The House of Shattered Wings

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.

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 further?”

“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?”

“Ah, Madeleine. A sweet, sweet child, the apple of your eye—”

Hardly. Selene snorted, and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for the sting.

“I warned you,” Claire said. “Do you know where she is now, Selene? She’s inhaling her life away in some corner of Silverspires, like some junkie on the streets.”

Inhaling. Selene said nothing, but she felt as though she’d been doused with a cold shower.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” Claire said. “Her lungs are wasted, and she’s never had much magical talent. How much easier to steal it away—”

“You will stop,” Selene said, slowly, coldly. “This… allegation has no truth.” But she’d heard Madeleine cough; had seen the circles under her eyes become larger; had felt the power that filled her alchemist from time to time, far larger and fierier than any magical talent Madeleine might have shown. For a mortal and an alchemist, she was shockingly undertalented. Selene had assumed sickness; there were more than enough of these going around.

“No?” Claire said. “My mistake, then. I’ll leave you to your House and the handling of your dependents.”

Madeleine. Angel essence. That… was not possible. She would have known. She should have known, if she’d been paying attention.

Someone came to stand by her side; with a shock, she realized Asmodeus had left his chair. “You’d do well to leave this alone,” he said to Claire.

“Why, Asmodeus.” Claire’s voice was coquettish. “One would almost think you cared for her.”

Asmodeus did not answer; but did not budge, either. There was something in his eyes: anger, fear? How could he possibly care about Madeleine?

By the looks of it, Claire couldn’t work it out, either. “As you wish,” she said. “I’ve said all I had to. Good-bye, Selene. I’ll see you on the parvis.”

After she’d gone, Asmodeus bowed to Selene, with the same old, usual irony. “And I shall see you later.”

“Asmodeus,” Selene said, when he started to move. He didn’t bother to turn around. “She’s right. You don’t care.”

A silence. Then, in a voice as cold as the chimes of winter: “Don’t presume to tell me about what and whom I should and shouldn’t care.”

And, with that, he was gone.

For what felt like an eternity, Selene stood there, trying to make sense of what he had said; knowing she was wasting her time, that he wouldn’t explain anything to anyone, least of all her. And now he was in her House looking for God knew what.

Great.

A knock on the door announced the arrival of Father Javier and Aragon, both in a mess and with the pale look of the sleepless. “Any news?” Selene asked.

Aragon shook his head. Father Javier said, “We’ve turned the House upside down. I think it’s gone—”

No. She didn’t have the strong link to the House Morningstar had had, another item on the long list of why she wasn’t and would never be Morningstar — but she was still linked to it, had still had toll taken from her and bound to the substance of the House. If she called the magic of the House to herself; if she held it, like a trembling breath, she could still feel the darkness that had slain Samariel; could taste it like bile and blood on her tongue. “It’s here,” she said. It hadn’t gone with Philippe, though there was but little doubt Philippe had been its catalyst. But he’d released something; something large and angry and deadly; and she had no idea where it could be hiding in the vast spaces and corridors of those disused buildings.

“I’ll need you to prepare,” she said to Father Javier. “And tell Choérine to do the same with her students.”

Javier had gone pale; though with his dark, Mediterranean countenance, it was merely a slight change of skin hues. “I have a few spells,” he said, “but you know the position of the Church—”

Selene smiled, bitterly. “I have faith. But faith isn’t always enough. And, to Aragon, “I’m sorry.”

Aragon shook his head. “I’m the one who should apologize. But it would be good if—”

“I know,” Selene said. Asmodeus be damned, she needed to see Emmanuelle; even if she was afraid of what she’d look like, of the new hollows the sickness would have carved into her cheekbones. “I’ll be by later.”

Aragon nodded, and withdrew. After a while, Javier did the same. He was too well-bred to say what he thought, but he wanted to protest. She could feel the mood of the House; knew what they all felt but wouldn’t say. They needed strong leadership, and they didn’t feel Selene was providing it, not anymore. It had been easy to head the House in the years of its power — or in as much of its power they could salvage, after the war and Morningstar’s departure — but now that the storm had come…

Well, she was all they had, and short of a miracle that Selene didn’t believe in, they’d have to weather this together.

