The House of Shattered Wings

Not that anyone, save scavengers, would be interested in Silverspires now.

She found Choérine minding the children, who were possibly the only ones finding the evacuation fun: half of them were playing tag in the shadow of the East Wing, and the other half, toddlers still, chasing a ball. She forced a smile when Selene arrived. “It’s been a trying time. I have half the parents out of their minds with worry, and the children feel it. It’s difficult to distract them.”

“I know,” Selene said. “Believe me, I know.”

She kept a wary eye on Emmanuelle, who had found Caroline and a group of other children—the little girl had pelted straight for her, dragging Emmanuelle back to the circle where she and her friends had piled a dozen books—all they must have been able to grab in the evacuation, and even then it must have been a heavy load—God only knew how Caroline had managed to talk them into them. Caroline was proudly waving a book at Emmanuelle, and saying it would be all right, that they had managed to save some of the books and the library would be fine. Selene looked away then, not willing to see Emmanuelle’s face.

“At least we’re all alive,” Choérine said. She didn’t sound happy about it, or cheerful.

“We’ll rebuild,” Selene said; and paused then, seeing the crowd part ahead for something she couldn’t quite see: not what she had expected, because whatever it was came from the side of the island opposite the cathedral. “Excuse me a moment, will you?”

As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait for long, because he was making straight for her.

“Well,” she said, staring at Philippe.

He looked as though he’d been through Hell and back, his clothes black with soot and torn in places, his eyes ringed with deep, dark circles; but he still stood in front of her with the bearing of a king, utterly unapologetic—he had destroyed them, and he didn’t care; he had never cared. “You dare come back here.”

Philippe shook his head. “That’s not important. Listen, Selene—”

“Not important?” Her hand moved, encompassed the wreck around her. “This is what we are now, what we are reduced to. All your fault.”

His gaze was steady. “I meant no harm.”

“You did it regardless.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Philippe said. “We can argue about responsibility later, Selene. Listen.” His words came fast now, one after another with hardly a breath, his voice expressionless. “Isabelle is dead. The banyan is a tree of rebirth—it took the magic of the House and used it—”

“Isabelle?” Selene asked, her heart sinking, just as Emmanuelle asked, “Rebirth?”

“Yes. You have to—”

But in that moment, the cathedral exploded.

A huge noise deafened Selene; she dived, reflexively, even as bits and pieces of the tree were sent into the air. She barely had time to see Emmanuelle put up wards around herself; she reached out, raised her own in a wider circle, hoping there wouldn’t be too many people in their path; and then the world was a welter of dust and flying things, and she couldn’t see anything, anymore.

She rose, slowly; reached for the mirror at her belt, inhaling the stored breath until magic coursed through her veins again. Then she turned toward the cathedral.

Notre-Dame’s doors were gaping holes, surrounded by dying roots. And in their center . . .

Selene recognized her immediately, though it had been many decades. She had barely changed, in the sense that her physical features were the same: that same harsh cast to her face, those same huge, driven eyes that gave the impression of seeing straight into your soul. But other things had changed: her skin now held trapped light, as though she were a Fallen; and she moved with fluid, inhuman grace as she walked to the edge of the parvis, surveying the devastation she had wrought.

Her gaze met Selene’s, and she smiled. “Hello, Selene.”

Selene walked, slowly, toward her, the world reduced to nothing but the hammering of her heart, like a hummingbird’s wings straining against a cage of ribs. “Hello, Nightingale.”





TWENTY-FOUR


HEAD OF THE HOUSE

THE huge explosion had deafened Madeleine, but it had turned out to be nothing more than the doors blasting open. Dust had risen thick around her, a cloud that racked her lungs. Now it was subsiding, leaving her barely enough light to guess at the shape of Isabelle’s corpse.

Isabelle.

She had gotten Madeleine out of Hawthorn; even if it was only for a moment, even if it was only a loan. She had known about the angel essence; about the addiction; and had still come back. Had still believed in Madeleine’s skills as an alchemist; in her as a teacher and as a mentor, and as a friend.

And in return, what had Madeleine done for her?

Nothing.

If only she’d had more time . . .