The House of Shattered Wings

He had an assignation—that might as well be an order—from Samariel.

He couldn’t focus. He hadn’t learned anything since his first interview with Samariel—drafted into moving tables, washing cloths, preparing dishes in the kitchens. All he knew was that one of Morningstar’s apprentices had left a curse on the House; that he had somehow become part of it, carrying memories that might be crucial to understanding it. But that wasn’t something he could tell Samariel; there was no hold over Silverspires, no way to understand what was going on, when and under what rules it would strike—if it would strike at all, since so far its only effect looked to be the taking over of his memory.

He ought to stay in: to follow his own advice to Isabelle, and his own growing sense that something was wrong. He had been right: it wasn’t a night to be out. He should make his excuses to Samariel, and walk the safe path.

But he couldn’t.

He got up and wrapped himself in one of the heavy woolen cloaks Emmanuelle had given him—not only because the House was freezing at night, but also because it might prevent someone from recognizing him.

At this hour, the corridors in his wing of the House were deserted; though, as he came nearer to the apartments for the other Houses, he heard muffled conversations behind closed doorways: this part of the House, at least, didn’t sleep.

But, as he walked through the corridors, the shadow rose again—questing, sniffing the air for its prey. He quickened his pace, throwing glances left and right, hoping to catch it; but darkness slid across the walls, spreading wings; and the air became unbearably clammy and moist, tightening in his lungs until he could hardly breathe. He started running then; though of course there was no outpacing it.

*

MADELEINE couldn’t sleep. She’d spent most of the reception behind one of the room’s pillars, talking to Aragon and praying that Asmodeus would not turn his head her way; and had only blurred memories of the dinner. She’d seen him and Elphon from afar; had seen Elphon, sitting by his master’s side, in the place of a favored bodyguard; had seen him laugh at some jest of Asmodeus’s, as though nothing was wrong.

How could he?

It wasn’t hard, to get down from her bedroom; not hard, to let her hands roam into the drawers she kept locked; not hard to inhale angel essence and feel its fire expand into the hollow of her belly.

She closed her eyes, and let the power wash over her: the tingling sensation in her fingers; the sharp taste on her tongue; the sensation that she could cast any spell, pay any price demanded by magic; that the world lay at her feet, hers for the taking.

Was this what it felt like, to be Fallen? To know that anything you did or said was saturated with that magic—magic that would kill a man, reduce him to the bloated husks she’d seen in Claire’s morgue—the harbingers of her own fate, when her lungs finally gave out. Not that she cared. All that mattered was feeling safe, now, forever.

Safe. That was what Morningstar had said, when she first met him, bowing low to her, unfailingly courteous even though she was just a minor dependent of Hawthorn. “I hope you enjoy what you see here.” And when she remained silent, too awestruck by his presence to speak, he’d smiled. “This is the first and greatest of Houses, Lady Madeleine. The safest place in Paris.”

At the time, she’d thought it courtesy, nothing more; had doubted whether he would even remember her name. But, nevertheless, for some reason she couldn’t quite place, the words had stuck with her; to be remembered when, shuddering, struggling to breathe through the pain of shattered ribs, she’d dragged herself out of Hawthorn, and into the deserted streets—toward Silverspires and the impossible hope of salvation. Wounded, bleeding, she had crawled rather than walked—every gesture sending a fresh wave of agony in her chest—and she had known, even then, that she wouldn’t make it; even before the world began to waver and fold itself into darkness. She had known that death was the only possible end of the journey.

She’d heard the footsteps, then; slow and measured; had felt the presence that seemed to distort everything with its warmth; had felt him bend down, picking her up in his arms, and starting to walk. Then all was darkness, until she’d woken up in the H?tel-Dieu with Aragon’s face looming over her; and started the long, painful apprenticeship that saw her rise from mediocre kitchenhand to apprentice alchemist, and later mistress of the laboratory.

That night, that lambent, bloody night, was the last time anyone had seen Morningstar; and she herself the last person he had met. After he had left her on the hospital’s doorstep, unseen, he had taken his sword and his wings, and walked out of the House he had founded; and never come back. He was dead; had to be, and Selene had to know more than she let on—why else would she rule Silverspires in her own name?