“She is.”
Isabelle took a deep breath, and opened her hand. “I found this.”
It was a flat, black thing—an obsidian mirror, the sort of old-fashioned artifact that had been dated even before the war. Madeleine took it, absentmindedly; and then almost dropped it. It was . . . malice, viciousness, hatred—whispers that she was worthless, that Silverspires was worthless, doomed to be carried away by the wind—black wings, blotting out the sun, that same slimy feeling she’d got when the shadows filled the room . . . “What is this?”
Isabelle blushed. “It was under the throne. In the cathedral. There was a paper with it.” She took a deep, trembling breath; held it for a suspended moment. “All that you hold dear will be shattered . . .”
Madeleine’s fingers worked around the curve of the mirror—seeking the catch, the point of release. There was nothing; just that terrible sense of something watching her, darkly amused at her feeble attempts; that faint odor of hatred that seemed to lie like a mist over the smooth surface. “I can’t open it,” she said, finally. “It feels like an artifact, holding some kind of angel magic—breath, perhaps?” One she would have liked to hurl down the deepest ravine in some faraway country; and even then, she wouldn’t have felt safe.
Isabelle picked it from Madeleine’s hand with two fingers, and laid it back in a handkerchief—careful never to leave her skin in contact with it for too long. It was as bad for her as for Madeleine, then. “I thought you could . . . Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” Madeleine said. “It’s connected to the shadows, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Isabelle said. “You can’t open it.”
“I can’t open it now. It’s locked,” Madeleine said. Not that she was keen on releasing whatever was inside it—whatever remnant of darkness still clung to its innards. . . . “It doesn’t mean that, with a little work or a little research or both . . . Can you leave it to me?”
“Of course.” Isabelle’s face hardened again—as changing as the sky on a spring day, when clouds pushed by the wind could blot out the sun in a heartbeat. When she spoke again, her voice had a determined, harsh tone Madeleine had never heard from her before. “Madeleine?”
“Yes?”
“I think we should go and help Philippe.”
It took a moment for all the words of that sentence to realign themselves in Madeleine’s mind. “He’s dead,” she said. “They found the trail of blood leading into the Seine, and there’s probably a corpse somewhere, playing with the fishes.” If Selene was right, the thing he’d let loose was still in Silverspires; but it didn’t mean that Philippe had survived—Asmodeus’s attentions had been thorough, and unpleasant.
Isabelle shook her head. “There is—I don’t really know how to explain it, but there is something in the Seine. Somewhere.” She played with her hands—the fingers of the good hand in the crippled one, worrying at the hole.
She was tied to Philippe; inextricably linked somehow, though in the days before the banquet their relationship had seemed more strained than before. She couldn’t help defending him; to her, it would be as natural as breathing.
Whereas as far as Madeleine was concerned, Philippe could go hang. “Let me be clear. He wounded Emmanuelle. He was the catalyst for something that killed Samariel. Something that wrecked the House. And you somehow think it’s a good idea to go find him wherever he’s hiding?”
Isabelle flushed scarlet. “I don’t know what happened. I think it’s connected to him, but he’s not controlling it. He’s not doing any of it.”
“That’s great comfort, but no. If he’s alive somehow—”
“He is. I know it. And he could help Emmanuelle.”
Unlikely. He was the one who’d harmed her, after all.
“I wasn’t doubting your ability to find him,” Madeleine said. She sighed, and massaged her brow, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Selene should be the one to find him, not us.” Just look at them. One washed-out alchemist, and one young Fallen too naive to see the political implications of the fight she was dragged into. Hardly the elite group of magicians it would have taken to keep Philippe’s magic at bay.
“Selene won’t go,” Isabelle said.
“You asked?”
“I had to,” Isabelle said. She bit her lip. “But she said no. She has too much to do; and she hates Philippe.”
“With reason,” Madeleine said. She didn’t much care for Philippe, either; even before the conclave, he had been surly and uncivil.
Isabelle bit her lip. “He—he promised to look after me. He wouldn’t attack me.”
“He cut off two of your fingers. That’s hardly—”
“That’s the past,” Isabelle said, more forcefully than Madeleine had expected. “Before he came to the House. And he’s . . . not himself now.”
“Which doesn’t excuse what he has done. If he has done it,” Madeleine said, grudgingly. She was willing to grant that all of it was a bit much for a young man; even if said young man was older than he appeared. Whoever had killed Samariel had known the effect it would have, and that spoke of familiarity with the city and its fragile equilibrium of warring Houses; something Philippe had been demonstrably uninterested in. “But I still don’t understand why you want to go running after him. You’re not—”
“In love with him?” Isabelle smiled. “I saw the thought cross your mind. Of course not, Madeleine. I know what I am.”
“Fallen doesn’t mean emotionless.”
“Oh, no. I mean that he’s still in love with his country above all else, and I—I’m still trying to figure out how things work.”
“That would certainly give you a head start on how things work,” Madeleine said, suppressing a smile; and raised a hand to forestall Isabelle’s objections. “But never mind. If it’s not that, then . . .”
“We’re friends,” Isabelle said. “He made a promise to look out for me, and I can’t do any less.”
“It does you credit,” Madeleine said, slowly. “But—” But what you want is insane, she wanted to say. To go wherever she thought Philippe was, to confront what had killed Samariel and Oris and countless others . . .
“Don’t you want to understand what’s going on?” Isabelle asked.
No. She had no desire to; but then she thought of Oris, lying cold and naked on the slab as she took him apart—the only thing she knew how to do anymore. “I want justice,” she said. “But I’m not sure how this would help me.”
“Because it’s not over,” Isabelle said, at last. “It never was. Look at Selene. She’s known, all along. She watches the darkness, knowing that it will return.”
“It?”
