The House of Shattered Wings

Philippe nodded. “Not such a great view. You should go out more: in Notre-Dame, or around the market plaza.”


“Oh, indeed.” Samariel’s fingers rested, lightly, on Philippe’s wrist, like the points of claws. “That’s an idea. But at night, I think it best that I stay there, and enjoy what might happen in the House. Silverspires is . . . such an interesting place.” He smiled again, and withdrew his hand; and wandered away as if nothing had happened. But he’d been clear; too clear, in fact—Philippe turned around, unsure if anyone was watching. There was only the usual crowd. A middle-aged woman—Lazarus’s alchemist, Anna, if he recalled correctly—was talking earnestly to a tall, red-haired Fallen from House Harrier, but neither of them appeared to have paid attention to him.

Where was Isabelle—? No, he didn’t need to worry about her: her presence was a white-hot brand at the back of his neck, the same link that had drawn her to him when he met Samariel for the first time; the awareness that they were bound together even more tightly than he was bound to the House. He found himself walking through the crowd, until he reached a corner of the room; where she stood talking to Claire, a frown on her face.

Unfair. She was no match for Claire.

Claire was dressed in a low-cut black dress with golden flecks and the outline of a deer: a revealing confection that was meant for a much younger woman, but trust Claire to carry it off. She positively glowed—with a bit of Fallen magic, quite probably, and also with a sharp happiness that made him wary. All the heads of Houses looked like tigers who’d just caught prey—which boded ill for Silverspires.

He shouldn’t have cared; not about a House that kept him prisoner, a House that he’d agreed to betray. But if Silverspires fell it would be like House Draken all over again: running away in the darkness and clutching his wounds, hunting in the blackened streets of Paris for food and magic and knowing that the Houses held all of it. “Lady Claire,” he said, bowing.

Claire smiled. “Why, Philippe. How . . . uncharacteristic of you to interfere in another House’s affairs.”

Still angry at him, then; but he wasn’t surprised.

Isabelle relaxed a fraction when he appeared, although she threw him a sharp glance that told him she hadn’t forgotten about her threat to inform Selene. The three days she’d given him had passed; he’d waited, fearfully, for Selene to turn up at the door of his room, but nothing had happened. Perhaps she already had told Selene; but if that had been the case, why was he still at liberty, and not imprisoned somewhere under the House?

“I was asking Isabelle about happenings in Silverspires,” Claire said.

Isabelle looked ill at ease—Philippe could guess the sort of sharp, pointed questions Claire would make, trying to see what Selene was thinking; where she could gain the advantage. And he wasn’t sure how much Isabelle knew—how much Emmanuelle and the others had told her.

“I see,” he said. “I didn’t know it was such an interesting topic.”

“Oh, Philippe. Everyone is talking about Silverspires tonight. And with good reason.” Claire smiled, that self-deprecating expression that made her look like a harmless old lady. It didn’t fool Philippe for one moment. “Wondering what Selene will have thought of to entertain us.” Her gaze wandered through the room, encompassing the faded peonies on the wallpaper; the dull color of the mahogany tables. She didn’t need to say what was on her mind.

“People died,” Isabelle said sharply. “It’s not entertainment.”

Claire smiled. “Of course not. Death is a serious matter.”

Philippe doubted that she meant it. “What do you want, Claire?”

Claire’s gaze narrowed. “You’ve changed, Philippe. I never thought you’d be quite so . . . domesticated. What do you owe Silverspires?”

“A roof over his head. Protection,” Isabelle said, in a low but firm voice.

“Gratitude?” Claire laughed. “That’s for the young and the naive. You’ll learn better in time, I expect.”

Isabelle, pale and flustered, looked as though she was going to say something. Don’t, Philippe thought. He sought her gaze; locked with it. Go away, he mouthed. At least he was used to fencing with Claire.

Thankfully, she took the hint. “I . . . have business elsewhere,” she said, and retreated through the crowd—Philippe saw Emmanuelle swoop from the conversation she was in and steer her toward the buffet. Good.

Now it was just him and Claire, and Claire was smiling widely. “Your pet, Philippe? You didn’t use to be . . . so altruistic.”