The House of Shattered Wings

The mistress of House Silverspires wore practical, no-nonsense clothing—even though the fashion she favored was that of fifty, sixty years ago, before the war, at the height of the Belle Epoque: a black swallow-tailed coat over black trousers, a white bow tie, and a simple sash of indigo crossing the white shirt. She had no hat, and her short, masculine bob of auburn hair shone in the light. Behind her was a crowd: Father Javier, the archivist, Raoul, Dr. Lesbros and two orderlies, and a dozen other people who worked in the kitchens and in the libraries and in the classrooms of the House: a sea of gazes unerringly trained on Madeleine.

Selene’s gray eyes were mildly curious, but as always with her, Madeleine was . . . awkward, gangly. Selene might not have been the oldest Fallen in the city, but her master, Morningstar, had been, before he had vanished; and as his favorite student she had picked up many of his mannerisms and sharpened them until it seemed nothing of Morningstar’s occasional, amused mercy remained.

Madeleine swallowed, feeling embarrassed and ill at ease. “It’s . . . not working well,” she said.

*

SELENE received the new arrivals for a private audience, as had always been the custom of the House: alone in her office, with her bodyguards standing at attention outside the room. She received them both at the same time—not what custom dictated—because, as Madeleine d’Aubin’s report had made clear, they would not be so easily parted.

The young man, Philippe, was stiff and prim. Madeleine’s exam had confirmed he was no Fallen, that he bore no scars on his back, nor possessed any characteristics that could be of use. His breath, sealed in Madeleine’s containers, had no magical properties; to all intents and purposes, he was what he appeared to be: a young man adrift in Paris joining a gang as his only way to survive.

His behavior, though, was nothing like a young man’s; but spoke of customs and manners from another culture, from another age. “Lady Selene,” he said. “I understand we both owe you our lives.” His face was calm, expressionless, nothing of anger or of shame in it. What was he, truly? Like nothing she had ever seen or heard of—and there was potential in that. Morningstar might have considered him a threat, but she wasn’t Morningstar; and, especially, she didn’t have the magic he had used to effortlessly keep the House safe.

“You are here because I was curious. Don’t mistake it for mercy on my part. I know exactly what you were doing.” Blood and flesh and severed fingers; no better than the gang thugs in the streets, a handsome face covering the mind of a savage.

Philippe gazed back at her, quite unfazed. “So, if not mercy . . . what can I expect of you?”

A sharp eye on him, for a start. An education, if it was not too late to bring him back to decency; to unravel who and what he was, and how he had come to be in Paris. And ultimately, how he could be of use to the House, to guard it against its rivals and make it flourish in the lean, famished times after the war. “From this House? A chance to mend your ways, I should say.”

Something was in his eyes: amusement, anger? He was oddly hard to read, closed off like no human or Fallen she’d ever met. “And why should I take up this offer?”

What pointless arrogance. “I think you misunderstand,” Selene said, and let a fraction of power brush against him; a cold touch to remind him of who he was facing. “You don’t have a choice. But if you did have one, I would point out that living in a House is much better than scavenging in the streets.”

“Being fed and fattened while you seek to untangle my deepest secrets?”

“You could always save me time and tell me what you are,” Selene said.

He shook his head. “As you said, your curiosity is all that’s keeping me alive at the moment, and I’m not foolish enough to sate it.”

She wanted to open him like a nut: here, in her House, at the center of her power, she could burst through his thoughts, drain every drop of blood from his body if she had to. Except, of course, that he was probably more than capable of defending himself against her. With difficulty, she controlled herself. What was it about the young man that made it so hard to keep her temper in check? “Have it your way, then. I’ll certainly have mine in the end.”

“Perhaps.” Philippe’s voice was shaking, and this time the anger was unmistakable. “So I am to be your prisoner?”

Selene had little use for his anger; and no pity for the riffraff of the streets. “For what you did—for the fingers you severed from her—the punishment would be death. You should count yourself lucky.”

Philippe’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement; but then his gaze turned to the young Fallen by his side; and much to Selene’s surprise he said, gravely, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend things to turn out this way, but that doesn’t excuse me.”

It didn’t, Selene wanted to say; but she wasn’t the one with the grievance. The young Fallen gazed back at Philippe levelly, her hands in her lap, the left hand with its two missing fingers quite visible in the sunlight. She said nothing, until at length Philippe lowered his gaze, and fell silent.

Good. She might be innocent, but she was not altogether defenseless.