Selene shook herself, and went to see Madeleine.

She shouldn’t have had to. There were far better uses of her time, and myriad things that needed to be done. But she was rattled, and the laboratory wasn’t far, and she was sure that just a few words would be enough to dispel Claire’s suggestions. All she was trying to do was set them at each other’s throat; to weaken Silverspires from within after failing to undermine it from without.

The laboratory was deserted: no sign of Madeleine, or Isabelle, though the latter’s red cloak lay on one of the large armchairs. An assortment of magical artifacts lay on the table, all of them shimmering with the potency of stored magic. There was a sheet with Madeleine’s painstaking, precise handwriting, making a note that some of the ones at the end would need to be emptied and renewed soon. Good. In times like this, it was better to know what they had; though they should think about storing more magic. She herself had been remiss on that, lately, with the various emergencies….

They couldn’t have been gone long, or planned to be gone for very long, given the state of disarray; though, to be fair, Madeleine’s laboratory was always in a state of disarray.

There was nothing in the laboratory to vindicate Claire’s suspicions. At least, nothing visible. Selene took a deep breath — what was she doing, giving in to suspicions? — and gathered to herself the magic of the House. For a moment, she hung in a timeless space; feeling the connections between the House and its dependents, the ghosts of the dead and the roiling, anguished magic spread throughout Paris; tasting blood on her tongue, and the darkness around them, barely held at bay by Morningstar’s wards.

There was… something in the laboratory, or rather the remnants of something. Selene spoke the words of a spell of retrieval, and let the magic guide her to a drawer in the secretary. When she opened it, it was empty, but a slight shimmering indicated a ward. She punched through it and the ward disintegrated, but the drawer was still empty.

Selene let go of the magic. Suspicions, nothing more; Claire playing them all for fools. She shouldn’t have entered her game; whatever secrets Madeleine was keeping, they were none of her business. God knew everyone from Javier to Aragon to her was keeping secrets — she might not be taking in all the strays, as Claire had accused her of, but many people in Silverspires had come here because it was a refuge — and one could seek refuge from many things, not all of which could be freely admitted.

She was about to leave the room when something caught her attention: something that jangled in the subtle tracery of magic, a feeling like something scraping her skin raw. She followed it to a smaller cabinet, which she opened. There was nothing there, either, in any of the compartments; but when she put her hand in one of them, she felt the scalding heat. Something powerful had been kept there: a pendant, judging by the empty jewelry box still bearing its imprint.

“Show me,” she whispered, and put her hand in the box. When she withdrew it, there were minute traces, like dust. Without the magic, she wouldn’t have seen them, but with it, they burned like raging fire. An intimately, obscenely familiar touch: a power that required its users to take always more, always more often — to find more bones, more Fallen corpses to strip — a power that fueled its existence on the death of her kind, an abomination that shouldn’t have been allowed to exist.

Angel essence.

Claire had been right, then, damn her.

Selene reached into the cabinet, and incinerated the jewelry box and every trace of essence it had contained: an empty, grandiloquent gesture, but it made her feel better.

Angel essence. How could Madeleine be so stupid? It was forbidden in Silverspires, because all it did was beget more deaths, more junkies clamoring for a fix; all that for a power they were too drugged to properly master. Morningstar had despised it, and she was no different. She would not have it in her House. Not now, not ever.

* * *

MADELEINE stood on the bridge, staring down into the waters of the Seine — fighting her instinct to take a few steps backward, to be safe from whatever might come up from the river. “Here?” she asked. Below her, black waves were lapping at the embankment. The stone was stained dark, with the oily residue of the water still clinging to the mortar; and the water itself was foaming, far more than it should have been — much as if you’d poured soap into a bath, though she very much doubted it was similarly innocuous. She wouldn’t have leaped into that water, even if you’d paid her. “That’s really not attractive—”

“I think it’s here.” Isabelle bit her lip. “That’s where he is, but they have to grant us entry.”

