“You look thoughtful,” Ninon said. She slid down, easily, by his side, all loose limbs and easy smiles. “You’ve hardly said a word since you came back.”
“Yeah, I know,” Philippe said.
“Is it because of what happened in the Grands Magasins?” She bit her lips. “I shouldn’t have left you behind—but I thought you were dead. I—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Philippe said. He was thinking of Silverspires; of Isabelle, restless and angry, somewhere at the back of his mind. Why could he not be done with her; with the continual, distant awareness of where she was, of the power running red-hot through her—through her bones and her lungs and every sinew of her body? He could feel her; could almost taste her worry about the House, about Selene—about Madeleine. There was something about Madeleine; a glimpse of a fear he couldn’t quite focus on.
He . . . he had left her behind; had left the House and its buried darkness behind—and yet, he kept thinking about her—kept expecting her to walk up to him, to reminisce about Annam with him—to argue with him about what he needed, about what he ought to do in that infuriatingly direct way of hers. He . . .
It was none of his business. The House was none of his business. They would fail, and fall, because ghosts like Nightingale couldn’t be stopped; because what fueled her was nothing human or Fallen, just the relentless anger and love she’d felt when she died. For this, there was no exorcism; merely prayers to guide her to rebirth, and a better life—and those would have required a monk, or a priest; and he was neither. He owed them nothing, save his stiffened hand, save the memory of a night when he had been taken apart piece by piece—the same thing that had happened to Nightingale in Hawthorn.
Most of all, he owed Isabelle nothing. She had chosen, too; chosen the House and its darkness; the House and the secrets that would choke it—Morningstar’s grisly and unjustifiable legacy. They were worlds apart now; in fact, they had always been. He’d been a fool to hope otherwise.
He . . . It had all made sense, back at the House, back within its oppressive boundaries, when all he could think of was how fast to leave it; but now he sat outside, under overcast skies—breathing in the smell of flowers, with Ninon worriedly looking at him, trying to apologize for leaving him behind—when he was the one who had left Isabelle behind. . . .
“Philippe? Philippe!”
But he didn’t need to close his eyes to guess at the silhouette of Morningstar, sitting beneath the arbor; didn’t need to meditate to feel the darkness trapped within his chest, the remnants of the curse even Chung Thoai hadn’t been able to banish.
“If you go back, you will die.”
He had gone back, and got out, and he was still alive.
He ought to stay out; to rebuild whatever life he could out of the shattered remnants of his time in Silverspires; to learn as much as he could from this experience, to make of himself a living blade that nothing and no one could harm. He should forget Isabelle, forget her betrayed look as he left her, her presence at the back of his mind like a wound that wouldn’t close. . . .
Someone was shaking him; Ninon, he realized with a start. “You haven’t spoken for an hour,” she said. “Just staring off at the sky. . . .” She shook her head. “What did they do to you in that House, Philippe?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
That clearly stung. “Try me.”
He opened his mouth, saw only Morningstar’s bottomless eyes—felt a twinge of pain in the hand that Asmodeus had disjointed; and remembered the slimy feel of shadows sliding across bare walls, across the facets of crystal glasses—and, on his skin, Samariel’s heavy breath, whispering the spell that had set him free. No words came out. “I need to go for a walk. Sorry.”
“Philippe!”
Outside, it was no better. The pall of pollution seemed to hang heavier on La Goutte d’Or, or perhaps it was just him, feeling sweat run down his body in rivulets. Perhaps he was the only one with that hardening mixture of panic and resolution within him; who couldn’t tell, anymore, if it belonged to Isabelle or to him.
Stay out of this. It was a House struggle, like House Draken, and he’d lost enough to Draken and Draken’s fall; it was a ghost more powerful than him, a House that he had no cause to love. Keep your head down. Rebuild, always with the darkness at his back, haunting him as surely as it haunted House Silverspires. Always, with the memory of Isabelle—of stepping away from her, and leaving her to fend for herself—to die—in the storm that was engulfing Silverspires.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be free of her. He—
He had to go back.
