’s big limousines parked in front of the House.

She’d taken one of the city’s large omnibuses; clutching the bag with the tools of her trade against her, enduring the suspicious gazes of her neighbors as they wondered why a House-bound would bother to take a horse-drawn, communal vehicle.

There were no guards at the main entrance; or, to be more accurate, no one who challenged her as she made her way under the wide arches of the House’s central building. House Lazarus prided itself on welcoming anyone in need, though that didn’t mean anyone could go wherever they wanted within the House. The relaxed attitude hid powerful defenses. Every House was a fortress guarded by spells and men. They had to be; otherwise they wouldn’t last long in the city.

The lower floor of House Lazarus was a wide, airy hall. The founder, Eugénie, had wished for it to be a place of sharing where the entire House could congregate, Fallen and mortals alike. In design it somewhat resembled the nearby Saint-Lazare station: a series of metal arches supporting a low roof, and long trestle tables where the rails would have been—each table divided in several segments where people dispensed anything from food to medical help. It was the heart of House Lazarus’s network of safe houses, the place everyone received their supplies or their attribution of beds or rooms, according to their needs. Philippe, apparently, had gone through there, too, which was unexpected; and even more unexpected was that he knew Claire. What was their relationship, exactly?

The queues were as busy as ever—watched over by what seemed like an army of guards. As Madeleine made her way to the right—where stairs led to the more private part of the building—there was a commotion—a scuffle, a burst of magic, and a brief scream, soon cut off. Someone had tried to cut ahead, or to steal something; and now lay dead on the floor. Claire ran a tight House, where there was no place for disorder.

Madeleine approached the guards leaning casually against the metal pillars—they tensed, slightly, when they saw her. “I’m from House Silverspires, and I need to see Lady Claire,” Madeleine said, without preamble. Diplomacy had never been her forte, and she wasn’t about to try it now.

The left-hand guard looked her up and down. He had opened his mouth for a dismissal, when his neighbor nudged him. “She’s their alchemist, Eric. Don’t you think—”

Eric bit back an obvious swearword, and gestured her toward the foot of the staircase. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll send someone for Lady Claire. But she’s busy, mind you—and I’m sure she has no time for the likes of you, alchemist or no alchemist.”

Madeleine sat down on the first step, clutching her bag. It was silly, but the weight of familiar tools reassured her. Going to another House was very much entering enemy territory, even if House Lazarus was friendly by House standards.

She tried not to think of Oris—of his face, shrunken and distorted in death; of her hands, saving flesh and nails and blood; parting skin to reveal red, glistening muscles underneath, peeling back everything that had made him—and nowhere could she see his smile, or his infuriating habit of hovering nearby, or the way he’d had of taking tea in the laboratory, drinking the dust-covered liquid as if nothing were amiss. . . .

She would not cry. She had spent all her tears on Elphon, a long time ago; had crawled away from Hawthorn, her wounds weeping blood. All her grieving was done, a thing of the past—or should have been of the past.

Oh, Oris . . .

Now, when Madeleine looked up in her laboratory, she saw Isabelle; reaching for a bowl or a mirror with a frown on her face; carrying a precariously balanced pile of books from one end of the room to the other—trying to put order in Madeleine’s things, she’d said with a smile.

She meant well, and yet Madeleine wanted to scream at her; to shake her until she understood whose place she was taking, whose memories she was driving out. It was unfair and unkind, but she couldn’t help it.

The walls of the staircase had been painted with a long frieze, which seemed to depict the history of the House from its founding. It was a short history, as Lazarus was barely older than the Great War, and a painful one—Eugénie had died in one of the first skirmishes, almost causing the House to vanish before it could even find its place in the hierarchy of the city. But Claire and her predecessor had worked miracles.

“Miss d’Aubin?”

Madeleine got up, staring at a young girl dressed in the brown and green of the House. “Lady Claire will see you now.”