The House of Shattered Wings

A sound brought her out of her reverie: a knock at the door. Madeleine opened it, to find Selene, Aragon and Emmanuelle on her doorstep. What—?

Selene was as impassive as ever, cool and composed and revealing nothing of her thoughts. But Emmanuelle’s face was ashen, her hands shaking.

“What is it?” Madeleine asked. Something grave, no doubt, to bring the three of them to her laboratory at this hour of the night. Thank God she hadn’t taken angel essence; she wasn’t sure she could disguise its effects from Selene’s sharp gaze; though she felt the lack of it keenly, her mind shriveled and small in a moment when she could have used all of her wits.

Selene’s gaze moved past her, to rest on Isabelle. “I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “Your dedication is commendable.”

Supercilious and entitled, as always. “We all do our duties,” Madeleine said, dryly. Some of them better than others—it was a frightful thought, but what had Selene achieved, beyond opening them up to Hawthorn again—to reduce the safe House Morningstar had been so proud of to a tottering wreck? She quenched the thought before it could betray her, but the anger wouldn’t leave her. “What do you want?”

Selene completely ignored her. “I need your help,” she said to Isabelle.

Isabelle looked startled. “My help? But I don’t—”

“Don’t underestimate your powers, child.” Selene crossed the room and gently removed the mirror from Isabelle’s hands. “Listen to me, but don’t ask questions. There isn’t much time. Samariel is dead. Asmodeus has vanished, and so has Philippe. I need to find them, but it’s a large House and we can’t afford to search every room.”

Isabelle, as Selene had asked, did not speak up. Her face drained of color, in what seemed an eternity to Madeleine; but when she spoke, Selene was still waiting. “What do you need?”

“Your help. You’re still tied to Philippe, aren’t you? There’s a bond between the two of you, one I don’t quite understand.”

Isabelle flushed. “It doesn’t quite work like that. I can’t locate him, precisely. I just get images, and feelings, and only at certain times, when my mind isn’t busy with other things. . . .”

“Please, child. There isn’t much time.”

Isabelle closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she seemed to have aged—her cheeks hollowed out, her hands shaking. “He’s in pain,” she said. “So much pain, dear God, how can he bear it all?”

Selene grimaced. “That’s not very helpful,” she said; but Madeleine, who was more observant, was there to catch Isabelle as she swayed and fell. Her body had gone rigid.

“His pain,” Madeleine said through gritted teeth. “That’s all she’s getting from him.” She didn’t even bother to hide her contempt from Selene. Isabelle was convulsing in her arms—her body arching backward while her skin turned deathly pale, the weight of her almost catching Madeleine off balance.

“I know.” Selene’s voice was cool. How could she keep her head, in a situation like this? “But I need her. Asmodeus is an old hand, and he’ll have obscured his location. I don’t have the time or the resources to search every room in the House.” She came to take Isabelle’s hand, her dark brow furrowed in thought. “Isabelle, I need you to focus. I can help you, but only if you let me.”

Magic blazed through her: a light from beneath the skin that cast every bone in sharp relief, a feeling of warmth drawn from the entire House, so strong it made Madeleine tremble. She ached for that power to go through her instead of Isabelle, to fill the emptiness within her, to wash away the rot in her lungs.

“Isabelle.”

Isabelle’s eyes opened. The brown iris had disappeared: they were white through and through, the color and harshness of seagulls’ feathers; and shining with the same unearthly radiance as Selene. “Pain,” she whispered, and said nothing else for a while. Her hands were clenched, her fingers held at an angle that seemed almost impossible—another trick of Fallen anatomy? Selene’s grip on her remained tight.

Gradually, Isabelle’s hands unclenched; and brown crept back into her eyes. She sucked in a deep breath, wincing. “It’s an old room,” she said. “With big armchairs and a low table, and that wallpaper with the little white flowers on beige.”

Emmanuelle spoke up, her voice as dry and rasping as Madeleine on her worst days. “The East Wing. Behind the cathedral. Only place where we still have that old wallpaper.”

“Only seventy or so rooms to search then,” Selene said, dryly. “Can you remember nothing else?”

Isabelle shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help more.” Her mouth opened, and closed, as if she’d just remembered something she wasn’t supposed to say.

“What is it?” Selene asked.

“I’m not sure,” Isabelle said. “But I think I smelled the river?”