“I’m not used to this kind of event,” he said.
“Indeed.” Samariel inclined his head, gravely. “To be fair, most people here aren’t. The last such conclave—”
“Was a disaster.”
Samariel’s lips tightened. “Rather, yes,” he said. “You weren’t there, I take it?”
“I was brought in… afterward,” Philippe said. When the war had gone badly, when the Houses had needed all the bodies they could spare, and had bled their colonies dry to provide soldiers for the slaughter.
Parasites, all of them; smiling and bowing in their lace clothes from another age; subsisting on blood. For this, Hoang had died, and Ai Linh, and Phuong, and the rest of his unit. The lot of them could go burn in the Christian Hell.
Except, of course, that it wouldn’t bring back the dead, or free him from this captivity.
“Count yourself fortunate, then,” Samariel said. He laid a hand on Philippe’s shoulder, casually sliding it down to his wrist; like the last time, his touch was as cool as frost, but there was warmth at its core, slowly rising, burning fire held in a fist of ice. “It’s a shame, really. I was told the view from the Hôtel-Dieu was beautiful, but I was given a room in the Old Wing.”
“The Hôtel-Dieu is a hospital,” Philippe said, not sure where Samariel wanted to go.
“A ruin.” Samariel’s voice was grave, but he said nothing more.
At length, Philippe spoke up, voicing only what was expected of him. “So, where did they put you up?”
Samariel’s smile was wide and sharp, like broken mirrors. “The North Wing. At the end of the corridor on the ground floor, the first one on your right when you enter from the street.”
Philippe nodded. “Not such a great view. You should go out more: in Notre-Dame, or around the market plaza.”
“Oh, indeed.” Samariel’s fingers rested, lightly, on Philippe’s wrist, like the points of claws. “That’s an idea. But at night, I think it best that I stay there, and enjoy what might happen in the House. Silverspires is… such an interesting place.” He smiled again, and withdrew his hand; and wandered away as if nothing had happened. But he’d been clear; too clear, in fact — Philippe turned around, unsure if anyone was watching. There was only the usual crowd. A middle-aged woman — Lazarus’s alchemist, Anna, if he recalled correctly — was talking earnestly to a tall, red-haired Fallen from House Harrier, but neither of them appeared to have paid attention to him.
Where was Isabelle—? No, he didn’t need to worry about her: her presence was a white-hot brand at the back of his neck, the same link that had drawn her to him when he met Samariel for the first time; the awareness that they were bound together even more tightly than he was bound to the House. He found himself walking through the crowd, until he reached a corner of the room; where she stood talking to Claire, a frown on her face.
Unfair. She was no match for Claire.
Claire was dressed in a low-cut black dress with golden flecks and the outline of a deer: a revealing confection that was meant for a much younger woman, but trust Claire to carry it off. She positively glowed — with a bit of Fallen magic, quite probably, and also with a sharp happiness that made him wary. All the heads of Houses looked like tigers who’d just caught prey — which boded ill for Silverspires.
He shouldn’t have cared; not about a House that kept him prisoner, a House that he’d agreed to betray. But if Silverspires fell it would be like House Draken all over again: running away in the darkness and clutching his wounds, hunting in the blackened streets of Paris for food and magic and knowing that the Houses held all of it. “Lady Claire,” he said, bowing.
Claire smiled. “Why, Philippe. How… uncharacteristic of you to interfere in another House’s affairs.”
Still angry at him, then; but he wasn’t surprised.
Isabelle relaxed a fraction when he appeared, although she threw him a sharp glance that told him she hadn’t forgotten about her threat to inform Selene. The three days she’d given him had passed; he’d waited, fearfully, for Selene to turn up at the door of his room, but nothing had happened. Perhaps she already had told Selene; but if that had been the case, why was he still at liberty, and not imprisoned somewhere under the House?
“I was asking Isabelle about happenings in Silverspires,” Claire said.
Isabelle looked ill at ease — Philippe could guess the sort of sharp, pointed questions Claire would make, trying to see what Selene was thinking; where she could gain the advantage. And he wasn’t sure how much Isabelle knew — how much Emmanuelle and the others had told her.
“I see,” he said. “I didn’t know it was such an interesting topic.”
“Oh, Philippe. Everyone is talking about Silverspires tonight. And with good reason.” Claire smiled, that self-deprecating expression that made her look like a harmless old lady. It didn’t fool Philippe for one moment. “Wondering what Selene will have thought of to entertain us.” Her gaze wandered through the room, encompassing the faded peonies on the wallpaper; the dull color of the mahogany tables. She didn’t need to say what was on her mind.
“People died,” Isabelle said sharply. “It’s not entertainment.”
Claire smiled. “Of course not. Death is a serious matter.”
Philippe doubted that she meant it. “What do you want, Claire?”
Claire’s gaze narrowed. “You’ve changed, Philippe. I never thought you’d be quite so… domesticated. What do you owe Silverspires?”
“A roof over his head. Protection,” Isabelle said, in a low but firm voice.
“Gratitude?” Claire laughed. “That’s for the young and the naive. You’ll learn better in time, I expect.”
Isabelle, pale and flustered, looked as though she was going to say something. Don’t, Philippe thought. He sought her gaze; locked with it. Go away, he mouthed. At least he was used to fencing with Claire.
Thankfully, she took the hint. “I… have business elsewhere,” she said, and retreated through the crowd — Philippe saw Emmanuelle swoop from the conversation she was in and steer her toward the buffet. Good.
Now it was just him and Claire, and Claire was smiling widely. “Your pet, Philippe? You didn’t use to be… so altruistic.”
She’d asked him to join the House, seeing him as an asset worth having; even without knowing about his powers, she had seen a sharp, keen mind and the skills that had enabled him to survive on the streets for months. Like Selene, she’d seen him as a puzzle to be cracked; and as with Selene, he had refused her. She had never forgiven him. “She’s my friend,” Philippe said.
“You didn’t used to have friends, either. Or should I say you were very bad with other people’s overtures?” Claire said. “So powerful, and yet so young and frightened. By the time she masters her own powers, they’ll have diminished so much she won’t be much use. Perhaps that’s the world’s way of making sure Fallen don’t rule us all.”
“You mean, more than they do now? What part of the city do they not run? Lazarus?” It was unwise to bait her, but he couldn’t help it.
“Lazarus is their equal,” Claire said. “If anyone is under siege — not, of course, that you’ll care; you never have — it’s you, Philippe.”
He was going to say something — something smart, something biting — when he looked at her hands — wrinkled and pale, loaded with expensive rings — and the darkness rose within him — a flash of something that tightened in his flesh, until he was staring at Claire’s hands again — some of the same rings, but clearly the hands of a younger woman. She was holding the mirror; the polished pool of obsidian they’d found under the throne, except that the paper around it was brand-new, the ink still glistening in the light of a lamp Philippe couldn’t see…