She shouldn’t. She couldn’t afford another apprentice to mother, another potential wound on the fabric of her heart. Oris had been bad enough; but Oris had been old, and canny enough to learn the basics of survival, even if he had never learned to think for himself as an alchemist. Isabelle was a child, that odd Fallen mixture of shrewd and naive and reckless; and who knew if she would learn the lessons she needed before it all killed her?
She shouldn’t.
“I’ll do my best,” she said, and let her hand stray over to Isabelle, to cover the hollow place where the two fingers were missing.
Below, the interminable welcoming ceremony looked to be over, all the Houses aligned on the steps in a blur of uniforms: an image from the past, Isabelle had said, but they reminded Madeleine of nothing so much as Asmodeus’s picked men and the orange scarf they had worn, on the longest night Hawthorn had ever known. She shivered.
“Madeleine? I know you’re up there.” Aragon’s voice, coming from the stairs. “Selene wants us all for the banquet, and that includes both of you.”
Selene probably didn’t want to see Madeleine right now; but the presence of a House alchemist at a formal banquet was, sadly, not negotiable. Every asset of the House had to be put on display: an alchemist, a young Fallen, a doctor — though Aragon would probably find a way to wriggle out of the banquet before long.
“We’re coming down,” she said.
“Selene has been very busy,” Isabelle said as they rose to leave.
“Yes,” Madeleine said. She looked up, intrigued. Isabelle had sounded… disappointed. “You wanted to see her?”
“I’d hoped—” Isabelle shook her head. “Never mind. It can wait until after the conclave.”
Assuming they survived the conclave. Well, it wasn’t her business to pry, and she had other things on her mind. Someone was out there, killing people connected with Silverspires — like Oris. It was probably too much luck to hope they would kill Asmodeus; but what better location to strike than at a banquet, where everyone would be gathered in the same room?
* * *
MADELEINE caught up with Aragon after she’d changed into evening clothes. “Well, my lady,” he said with a gruff smile. “You look radiant.”
Madeleine hated the dress. It was an overcomplicated thing with a strapless bustier, which meant it kept sliding up at the top; the waist was positively unnaturally tightened; and the train was too long, which meant she kept tripping over it. She’d drawn the line at wearing high heels; she’d have broken an ankle for sure. Let Selene complain it was inappropriate if she wished. “You don’t look bad, either,” she said.
Aragon looked about as uncomfortable as she felt; the swallowtail hung awkwardly on his large frame, and his shoes made ominous squeaking noises as he walked. “I didn’t see Isabelle,” Madeleine said.
“She’s with Emmanuelle,” Aragon said, pointing ahead. “Shall we?”
Selene had opened the great ballroom of Silverspires for the occasion, though even the scented candles couldn’t quite disguise the smell of humidity. People in evening wear moved past in a blur of colorful clothes. Madeleine caught a glimpse of Laure and her husband, Gauthier; Alcestis and his lover, Pierre; Asmodeus and Samariel standing together; Claire and her usual escort of children, though for once they seemed to be behaving — and, as Aragon maneuvered to reach the buffet, she saw Elphon, laughing politely at something Father Javier said; and she felt as though someone had dug nails into her heart.
“Can I ask you something?” she said to Aragon.
Aragon turned, proffering two canapés. “Of course,” he said.
“Can the dead come back to life?”
“You’re asking this of a doctor?” His face was grave. “I’ve seen enough corpses on slabs to know that they won’t get up and walk, except perhaps at the Resurrection we’re all promised.” He believed in God; though his belief was — like that of many Fallen — more doubts and questions than confident, careless faith. “Is this about Oris? I’m sorry he’s dead, but—”
“No, it’s not that,” Madeleine said. “I’ve seen — I’ve seen someone, Aragon. Someone who should be dead. He walks and talks like you or me, except he doesn’t remember anything.”
“Hmm. This sounds like a conversation we shouldn’t be having in the middle of a reception,” Aragon said.
“Here? Everyone is busy finding out who knows what, and who is allied to whom. I don’t think anyone has time to spare for a doctor and an alchemist. And even if they did, it’s hardly secret business.” Unlike the other worry at the back of her mind.
“There’s a legend in the Far East,” Aragon said. “Tales of rebirth and of a potion of forgetfulness that makes you oblivious to your past lives. You’d have to ask Philippe.” His tone implied, quite clearly, that he didn’t believe in any of it.
“I don’t want to ask Philippe,” Madeleine said. “I’m asking you.”
“Then all I can tell you, as a doctor and a Fallen, is that it’s impossible. This person — is he a mortal?”
“No. A Fallen.”
Aragon sighed. “No one knows what happens when Fallen die. We’re not exactly in the official texts. Humans get sorted out into Heaven or Hell. We probably do, too.”
Or perhaps you’re reborn, she thought, chilled. Perhaps God doesn’t want you back in the City, and can’t bring Himself to send you to Hell. Perhaps you keep being incarnated, time and time again, until you get whatever you were supposed to get right.
But if that was the case; if Fallen could indeed be reborn on Earth, then why Elphon? Why now?
* * *
PHILIPPE had not expected to enjoy the evening; and in this at least, he wasn’t disappointed. Emmanuelle, with the help of what seemed like an army of valets, had fitted him into formal clothes: a stiff suit and equally stiff trousers, which had obviously belonged to someone shorter and with much larger shoulders. He was… exposed, and not only because his white socks were amply visible below the hem of trousers that were too short.
He was the only Viet in a sea of white faces: Emmanuelle herself seemed to have vanished, though of course she’d be doing Selene’s bidding, flattering the various players among the Houses, smiling at who needed to be smiled at. It was something he’d done, once, in the Jade Emperor’s Court; smiling at Immortals, gracefully mingling with the newly ascended. Now things were different, and he had no desire to make any kind of effort at indulging his captors.
He sidled toward the buffet, helping himself to a mouthful of bland food. He missed fish sauce more than he’d thought possible, but here in Paris only an ersatz version of it was available, at a price so expensive he couldn’t afford it anyway. There would be a dinner later, in the ballroom, where Selene had had huge round tables taken out of storage; draped with embroidered cloth and adorned with the best silverware of the House. The seating plan was on a wooden board at the other end of the room: separate tables for the children of course; and then a careful selection of groups that would not give offense to anyone, while still allowing fruitful exchanges. Not that he was interested at the moment; he’d find out soon enough where he was placed, and probably wouldn’t enjoy the dinner any more than he’d enjoyed the cocktail party.
“You look… lost,” a familiar voice said in his ear.
Philippe looked up, to see Samariel.
He hadn’t changed — he wore formal clothes in gray and silver with effortless elegance, and his face was creased in that wide, perpetual ironic smile. But, of course, Philippe wasn’t supposed to have met him at alclass="underline" he was meant to know him distantly perhaps, as one knew the heads of Houses, but that was all.