* * *
MADELEINE sat in the gardens, watching water pool on the rim of the fountain. If she closed her eyes, she would see Asmodeus again; feel the heat of his radiance on her hands, hear his voice again, level and emotionless, calmly stating the obvious.
A truth like a salted knife’s blade . . .
Do you really think he came halfway across the city to find you dying on the cobblestones?
She had believed; or had wanted to believe, so much; that she had been chosen by Morningstar himself, that her presence in Silverspires had meaning. That there was safety there, yes—that it was the oldest House—but that he had known. That he had extended his hand as his last act in this world.
And it was a lie. It wasn’t kindness that had saved her, but merely a whim. Worse than that; a whim of the Fallen who had killed Uphir, who had killed Elphon—who had destroyed her world—and who had decided, because it cost him nothing, that he could spare her life.
It would cost her nothing to deny him his victory.
A knife’s blade, or a noose, or a pool of water: so many ways she could leave. He might stop her once, or twice, but he couldn’t keep her forever. In the end, she would win.
No one would miss her. Selene would be glad to be rid of her, and the House at Silverspires had already forgotten her. In a way, the sentence had already been passed, long ago, her twenty years nothing more than suspended time, a miracle that had had no right to exist. No one would—Isabelle would weep. But no, Isabelle was young, and naive—give her a few centuries, and she’d be as hard as Selene.
She stared at the water, knowing she didn’t have the courage for any of this. If it had been essence, perhaps she’d have gone on, slowly killing herself. But every other solution required fortitude she didn’t have.
In this, as well, she was a failure.
* * *
SELENE was staring at the wings, wrapped in a corner of her office where Isabelle had left them. She’d looked distinctly unhappy, muttering something about shoddy work; and had left abruptly. Even for her, that had been beyond politeness. Whatever the case, it was done. The wings were now infused with magic; with the combined breaths of every Fallen in the House from Choérine to Alcestis to Morningstar—God grant that it would be enough, though she knew all too well the futility of prayers for such as she. Now all that remained was . . .
Her thoughts, as usual, drew back from the abyss: she knew what had to be done, the only thing that they could do, but . . .
“Selene?”
“Come in,” she said.
It was Emmanuelle, dressed in a simple white cotton tunic that set off the darkness of her skin. “There’s a sprig of green just around the corridor.”
“I know.” And, more softly: “I will give the order to evacuate this wing. And I will go with them.”
“The parvis?” Emmanuelle asked.
“Yes.” There was no choice. Because a House was not merely a fortress of spells and wards, but a collection of dependents, and she couldn’t wait for them to be picked off one by one. The parvis remained clear of roots; and yet still within the protection of the wards: that was where she would tell them to assemble, Javier and Choérine and Gauthier and Geneviève and all the others, from the youngest children to the eldest
mortals, grown old in the service of the House. And she would go with them; because it was more important that someone defend them than a last-ditch, desperate attempt to stop a ghost who had almost already won.
She had thought herself unworthy as the head of the House; she hadn’t expected to be the one who saw its demise. Unless . . . Unless.
Morningstar was behind Emmanuelle, watching the office with bright, curious eyes. Selene looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “It doesn’t matter, Selene,” Emmanuelle said. She reached out, but Selene evaded her grasp.
“You didn’t come here for that, did you?”
“Oh no,” Emmanuelle said. “I came to tell you I’d found something.”
“Nightingale’s grave?”
Emmanuelle grimaced. She pulled one of the chairs to her: one of the old Louis XV ones, with a pattern of embroidered flowers on red suede. “Forget the exorcism,” she said. “A ghost like this, with this kind of power, enough to summon the Furies in the hour of her death . . . you can’t exorcise, not that simply. But you can destroy her curse.”
“How?”
Emmanuelle bit her lip. “I know what kind of tree this is, Selene. It’s a banyan.”
“And—?” The name meant nothing to Selene.