“You’re not making sense,” Madeleine said. She carried her bag close to her, the weight of the artifacts a reassurance that she could handle whatever they happened to find. Isabelle hadn’t been forthcoming with any information; or rather, the little she’d given Madeleine had added up to no coherent picture. She should have been scared, if she’d had any sense; but the memory of Asmodeus’s fingers, still stained with blood — of being unerringly picked out from where she stood, as if he’d had eyes on the back of his head — left her no room to fear anything else.

The river. Everyone in their right mind avoided the Seine; and here they were, headed straight into its heart — to the frothing insanity it had become, corrupted by the remnants of spells and magical weapons. “Isabelle?”

Isabelle said nothing for a while. Her eyes were closed, and the low-key radiance that emanated from her body intensified — until everything around her, from the stunted trees to the broken benches, seemed slightly grayer, slightly less colorful. The light spread, slowly, softly, engulfing the embankment, the patches of dirty, foamy white on the river; the overcast sky above. Everything seemed limned in that curious illumination, everything somehow diminished, bereft of something vital.

“Speak to me,” Isabelle said, and her voice rang like a bell tolling for the dead.

There were stairs, leading down the embankment onto a small stone dock, where boats would sometimes moor. But, on the last step of the flight of stairs, a shadow caught the light: a hint of something that wasn’t quite there. “Speak to me,” Isabelle said.

The shadow solidified, became the outline of an Annamite pavilion: the elegant curve of the roof, the sharp, brittle brightness of lacquer, the flowing lines of calligraphy on the wooden pillars.

Impossible. This was Paris, not the colonies. There could be nothing like this here…. But Philippe had come to the city, and perhaps other things had. Madeleine found, by touch more than by sight, the pendant around her neck, filled with angel essence, let the warmth of its power wash over her until nothing of fear remained. Oris. She was doing this for Oris, and for Emmanuelle; and so that the Silverspires she knew could continue to exist.

Isabelle opened her eyes. They were white, filled with the same light that flowed out of her. “Come, Madeleine.”

The air changed as they descended the stairs. It was still clogged with the acrid smell of magic, burning the lungs, but it acquired a peculiar tang, something salty and electric that Madeleine could not place, until she remembered standing by a well in a disused garden, breathing in the smell of rain after the storm. It wove in and out of her lungs, until she felt almost — not healed; nothing could do that, but healthier, the damages of the drug covered by a thin coating of seawater and algae. Nothing should have been able to do that. And she could feel something else, something weaving in and out of her mind, fingers like the teeth of a comb, raking thoughts out of her almost as soon as they surfaced — she fought it, but it was a constant effort to keep everything in place without that alien tampering.

What was this place?

“It’s a dragon kingdom,” Isabelle said, as if she read her thoughts.

“Dragons don’t exist.” The insignia of House Draken had been a rearing dragon, but it was a mythical animal, nothing more. Summoning creatures was impossible.

“Maybe not. Maybe.” Isabelle had that peculiar smile again, half-amused, half-bewildered, as if she knew something but couldn’t remember how she’d come by that knowledge.

At the bottom of the steps, the pavilion had taken on body and heft: no longer a silhouette, it towered over them, its colors vivid in the gray light — red and gold and the deep brown of mahogany. Closer, though, it didn’t quite look as impressive: patches of mold and gray foam had eaten away at the paint; the lacquer, cracked and damaged, had flaked away; and the pillars smelled of rot and damp. So even that dragon kingdom, whatever it was, hadn’t been spared by the war. It made Madeleine perversely glad, that nothing had been spared; and yet…

And yet, what would it have been like, at the height of its glory? As blinding as Silverspires, a refuge for Philippe’s kind in the city: bright and welcoming and so terribly unsettling, with that odd tang in the air, that nameless feeling sinking its claws into her, digging into her brain like a worm; making her feel healed, making her feel whole.

Serenity, she thought, and the word was like ice in her mind. She couldn’t afford that, couldn’t let go of fear. It was what kept her alive, for what little time she had left. It was what kept her away from Asmodeus.

“It’s old,” Isabelle said, pausing, for a moment, with awe in her voice, before turning and walking straight on, between the two pillars. As soon as she’d set foot under the temple, her image wavered; became fainter, billowing like a water reflection in a windy day; disappeared altogether from view.