“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 be
yond 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.
Which only left two Houses.
They came into her office together: a surprise, but not an altogether unexpected one. “Asmodeus,” she said. “Claire.”
Asmodeus wore mourning clothes: a black shirt under his jacket, a severely cut set of trousers, on which the simple white tie seemed almost obscenely out of place.
Claire had dressed as deceptively simply as usual: a gray suit with a knee-length skirt and an elegant coat with a fur trim on the collar. Her usual entourage of children had remained at the door; Selene was impressed she hadn’t even had to ask. On the other hand . . .
On the other hand, there was Asmodeus.
His face was quiet, expressionless; his hands gloved. It was hard to imagine him angry, or covered in blood; but it was a mistake his former enemies had made. “You’ll be leaving, I imagine,” Selene said.
“Of course.” Claire nodded. She readjusted her own gloves: a borderline disrespectful gesture, as if she were already out of the House. “I have things to do, Selene.”
So did Selene, but she wasn’t churlish enough to point this out. “I see. I won’t hold you, then.”
Claire’s smile was bright, innocent. “Of course you won’t.”
Asmodeus was staring at her—grave, serious, with none of the usual sarcasm. “I ask your leave to remain.”
What—? He couldn’t—Selene bit her lip before that thought could escape her. “I must ask why,” she said, keeping her voice as cold as she could manage. She’d hoped to be rid of them all; to have mastery of her House once more, to scour it to make sure the creatures were gone—to spend time by Emmanuelle’s side without worrying about who might come in and how they might judge her.
Asmodeus looked up, with a fraction of his old sarcasm in his eyes. “Why, Selene. One would think you weren’t pleased to see me.”
“You know what I think,” Selene said.
“I do know what you think. It doesn’t matter much,” Asmodeus said. “I have a body to prepare for burial, and a vigil to conclude.”
“I thought—” Selene swallowed, unsure what to say. “You’ll want to do this at Hawthorn, surely.”
Asmodeus shrugged. “Some things will be done at Hawthorn; what we can do. But he died here, Selene. If there are ghosts to exorcise, they will be here.”
Unbidden, a flash of shadows in her memory—of darkness sliding across the faded wallpaper and the polished parquet floors, like what she had seen around Philippe. Selene gritted her teeth. She knew the shadows hadn’t left; she didn’t need the distraction.
She looked at Asmodeus: impassive, elegant in his mourning clothes; though there was a slight tremor in his hands, a slight reddening of his eyes beyond the horn-rimmed glasses. Grief? He’d hardly cried when Samariel died, unless the . . . madness he’d inflicted on Philippe was his way of weeping. One could never be too sure, with Asmodeus.
But whatever he wanted to remain here for, it could hardly be sentimentality; not something he’d ever been known for. Though . . . though he and Samariel had been together for as long as Selene could remember—long, long before Asmodeus became head of Hawthorn. One was, perhaps, allowed a little sentimental lapse; but no, that was exactly why Asmodeus had risen so far; because people wanted to believe he had feelings, that he could be swayed by tender emotions.
It didn’t matter, either way. She couldn’t say no, not to a request framed this way, and he’d known it all along. “By all means,” she said, not bothering to force sincerity in her voice. “Remain a few days more, if you think it’ll help you find peace.”
Claire smiled. “So glad to see everything is settled.” She pulled on her gloves, again. “I thought for a moment it would be war.”
Thought, but hadn’t been worried by. “Don’t be a fool,” Selene said. “Who wants to go to war?”
“You’re the fool.” Asmodeus shrugged. “Who wouldn’t want to? We all cherish the illusion we’d easily defeat all the other Houses. That was the reason we got into the last mess.”
“But you know,” Selene said softly, feeling the fist of ice tighten around her heart, “you know that war would simply devastate us furt
her?”
“Yes,” Asmodeus said. “For the right gain, though—”
For standing in a field of ruins, crowing victory? Selene bit down on the angry answer before it could escape her lips. There was no point. They didn’t see things her way. They never would. “I’ll see you on the parvis, then,” she said to Claire. “For the formal leave-taking.”
“By all means,” Claire said. She smiled again: that soft, vaguely pleasant smile that sent waves of dread down Selene’s throat. “I was hoping Madeleine would be there, too.”
“I think you’ve seen enough of Madeleine,” Selene said, sharply. “I warned her against you.”
“Ah.” Claire paused, halfway to the door. “But who warned her against herself?”
“I don’t follow your meaning.” It was a mistake, exactly what Claire had expected, but Selene couldn’t help herself. She was acutely aware, as she stepped closer to Claire, of Asmodeus, who hadn’t yet moved from his chair and was staring at the desk with an odd, predatory intensity. This alliance between them was . . . unsettling.
“Oh, Selene. I did warn you, didn’t I? About cleaning your House. But no, you have to take in the strays and the defectors—”
So that was what it was all about. She could feel Asmodeus tense beside her. She’d always assumed Madeleine was beneath his notice: a mortal with little magic, and no great position in Hawthorn, and God knew he’d had so many people die in the bloody night he’d taken Hawthorn. But perhaps he still considered her his property; and still demanded from her the same loyalty he demanded of all his dependents.
“You can talk, Claire,” Selene said, pointing to the pack of children waiting outside, frozen in uncanny intentness, even as they played among themselves. “I thought Lazarus prided itself on its . . . inclusiveness.”
“Of course.” Claire’s smile was the toothy one of a tiger. “We’ll take in the poor and desperate, but we’ll make sure they clean up first.”
They could go on like this for hours, but Selene had no patience for prevarication anymore. “The hour grows late. Say what you want to say, Claire, instead of talking in riddles. Surely you’ve thought it over a thousand times already. What about Madeleine?”
The House of Shattered Wings Page 24