“It’s a tree from the tropics. He was, after all, the catalyst for the spell—it quite probably drew from his memories.”
Selene scowled, but forced herself to listen. Emmanuelle regularly forgot how much the subject of Philippe was a sore point.
“The point is, it’s a strangler tree. Starts as a seed borne by the wind into a tree’s branches, and then extends roots until the tree it encases shrivels and dies.”
Just like Silverspires. Selene shivered. “I don’t want to think on that.” She shook her head. That was childish, and beneath her. “How do you destroy a banyan, then?”
“Destroy its roots,” Emmanuelle said. “But most of all—because this is no ordinary banyan, Selene—there is a place that’s of particular significance.”
“Which one?”
“The hollow,” Emmanuelle said. “The place left by the encased tree when it dies. You could say that’s the banyan’s secret. In the Far East, they say that’s where the spirits of the tree reside.”
In the Far East . . . Perhaps they should have found Philippe in the end; but no, she didn’t want to think on Philippe. It was only because of him that they were here.
Because of him, and Morningstar, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind. If he had not betrayed Nightingale . . .
But no, she couldn’t think that: because, without Morningstar, there would be no Silverspires, no refuge in Notre-Dame. He had done what was necessary to maintain the House, and so would she, if it came to that. Because it was her duty as head of the House. Because the Fallen now staring at her, puzzled and without any comprehension, was nothing like the distant, radiant head of the House; the powerful magic wielder who had taught her, who had worn wings as a reminder that he was the only Fallen who had dared to wear what they had been stripped of; who had dared to use it as a weapon.
“The hollow,” she said. “What about it?”
Emmanuelle handed her something, which she almost dropped, because the malevolence contained within was almost palpable. But she wasn’t about to be defeated by a mere artifact. “A mirror,” she said, aloud. Made of obsidian and not glass, an odd affectation that placed it somewhere two centuries ago, perhaps? When anything from the New World had still been new and fascinating.
“Isabelle gave me this,” Emmanuelle said. “She says she and Philippe found it, and that it’s what started it all.”
Selene closed her eyes. “The source of the curse?” She didn’t ask whether Isabelle could be trusted; how the loyalties she still very obviously held both for Philippe and for Madeleine impacted on this. She had to trust Isabelle, because she had no other choice. “You mean to destroy it?”
“Symbolically,” Emmanuelle said. Her face was set. “In a place of power, in the hollow of the banyan. If that doesn’t work—”
If that didn’t work, then they’d all be out of a House, but it was all they already faced. “Even if you could get there—” Selene’s lips moved, silently, as she contemplated the consequences. “She will be there, won’t she? You said it was the place of the spirits.” Of ghosts; and of the restless, unavenged dead. “Waiting.” And Selene doubted it would be easy to defeat her. The Furies might be gone, but Nightingale would have other tricks up her sleeves.
“Nightingale?” Emmanuelle nodded. “That’s almost certain. I haven’t found a solution to distract her.”
Selene turned her gaze to Emmanuelle, resolutely; refusing to stare at Morningstar or at the wings that so fascinated him. “I have,” she said, slowly, carefully.
They were his weapon, and he had retained the mastery of it. What they cut would not regrow—she knew it in her heart of hearts. And, more important, he was the only one who could provide what they so desperately needed.
A distraction.
“Morningstar?”
“Yes?” Faint bewilderment, nothing more, in the voice. Isabelle might have unlocked some memories, but he didn’t know; he couldn’t know what it had been like, when he was head of the House.
She thought of Asmodeus, telling her she was too squeamish to be head of the House; and of the enormity of what she was about to do. They barely had had time to get used to his presence again, and here she was: a jumped-up apprentice who had become head of the House only because everyone else had died or disappeared, and she would dare . . .
She had to. It was the only choice. “You have to go,” she said to Morningstar. “It’s what you started. It’s you who should fix it.”
