What?
Another memory — another vision of the past? Had Claire handled the mirror at some point? She was mortal — no more than sixty, seventy years old, and the hands he’d seen weren’t those of a young woman.
“You’ve been here before,” Philippe said, slowly, carefully — the vision with the mirror wavering, fading — replaced by something else, a haze that seemed to descend over the room, a thin layer where everything was pristine, everything cast in light…
With all his strength, he willed the vision to go away — he couldn’t afford to let Claire see him distracted, to let her even guess at the enormity of what he was carrying with him.
“Of course I have been here before,” Claire said. “Heads of Houses do visit other Houses.” Her voice was low, condescending; but she held his gaze — wondering what was happening.
“The cathedral,” Philippe whispered, trying to ignore the way the entire room seemed to shift.
All you hold dear will be shattered; all that you built will fall into dust; all that you gathered will be borne away by the storm….
“What of it?” Claire shrugged. “It’s a lovely place. Well, it used to be — like so many things, it’s fallen into disarray since the war. Selene should clean her House.”
“Of what?” Philippe asked.
Claire shook her head. “Of the rot at its heart.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he spat, but he did know. His gaze moved, to encompass the guests on the floor; the little knots of elegant conversation; the sea of colorful dresses and swallow-tailed coats; the expectant faces those of predators awaiting the right time to pounce, everyone gossiping and making careful approaches, trying to see who stood where.
In his vision, the peonies on the wall were a vivid pink, a color so pure it almost hurt the eyes; the smell wasn’t that of humidity and mold, but the sharp one of new paint; and people in old-fashioned clothes mingled by a buffet much as this one — save that the room was brightly lit, and that he who cast such light was standing by the buffet, raising a jeweled glass to study the wine contained within, with the effortless grace and contained power that made him the center of attention….
No, not now. Not. Now.
Philippe closed his eyes. When he opened them again the vision had receded, though a hint of Morningstar’s presence still hung over the room — a reflected, shadowy glory that only drove home how shabby everything had become. Claire was right; they had diminished so much.
Good. They were his enemies, and he wouldn’t allow himself to forget for even one moment.
Claire was gone, and he was alone in a slowly widening circle of people. Before anyone could engage him in more inane conversation, he moved toward the buffet, grabbing a cocktail piece at random: something with shrimp imported all the way from Brest or Guérande — the price of this alone would ruin Silverspires more surely than the rival Houses.
Philippe was about to head over to the seating plan when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something creeping across one of the room’s huge mirrors. When he turned, there was nothing. Puzzled, he took a few steps; and again something noiselessly slid past, this time in the facets of the empty crystal glasses. Nothing again when he turned; though this time, when he moved again, he was ready for it.
He didn’t catch anything — just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, of something flowing like darkest ink, something large and shadowy that spread wings as sharp as knives — and a sense of pressure against his throat, an irrational fear that clogged his chest with shards of ice. What—?
He’d seen this before — a shadow, passing across the sun; the impression of huge wings over the ruins of the Préfecture — a memory of Samariel lifting his head to stare at the sky, as though it contained more than gray overcast….
That day, Oris had died.
Forcing himself to breathe, he moved across the room, bumping into people in his eagerness to keep an eye on mirrors and glass. Every time he moved, the darkness seemed to flow across the room, in empty wineglasses, in mirrors, in spectacles, in diamond pendants and polished silver fob watches; but it disappeared as soon as he tried to focus on it. It was real — rising, searching, sniffing the air like a blind, monstrous worm — something that made the room seem smaller, its air a miasma worse than the polluted clouds near the Seine; something looking for a way in…
He came to with a start. He was staring at the seating plan, his hand frozen over Selene’s name — she was at the largest table with the other heads of Houses, of course, but that wasn’t what mattered. Cautiously, he craned his neck to the left and then to the right: nothing but the glitter of light on wineglasses. The darkness was gone, as if it had never been.
But it would be back.
NINE. A FALLEN’S LAST BREATH
LATER, after the formal dinner was over, they had coffee and biscuits; and then, in groups of twos and threes, everyone headed for bed. The conclave proper — the assembly between the various delegations, where everyone would scrutinize the inner workings of Silverspires — would not start until the following morning. This was merely its opening salvo; that tense moment before battle was joined, when everyone checked the bullets in their guns and the readiness of their spells, knowing they would see use before long. Philippe was not a dependent of the House, and not privy to whatever had brought them all here; but what he’d gleaned from conversations was that it was serious business, and that several dependents might be taken aside for questioning by the other Houses. He didn’t envy them the company of a dozen overarrogant Fallen and magicians, all trying to ferret out the secrets of the House.
Philippe and Emmanuelle walked Isabelle back to her room — then Emmanuelle left, and Isabelle smiled. “You’re not going to sneak away like a thief, are you?”
Philippe shook his head. He was tired, and the shadows slid across the back of his mind like woken snakes — demons take propriety and ritual, he couldn’t decently refuse her.
He found himself cradling a cup of tea while Isabelle hunted for biscuits through the drawers of her huge desk. One would expect her room to be cold, devoid of ornaments; but in reality it was like Madeleine’s laboratory: a mess of papers on every available surface, pictures at angles on the walls, covering one another in their eagerness to decorate the room — everything from pictures of Notre-Dame before the war, to a more modern print she must have got from Javier’s photographic darkroom (which must have taken a fair amount of seduction, because supplies were rare and expensive, and Javier didn’t give his photographs to just anyone).
“You didn’t need to walk me back,” Isabelle said.
Shadows. Darkness. Morningstar’s burning gaze in the facets of crystal glasses. “I did.”
“I’m not a child!”
But she was — and thank Heaven for that. She was everything the House couldn’t corrupt, gangly and ill at ease, as impulsive and disorganized as Madeleine — perhaps not quite the same as she’d been when they first arrived there, but close enough that he could remember a time before Silverspires, before the imprisonment that chafed at him. Speaking of which… “It’s been over three days, and you haven’t spoken to Selene.”
Her eyes were bright, feverish in her shadowed face. “I will. Believe me. When the conclave is over and she can listen to other things than the intrigues of Houses. What do you think you’re doing?”
“I told you. Looking for a way out.” Philippe shivered. It was going nowhere: their conversation the same as it had been before, in the library. “Can we leave it at that? You disapprove, and I don’t. There is nothing to be gained here.” He shivered. And, because he couldn’t quite ignore his conscience, he added, “You should be careful. There are… things in the darkness here.”