The House of Shattered Wings

She’d asked him to join the House, seeing him as an asset worth having; even without knowing about his powers, she had seen a sharp, keen mind and the skills that had enabled him to survive on the streets for months. Like Selene, she’d seen him as a puzzle to be cracked; and as with Selene, he had refused her. She had never forgiven him. “She’s my friend,” Philippe said.

“You didn’t used to have friends, either. Or should I say you were very bad with other people’s overtures?” Claire said. “So powerful, and yet so young and frightened. By the time she masters her own powers, they’ll have diminished so much she won’t be much use. Perhaps that’s the world’s way of making sure Fallen don’t rule us all.”

“You mean, more than they do now? What part of the city do they not run? Lazarus?” It was unwise to bait her, but he couldn’t help it.

“Lazarus is their equal,” Claire said. “If anyone is under siege—not, of course, that you’ll care; you never have—it’s you, Philippe.”

He was going to say something—something smart, something biting—when he looked at her hands—wrinkled and pale, loaded with expensive rings—and the darkness rose within him—a flash of something that tightened in his flesh, until he was staring at Claire’s hands again—some of the same rings, but clearly the hands of a younger woman. She was holding the mirror; the polished pool of obsidian they’d found under the throne, except that the paper around it was brand-new, the ink still glistening in the light of a lamp Philippe couldn’t see . . .

What?

Another memory—another vision of the past? Had Claire handled the mirror at some point? She was mortal—no more than sixty, seventy years old, and the hands he’d seen weren’t those of a young woman.

“You’ve been here before,” Philippe said, slowly, carefully—the vision with the mirror wavering, fading—replaced by something else, a haze that seemed to descend over the room, a thin layer where everything was pristine, everything cast in light . . .

With all his strength, he willed the vision to go away—he couldn’t afford to let Claire see him distracted, to let her even guess at the enormity of what he was carrying with him.

“Of course I have been here before,” Claire said. “Heads of Houses do visit other Houses.” Her voice was low, condescending; but she held his gaze—wondering what was happening.

“The cathedral,” Philippe whispered, trying to ignore the way the entire room seemed to shift.

All you hold dear will be shattered; all that you built will fall into dust; all that you gathered will be borne away by the storm. . . .

“What of it?” Claire shrugged. “It’s a lovely place. Well, it used to be—like so many things, it’s fallen into disarray since the war. Selene should clean her House.”

“Of what?” Philippe asked.

Claire shook her head. “Of the rot at its heart.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he spat, but he did know. His gaze moved, to encompass the guests on the floor; the little knots of elegant conversation; the sea of colorful dresses and swallowtailed coats; the expectant faces those of predators awaiting the right time to pounce, everyone gossiping and making careful approaches, trying to see who stood where.

In his vision, the peonies on the wall were a vivid pink, a color so pure it almost hurt the eyes; the smell wasn’t that of humidity and mold, but the sharp one of new paint; and people in old-fashioned clothes mingled by a buffet much as this one—save that the room was brightly lit, and that he who cast such light was standing by the buffet, raising a jeweled glass to study the wine contained within, with the effortless grace and contained power that made him the center of attention. . . .

No, not now. Not. Now.

Philippe closed his eyes. When he opened them again the vision had receded, though a hint of Morningstar’s presence still hung over the room—a reflected, shadowy glory that only drove home how shabby everything had become. Claire was right; they had diminished so much.

Good. They were his enemies, and he wouldn’t allow himself to forget for even one moment.

Claire was gone, and he was alone in a slowly widening circle of people. Before anyone could engage him in more inane conversation, he moved toward the buffet, grabbing a cocktail piece at random: something with shrimp imported all the way from Brest or Guérande—the price of this alone would ruin Silverspires more surely than the rival Houses.

Philippe was about to head over to the seating plan when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something creeping across one of the room’s huge mirrors. When he turned, there was nothing. Puzzled, he took a few steps; and again something noiselessly slid past, this time in the facets of the empty crystal glasses. Nothing again when he turned; though this time, when he moved again, he was ready for it.