Beside her, Emmanuelle took a deep, shocked breath; held it. “You know—” she started, and Selene squeezed her shoulder so hard that Emmanuelle gasped. Not now, she mouthed.
Morningstar’s face was puzzled. “Go where?”
“Inside,” Selene said. She looked up at last. There was only guileless innocence in his blue eyes, and she tried to swallow past the salty taste in her mouth. “I need you to open the way to the banyan’s heart. They’re your wings. You’re the one who should wield them.”
Morningstar looked puzzled—for a moment she thought he would see it; that he would comprehend the magnitude of what she had just done, but he simply nodded. “I see. Is there no one else?”
“You’re the most powerful Fallen we have,” Selene said, simply; the lie tasting like ashes on her tongue. He was the most powerful, but also the most naive, the one who couldn’t master his own powers. He was the one they could spare. “We need you.”
Surely he wouldn’t believe that—who did? Surely . . .
But he merely nodded; and she knew, then, that her old master was dead and buried; that she had already grieved for him in the crypt beneath the chapel; and that there would be no return. “I’m honored by your trust.”
Emmanuelle spoke up, at last, her voice as dry as dust. “Selene—you’ll still need someone—”
“I know,” Selene said.
“You can’t go,” Emmanuelle said. “I’ll do it.”
Selene shook her head. “I’ll find Isabelle. Or someone else.” Someone powerful, someone else they could spare—as if there was such a thing. “I’ll send them right after you,” she said to Morningstar.
It was enough. It would be enough. Nightingale thought Morningstar was dead; taken away by the Furies. She would be surprised; and they would have a chance.
A small, insignificant chance they’d need to grasp in the moment it was offered; but it would be more than anything they’d had so far.
Morningstar shrugged. “Don’t wait too long.”
“I know,” Selene said.
Emmanuelle closed her eyes. “Isabelle isn’t on the grounds right now.”
&nbs
p; “What—?” God, not another loose cannon somewhere. She was tired of dealing with those. “Does no one in this House know how to obey orders?”
“It’s a House, not an army,” Emmanuelle said. But then her face grew more serious. “I could go.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“I can do my duty to the House, just as you do.”
No. She had lost the House, or almost as good as; she wasn’t going to lose Emmanuelle as well. It was selfish and ill-placed, and she was aware that she would have sent Emmanuelle if there had been no one else, but in this case . . . “Locate Isabelle, wherever she went; tell her she is to come to Silverspires, immediately.”
“I will. But if she doesn’t come back in time . . .”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Selene said.
“As you wish,” Emmanuelle said, but she sounded dubious. And disappointed. Selene knew the feeling: powerlessness, slowly watching the House being choked to death. For once, they could do something—even if it was such a stab in the dark, even if it was just a likelihood of success rather than a certainty. . . .
She watched Morningstar heft the wings; and slowly and awkwardly adjust them onto his back; watched him assay a few thrusts here and there: they were astonishingly graceful, proving that the body, if not the mind, remembered something of what it had been before. She could have looked away, but she didn’t.
After all, she’d just sacrificed him, as callously as he’d once sacrificed Nightingale.
You’d be happy, she whispered to the memory of Asmodeus. I have taken the decisions that needed to be taken, for the safeguarding of the House.
And, in her mind, Asmodeus merely smiled, showing his white, pointed teeth; and said nothing.
TWENTY-TWO
MORNINGSTAR’S HEIR
MADELEINE didn’t know what she’d expected when Asmodeus summoned her again, but she certainly hadn’t bargained for Isabelle.
They were in a room of the House that she couldn’t place, a sitting room with a harp and pale green conversation seats. It certainly wasn’t part of Asmodeus’s quarters, merely a place he had chosen to talk to his current guest; by the looks of it, trying to make it as uncomfortable as possible for her, giving her a metal chair with a high back, set in the middle of unadorned parquet floor. He lounged, as satisfied as ever, in a much more comfortable chair, his hands gracefully resting on the teak desk in front of him.
The House of Shattered Wings Page 37