Madeleine looked up. The steps of the embankment, too, had vanished, and she stood within a circle of perfect silence; breathing in, breathing out, a salty taste like tears on her tongue.

Well, there was nothing for it. She reached for the pendant around her neck, opened it; and in a single, practiced gesture, inhaled the angel essence from it.

Fire, in her belly — light, radiating from her outstretched hands — she could do anything, challenge anyone, defend anyone and anything. Slowly, carefully, she rode the crest of the wave, soothing the magic within her until it lay quiescent, ready to be called on at a moment’s notice.

Then, without looking back, she stepped under the pavilion, and followed Isabelle into the dragon kingdom of the Seine.

* * *

SHE’D expected many things, but not a palace — a fragile assembly of courtyards and pavilions of nacre and jade, with marble steps and red-lacquered pillars — all spread below the hill on which she stood. Everything shimmered and danced; and the people moving in the various courtyards all but disappeared from sight as the waters around her shifted.

She could breathe, but that somehow didn’t surprise her; or at least wasn’t any more surprising than anything in the previous hour. As she walked, she felt again the place getting at her — soothing fright and surprise out of her, trying to make her feel at ease. No. She couldn’t.

Had to fight it, had to remain on her guard—

A flight of stairs cut into the hill led downward. They crunched underfoot, and she realized as she descended that she walked on thousands of fish scales — dark and dull, with none of the iridescence they should have had. Below her stretched a vast plain: a palace in the foreground, in the midst of a city arranged on a grid pattern, with narrow houses crammed together, and small silhouettes carrying water pails, fruit, and wooden boxes.

Everything was… charged, saturated with that curious energy of the embankment steps: something that wasn’t magic, that had no business healing or reviving, but that still soothed her hollowed lungs; that still sought to dig its way into her thoughts. The place set her on edge; or rather, it should have, but again there was that relaxing, soothing atmosphere about it that kept dampening down her fear.

At the bottom of the steps, Isabelle was arguing with two guards. As Madeleine walked closer, it became clearer neither of them was human. They had the same dull and dead fish scales on their cheeks, and thin, curved mustaches like catfish, though they shared Philippe’s dark complexion. Their eyes, as they turned to take her in, were like nothing she’d seen: pearly white, gleaming in all colors like bubbles of soap.

“And who is this?” the taller of the guards asked. Madeleine had expected him to speak Annamite; but he spoke French, without a trace of an accent. That odd magic that wasn’t magic again, translating for her benefit? Or, like Philippe, enough years spent in France or in its colonies to speak fluently?

“She’s with me,” Isabelle said. “Now will you listen to me?”

The guard said nothing. He was watching her, holding a spear with a curved blade at the top — afraid, Madeleine thought. Afraid of what she could do, in this kingdom that was no longer young, or powerful, or undamaged.

“We don’t have a policy of welcoming strangers,” the guard said.

“I found the door,” Isabelle said.

“A party trick,” the second guard said, frowning. “Do you have the gifts?”

“What gifts? I already told you—”

“Fallen magic isn’t welcome here,” the taller guard said. He hefted his spear; his grip on it was white. “Play your power games above the surface, but don’t bring them here. There has been enough destruction, my lady.”

“I told you,” Isabelle said, “I’m just here to find a friend, and then I’ll leave.”

“Your friend enjoys the hospitality of the king.” The guard smiled at that, a not entirely pleasant expression, as if he’d remembered a joke at their expense.

“So he is here,” Madeleine said, aloud.

“Of course,” the guard said. “It’s hardly a secret.”

Isabelle was obviously getting nowhere; not that Madeleine was more gifted in diplomatic matters, but by comparison… “Who rules here? The king?”

The two guards looked at each other, and then back at her. The pearls under their chins pulsed, faintly, to the rhythm of Isabelle’s light. “The king is… indisposed.”

