The House of Shattered Wings

“Whatever killed Samariel. Whatever killed Oris. It’s not Philippe,” she said, again, her voice low, urgent. “You know it’s not, Madeleine. Behaving as though it’s him—that’s just refusing to acknowledge the truth. And that will kill you. That will kill all of us.”


“I—” Madeleine took a deep, shaking breath. She could go on as she had always gone; keep her head down and inhale angel essence until all grief, all memories had been dulled to nothingness, wasting Morningstar’s gift of life as she had wasted everything else. Or, before it was too late, she could do one last, small thing for Oris’s memory.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Quickly, before I change my mind.”





FIFTEEN


GHOSTS FROM TIMES LONG GONE

SELENE buried herself in work. It was the only way she’d found to forget Emmanuelle’s pallor, or the deep, dark circles in her face; the shadow creeping across her eyes, making her seem gaunter and gaunter with every passing day. Aragon made optimistic noises, tried one treatment after another; but nothing seemed to take hold.

It reminded her of that other time; of those dark, desperate hours when Emmanuelle’s addiction to angel essence had gone beyond control—when she lay wasting away on a hospital bed, and Selene prayed to a God she no longer trusted for any kind of cure. Months and months of battling against the drug; until at last Emmanuelle rose, her skin paper-thin, her smile brittle and forced; and they had slowly started picking up the threads of their old life; slowly accepted that, sometimes, for incomprehensible reasons, God did grant miracles. Emmanuelle would have called it an answer to prayers; Selene . . . she wasn’t so sure. But she no longer made gibes at Emmanuelle for going to Mass, for who knew what kind of powers it was wiser not to antagonize?

She could have used Emmanuelle’s faith, now; or a miracle. But her prayers were distant and insincere, born out of fear and self-interest; even if she hadn’t been Fallen, God would have no time for them.

If Selene had still had artifacts infused with Morningstar’s magic—or even angel essence—she would have used them then, in a heartbeat. But there was nothing of the kind; the last remnants of his magic had been used long ago, to shore up the House in its hour of need. Now it was just her; and Asmodeus was right: she was faltering.

Sometimes, she hated Morningstar; hated him for picking up his things and vanishing without a word of explanation, without even an apology. But then she remembered that he’d never explained or apologized for anything; and that—always—he’d radiated such warmth and magnetism one couldn’t help loving him. Moth to a flame, Emmanuelle had said, with a fraction of bitterness; because Morningstar had never liked her. He chose the ambitious, the desperate, the hungry. Emmanuelle, perfectly content with her life among the books, fit none of those criteria. Selene, on the other hand . . .

She’d been young, and among the least of the hierarchy in Silverspires: practicing magic at night in her bedroom, making rumpled sheets smooth themselves out, flowers bloom on dry wood, rain splatter on her bedside table. It must have been those small magics that had caught Morningstar’s eye, or perhaps his weariness with his previous apprentice, Leander—she was never sure. But she remembered the moment when he’d turned to her; when she’d walked into the cathedral and found him waiting for her in the light of the rose window. “Selene, is it?” he’d asked, and she’d only nodded, too awed to dredge up words. “Come.”

She missed that now; that glow that would fill her whenever she mastered a complex spell, and looked up to see him smile; the light limning his fair hair and the curve of his wings, and remembering, in this moment, how favored she was.

You should be here, she thought, closing a file and putting it with the others. Helping us hunt down whatever caused this. She had Javier and the others patrolling, making sure that nothing stalked the corridors anymore, and all the children in the school slept with Choérine, who was a bit old but still more than capable of drawing protective wards. But it wasn’t the same. It would never be.

You should be here.

Reparations had been offered; Houses had been appeased—it should have been a slow, intricate dance of negotiations and apportioning blame, but it had been surprisingly easy. In the wake of Samariel’s death, the Houses quietly forgot why they were here in the first place—they might not quite believe Selene’s assurances that the murderer had been dealt with, but it was not their immediate problem, and to remain in Silverspires would have been too costly and dangerous.

The delegations were leaving; the tense atmosphere gradually dying down. Guy and Andrea had left first, with their usual haughtiness; then Sixtine and Bernard, then the rest of the minor Houses. To all of them, she’d made the same reassurances—that Silverspires had settled compensation with Hawthorn, that the person responsible had been dealt with adequately—that they weren’t all dancing on the edge of a worse conflict than the Great War. She’d smiled and prevaricated and lied until her face ached.