“But it wasn’t easy. I’m sorry.” It was rote, and thoughtless, and it was the absolute wrong thing he could have said.
“You’re not. And don’t change the subject, please.”
What could he tell her? He ought to lie; ought to make life easier for himself; but staring into those wide, shining eyes that still reflected the light of the City, Philippe found himself unable to twist the truth. “I’m not House, Isabelle. I’m only here under duress. You know that.”
“So you want to escape.” There was no condemnation on her face; only an odd kind of thoughtfulness, as if she’d found a behavior she couldn’t quite explain. In a way, that was worse. “Into another House.”
“No,” Philippe said. Anywhere but Houses. Back on the streets, or into Annam — waiting, as she herself had said, for a boat, for regular traffic to resume, or security on maritime commerce to grow slack. “But I can’t stay here, not on Selene’s terms. You have to see that.”
“I do.” Isabelle’s voice was still thoughtful. “I do understand. But this can’t be the right way to go about it.”
“Then give me another one.”
Isabelle flinched; but did not draw back, or apologize, as she might have done once. She had changed; carbon pressed together until it became the first inklings of a diamond.
“I can’t — I don’t know enough, Philippe.”
“I know,” he said, wearily. “But I need a way forward, Isabelle.” He needed — freedom? The same sense of weightlessness he’d once enjoyed in Annam, in the court of the Jade Emperor; when he moved among bejeweled ladies and haughty lords, drinking pale tea in celadon cups as fragile as eggshells — a feeling that was now lost forever. In that desperate longing he wasn’t so different from Fallen, after alclass="underline" a frightening thought.
She sat still for a while, staring at him; biting her lip, young and bewildered and lost. “I–I know. But you’re playing with fire, and I can’t. I need the House, Philippe, or I won’t survive. I can’t allow you to damage it, even if I understand why you’re doing it. I have to tell Selene.”
“No. Please.”
He was hurting the House, or planning to — it wasn’t a bad place to be, insofar as Houses went, and the people — Laure, Emmanuelle, the kitchen staff — had been kind to him. But it was a House — built on arrogance and blood and the hoarding of magic — and its master held the keys to his chains. He had… He had to be free.
“I won’t tell her it’s you,” Isabelle said. “But she needs to know what Hawthorn is doing.”
As if Selene wouldn’t guess which of her new arrivals was being unfaithful. “She’ll flay me,” Philippe said, reflexively; but something within him, something older and prouder, whispered, Let her try—and the voice was Morningstar’s.
What? No. That wasn’t — that wasn’t possible.
Isabelle shook her head. “She’s not like that. You don’t know her—”
Of course he knew her. She’d do anything to preserve her chosen Fallen and mortals, and let everyone else rot — and he couldn’t tell, anymore, if the thoughts were his or Morningstar’s. He teetered on the edge of the abyss where he would lose himself in a way utterly alien to him, subsumed in the unpalatable memories of a Fallen….
“Give me time,” he said through clenched lips. “Please, Isabelle. You know—”
“That you don’t mean harm?” She was silent for a while.
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t wish the House harm.” And it was a lie, and they both knew it. “But you have to see I’m a prisoner here.” As she was not. She was Fallen, with all the privileges this afforded her; and Silverspires was her home. It could never be his, even if it had been as welcoming as his own mother’s hearth. He was… Annamite. Other. “Please.”
Her eyes shone in the paleness of her face. “I can guess what you feel. I can—” She took in a deep, shaking breath. “I feel some of it.”
Philippe looked away, trying to avoid her gaze, or her three-fingered hand. What was it for her, the same as for him: an odd twisting in his belly; a nagging sense of always knowing where she was, a faint echo of what she felt? Affection, embarrassment? It was too weak an emotion, whatever was in her mind; and he wouldn’t understand her so easily. They moved in wholly different worlds.
“Then—” He hardly dared to breathe.
She didn’t move for a while. “Three days. That’s all I can give you, Philippe.”
After she’d left, he sat in his chair, staring at the book in front of him — the past that should have had no bearing on him — breathing hard.
Three days. He had three days before Selene was informed of what he was up to, and his life got a lot more difficult, and possibly a lot shorter. Three days to find something; that was if the memories didn’t kill him first.
He had to find out what was going on in the House, and not entirely so he could get rid of his chains.
No, he had to know, because it looked as though the curse wasn’t going to be content with the occasional vision from the past. If he didn’t understand it, he was going to find himself swept along in whatever twisted revenge the unknown Fallen had dreamed of, and utterly lose himself in the process.
SEVEN. A DARKNESS WITHIN THE HOUSE
HOUSE Lazarus stood a few hundred meters west of the Grands Magasins, though the contrast could not have been greater. The House had cleared its own surroundings. The streets were grime-splattered, the buildings stained with the black of magical residue, but everything was clear of debris: the railings freshly painted a shade of dark green, the clock on the frontispiece on time and chiming the quarter hours, and every window of the building decorated with elegant baize curtains. There were even a few cars parked in the large plaza in front of the House — though, judging by their worn-out appearance, they were more likely to belong to minor Houses or wealthy independents. Then again, Madeleine wasn’t sure how she’d have reacted, if she’d seen one of House Hawthorn’s big limousines parked in front of the House.
She’d taken one of the city’s large omnibuses; clutching the bag with the tools of her trade against her, enduring the suspicious gazes of her neighbors as they wondered why a House-bound would bother to take a horse-drawn, communal vehicle.
There were no guards at the main entrance; or, to be more accurate, no one who challenged her as she made her way under the wide arches of the House’s central building. House Lazarus prided itself on welcoming anyone in need, though that didn’t mean anyone could go wherever they wanted within the House. The relaxed attitude hid powerful defenses. Every House was a fortress guarded by spells and men. They had to be; otherwise they wouldn’t last long in the city.
The lower floor of House Lazarus was a wide, airy hall. The founder, Eugénie, had wished for it to be a place of sharing where the entire House could congregate, Fallen and mortals alike. In design it somewhat resembled the nearby Saint-Lazare station: a series of metal arches supporting a low roof, and long trestle tables where the rails would have been — each table divided in several segments where people dispensed anything from food to medical help. It was the heart of House Lazarus’s network of safe houses, the place everyone received their supplies or their attribution of beds or rooms, according to their needs. Philippe, apparently, had gone through there, too, which was unexpected; and even more unexpected was that he knew Claire. What was their relationship, exactly?
The queues were as busy as ever — watched over by what seemed like an army of guards. As Madeleine made her way to the right — where stairs led to the more private part of the building — there was a commotion — a scuffle, a burst of magic, and a brief scream, soon cut off. Someone had tried to cut ahead, or to steal something; and now lay dead on the floor. Claire ran a tight House, where there was no place for disorder.