“Then his son,” Madeleine said. “Or his daughter.” She tried to remember the little she knew about Annamite society, but her thoughts slid away from her. Damn this place — she could barely focus here. “A prince? A princess? Take us to them.” She bent toward the guard, letting the magic trapped within her roil to the surface. “Or do you want us to bring the devastation of the surface world your way?” It was a lie, of course; judging by the rank darkness of the waters, and the unhealthy look of the guards, the surface had already intruded. The pollution of the Seine had spread to the underwater kingdom.

The guards looked at each other again, and then back at Isabelle — who waited with arms crossed on her chest, the water around her getting warmer with every passing moment. The taller one swallowed, a sound that rang like a gunshot underwater; resonating for far longer than it would have on land. “We’ll take you to Princess Ngoc Bich.”

The palace turned out to be a maze of courtyards with small buildings. Everything was open and airy, the roofs resting on lacquered pillars, and the gardens filled with water lily pools, and a distant music like drums or gongs, moving to the same slow, stately rhythms as the touch on Madeleine’s thoughts. At last, they reached a squatter, larger building; its windows slit faience, drawing elegant characters in a long-forgotten script. They entered it, and found themselves in darkness. Gradually, as they walked forward, Madeleine’s eyes became used to the dim light, and she was able to make out the room.

It was huge and cavernous; in a palace made of coral and mother-of-pearl, something that seemed to hearken to a more primitive time, its walls carved of black rock, its floor skittering sand instead of square tiles.

At the center of the room was a throne, raised on steps covered with ceramic tiles: a riot of blue and yellow and other vivid colors, painted in exquisite, alien detail, under a delicate canopy of glass, though there, too, rot clung to the tiles, and unhealthy-looking algae had crept over the painted characters and landscapes. On the throne, a golden statue of a man, seated, dressed in ample robes and looking straight at them. Like the guards, he had a pearl at his throat, and a thin mustache, and a scattering of scales on his cheeks.

“The Dragon King,” Isabelle whispered.

There was another, similar dais a bit farther down; still being erected, with workmen carrying in tiles and wooden planks. An artisan was working on a matching throne, carefully laying gilt over the intricate wooden carving. He was doing so under the gaze of a woman, who turned as they came in. “What do we have here?” she asked. She smiled, but it was a thin, joyless thing: a veneer of courtly politeness that ill masked her annoyance.

“They said they wanted to see you, Your Majesty,” the taller guard said.

The woman — Ngoc Bich — looked at them, carefully, like a hound or a wolf, wondering how much of a threat they were. “Visitors. It’s not often that we have them.” She wore white makeup, which didn’t cover the places where her skin had flaked off; the bones poking through her flesh were an obscene, polished ivory on a background of vivid red. “Fallen. And”—her gaze rested longer on Madeleine, and she smiled again—“not Fallen, but partaking of their magic. You shouldn’t, you know. It’s a cancer.”

Madeleine certainly wasn’t about to be lectured by anyone, least of all a dragon princess from some nebulous, unspecified realm that kept grating on her nerves — never mind that they’d stepped into that realm and were at her mercy. “I’m quite all right, thank you.”

“We’re not.” Ngoc Bich’s hand trailed, encompassed the entirety of the place; the pervasive rot, the workers with their mottled skin; the golden man on his golden throne. “You’d do well to remember it was angel magic that did this.”

“Precisely.” Isabelle’s smile had the sharpness of a knife. “We’ll be on our way when we have what we want.”

“Don’t tell me,” Ngoc Bich said. “If you came here following your head of House, you’ll be sadly disappointed. He left some time ago.”

“We’re not here—” Isabelle started, but Madeleine cut her off.

“What do you mean?” They’d only had two heads of House, and only one Fallen who had manifested as a man. “Morningstar came here? When?”

“Some years ago,” Ngoc Bich said. “It’s hard to keep track — time wanders and meanders here, away from the mortal world.” She paused, made a show of remembering — clearly she had no need to do so, even to Madeleine’s untrained eyes. “Twenty years ago.”

Just before he had vanished for good. “I don’t understand,” Madeleine said. “Why was he here?”

Ngoc Bich smiled, showing the fangs of a predator. “Because like speaks to like. Power to power. He wanted power like a dying man wants life.”

