The House of Shattered Wings

“Confined to his rooms,” Emmanuelle said. “In any case, he can’t leave Silverspires. But I highly doubt Philippe would kill Samariel. What possible motive could he have for that?”


Madeleine and Isabelle, now both back in their rooms, had both reported to Selene about seeing the shadows in the laboratory, identifying them beyond doubt as responsible for the killings; and Isabelle had been adamant the original warning had come from Philippe. But it meant nothing—a warning moments before Samariel was attacked was utterly ineffective, and Selene couldn’t decide if that had been deliberate.

“I don’t know,” Selene said. “But he was with Oris, too. In any case, that’s not what’s most important now.”

Two things mattered now, both for the protection of Silverspires. The first, to prevent whatever it was from killing again. She had people searching the House from top to bottom; and Madeleine and Isabelle gathering the strongest artifacts and breath-infused mirrors, distributing them among the dependents of the House—whatever it was that was roaming the corridors, it had killed six people and left another one at the doors of death. Javier was coordinating search parties, trying to see if its lair lay within the House. But all of this would be for nothing if she couldn’t achieve the second thing—to placate the other heads of Houses before they took Silverspires apart as retribution for Samariel’s wounding.

“The Houses?” Emmanuelle asked. She raised her coat hangers again. “Tell me how you want to dress.”

Selene shook her head. “Not like this.” Those were the clothes of the past, the formal evening wear of the days before the war. There was no need to recall any of that today. “Bring me the turquoise dress. And the rest of the ensemble.”

After she was dressed, she looked at herself in the mirror: over the turquoise dress, she’d put on a long, embroidered silk tunic that closed at the neck with a single clasp. The tunic, made in Indochina and traded through Marseilles, was a vivid scarlet, embroidered with birds and plum flowers; and it came with a matching shawl of silk so fine it was almost transparent: like many things, a statement of wealth and power in a ruined world.

As if that would fool anyone but the weakest Houses. . . .

She let the shawl settle in the crooks of her arms, and peered critically at her reflection.

“You look dazzling,” Emmanuelle said.

“Ha,” Selene said. She didn’t feel dazzling; she felt small and frightened. “It’ll have to do.”

Emmanuelle reached out, and put a kiss on Selene’s lips. “You’ll do fine. I’m sure you will.”

She had to; there was no other choice. Squaring her shoulders, Selene went out of her office, to meet the heads of the other Houses.

*

THEY were all waiting for her in the ballroom, amid the cadavers of last night’s excesses: the tables lying bare without their magnificent clothes, the empty bottles and the glimmer of shattered glass, the faint smell of food and perfume, their mingling turning vaguely sickening.

Guy of Harrier, portly and his brown hair slick, with red highlights; Andrea, his wife, her dark eyes shining in the paleness of her face. Claire of Lazarus, for once without the posse of children that accompanied her—no, that wasn’t true; there was one with her, a little girl dressed in a formal suit, the vivid blue in sharp contrast to the darkness of her skin. Bernard of Stormgate. Sixtine of Minimes; and a sea of other minor Houses, yapping terriers she hardly paid attention to in normal times—save that even terriers could turn nasty, once they had smelled blood.

Asmodeus, though, wasn’t there. Should she wait for him? He was no doubt at Samariel’s bedside; praying, perhaps, though the idea of the head of Hawthorn praying for anything at all was ludicrous.

One of the faces staring at her—or perhaps all of them; it wasn’t unheard of—was responsible for this. One of them, or several, was working to undermine the House, utterly destroy it. She’d find them; and make sure they couldn’t harm Silverspires anymore.

They were getting restless, all of them; still politely waiting for whatever she had to say—again, amusing to see how courtesy still held sway, even in moments like those, when they hung poised, once again, on the edge of a feud that could lay waste to the city.

“You know why we’re gathered here,” she said. A dozen faces swung to look at her, silent, watching. “There has been . . . an incident.” She raised a hand to forestall the inevitable outcry, and said, infusing her voice with the strongest spells of charm she could conjure, “Lord Samariel is at death’s door. Something attacked him in his bedroom. We’re not quite sure what yet, but rest assured that we’re investigating. Silverspires will not tolerate this breach of the peace.”

“Won’t you?” The speaker was Claire, as impeccable as always. “There have been other deaths, and you haven’t done anything. One might think you remarkably inefficient, or insufficiently motivated, or both.”