“Your power,” Isabelle said, flatly.

“Anything that would have helped him,” Ngoc Bich said. “There was a ritual he wanted to attempt; something he needed my help for. He wanted to keep his House safe, you see.” She smiled, again — a wholly unpleasant expression.

“From what?”

“A threat.”

The shadows. The ones Philippe had brought into the House. “Shadows? The shadows that kill. What are they?”

“I don’t know.” Ngoc Bich shrugged. “He left when I couldn’t give him what he wanted. He was going to attempt his spell without my help. I presume it worked — you’re still here. The House is still here.”

Still here — such a casual assessment, failing to encompass Morningstar’s disappearance; the gentle decline of Silverspires; and the quicker, bloodier deaths of the previous days. “What spell?” Madeleine asked.

“A beseeching.” Ngoc Bich’s voice was emotionless. “An offering of himself as a burned sacrifice, to safeguard his House and forever be delivered from darkness.”

None of it made any sense to Madeleine. She was going to ask more, but Isabelle finally lost patience.

“The past is all well and good, but it doesn’t concern us,” she said to Ngoc Bich. “You know that’s not why we’re here, or what we want.”

“Which is—?”

“Philippe. And you know exactly who I mean. Don’t lie.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Ngoc Bich turned toward one of the workers, who was dragging a wooden statue of some god with a halberd. “I gave you enough, I feel. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I won’t.”

Madeleine drifted away from the conversation. There was something about the first dais that attracted her gaze, and she wasn’t quite sure what; but the angel magic sang in her veins and in her bones, drawing her irremediably to the golden throne and the figure seated on it.

It was a good likeness — idealized in the way all statues were; but staring at the broad, open face creased in its enigmatic smile, she could almost get a sense of who he was — no-nonsense, disinclined to be patient or diplomatic, with the sharpness of a razor. So why the dais, and why the statue? She knew little of Annamite customs, but this looked like a throne room; except were throne rooms meant to be this subdued, this somber? Something was… not quite right.

At the back, behind the dais, was what looked like a secretary of wood inlaid with gold tracings, adorned with two large porcelain vases, and a large three-tiered bronze container with elaborate handles, and a crouching lion at the top of its dome, and two incense sticks in a hollow halfway up the structure. Two bowls held bananas and mangoes, and a candle burned on the right side. An altar, though she didn’t know to what god: there was a red sign with characters over it, but of course Madeleine couldn’t read it.

Madeleine found herself reaching for the fruit, stopped herself just in time. Instead, she nudged her stolen angel magic to life, willing it to pick up what scraps of meaning it could from the table and from the emotions that had to be roiling in the room.

There was… hope, and love, and awe — and a sense of loss, of grief so powerful it overwhelmed everything else. The red sign over the table — no, not a table; an ancestral altar — the red sign said THE KING OF DRAGONS, THE EMPEROR OF GREAT VIRTUE, ADMIRABLY FILIAL, LONG-LIVED AND PROSPEROUS, ADMIRER OF THE ARTS, DESTINED TO UNIFY THE WARRING PEOPLE, and the fruit and the candles were offerings, so that the soul of the dead might look kindly upon their descendants. She had a vision, for a split moment, of a younger Ngoc Bich bowing before the altar, lighting a stick of incense; saw the tears streaming down her face. Which meant—

Which meant this wasn’t a throne room.

It was a mausoleum.

Which meant—

Her heart in her throat, Madeleine looked at the second dais; and found, among the artisans, one working on a second red sign, carefully filling in the outline of characters with golden paint. THE PRINCE OF DRAGONS, PHAM VAN MINH KHIET PHILIPPE, ADMIRABLY FILIAL, BLESSED WITH HEALTH AND CONTENTMENT, WHO WAS BORN IN THOI BIEN IN TIMES LONG GONE BY, AND CAME TO US FROM SILVERSPIRES.

Philippe.

There was no time. Isabelle was still embroiled in her bitter argument with Ngoc Bich, futilely trying to get her to admit where Philippe was.

Whereas Madeleine knew.

She drew her power to her like a mantle, and ran toward the dais.