Yes, it was.
A tree of rebirth, Philippe had said: gathering the magic of the House to allow Nightingale to walk once more upon the earth, the House’s destruction the price of her resurrection. Selene could not hope to stand against such magic — except for one small thing.
No one could be Morningstar.
But she was head of Silverspires, and it mattered. Here, now, she was all they had; and that was all the worth she needed. She was their head because there was no one else, and that wasn’t a badge of dishonor.
She did what she had to. Always.
And she knew exactly what needed to be done.
“Wait.”
Nightingale turned, a half-mocking smile on her face; saw Selene standing, surrounded by magic. “Yes? You will fight? I expected better of you.”
“No, not fight,” Selene said. “You forget. I am head of House Silverspires.”
* * *
THERE.
Madeleine’s hands, twisting and turning, found a slight yield; pressed it.
The breath trapped in the mirror flowed straight into her — an unstoppable river — so much hatred and rage and malice and suffering—no, no, no—a raging whirlwind that invaded her mind and carried her along into deeper darkness, where it snuffed itself out — taking her mind with it.
* * *
NIGHTINGALE paused; raised her head toward the cathedral. “What is going—”
In that moment, Selene struck.
At Nightingale, but not where she expected it: not any spell, not anything that could have been dodged or parried, but a primal strike, one that stripped from her the link to the House, as Selene had once removed it from Madeleine. She was surprised at how easy it was: there was no resistance, because Nightingale had never thought that this could be done; that the magic she had stolen would be taken away from her.
“You—” Nightingale stood, watching her. The light was fleeing her, like clouds borne away by the wind, rushing across the surface of the sky.
“I am head of the House,” Selene said, softly, almost gently. “This is my prerogative.”
“I see.” Nightingale raised a trembling hand as one wound, then another, appeared on her: great open gashes that bled only a fraction of what they should have; fingers crooked out of shape, broken ribs poking through her shift.
Shall I tell you what they did to me in Hawthorn, Selene? Every cut of the knife, every broken bone, every wound that wouldn’t close…
Everything that had killed her, in the end. Selene watched, unmoving, as the wounds appeared one by one upon a body that had no right to exist. Nightingale didn’t appear to feel them; or perhaps she had transcended them. Her eyes — her large, piercing eyes — rested on Selene all the while, bright and feverish and mocking.
You would style yourself Morningstar’s heir, wouldn’t you? Say that you defend everything that he stood for? In the end, I still win, Selene. In the end, your House still teeters on the brink of extinction….
Even when she sank to her knees — even when she bowed her head — even after she had turned to dust, borne away by the wind — her eyes still remained in Selene’s memory; and her challenge, too; a reminder that she was and had always been right.
* * *
PHILIPPE took the steps of the cathedral two by two; running through the ruined benches, the fluted tree trunks that were slowly losing their radiance, toward the altar and the throne. He almost stumbled on another body in his eagerness; stopped, then, staring at it.
There was no mistaking it, even lying in the debris with his eyes closed, and none of the towering presence that he remembered.
Morningstar. But Morningstar was dead. He had seen the corpse….
Almost in spite of himself, his hands lifted Morningstar’s limp arms, bared the black shirt to uncover the skin; and he laid a finger in the hollow of the wrist bone.
A slow and steady heartbeat like a secret music; and, when he bent over the Fallen, there was a slight intake of breath, and the ghost of an exhalation on his face. Alive, then, if barely so.
Unfair. The dead would not remain dead, and yet Isabelle was gone: her presence an emptiness in his mind like an open grave.
Unfair.
He left Morningstar without a backward glance, and went on, to find Isabelle.
Her eyes were closed; she lay on her side, with the bulky wings on her back resting on the ground, looking so much like an angel that he could have wept. He found, by touch, her left hand; and rested his fingers in the hollow where two of hers were missing.
Where to start — what to say? “I’m sorry” didn’t cover anything; didn’t even begin to hint at what they’d had and how it had ended. He still wasn’t entirely sure what had drawn him back to the House, a mixture of self-pride and pigheadedness; and the desire to prove that he wasn’t ruled by the curse that still lay within him; and a will, in the end, to help her. To turn back time, and not be the one who had failed her, time and time again, until she turned into the symbol of all that he despised.
“I wasn’t fair to you,” he said, at last, holding her hand tight in his; his eyes dry and fixed on her still, vacant features. “I should have—”
But he had come too late; and there was nothing he could have done. “I wasn’t fair to you,” he said, again. Wedging his hands under her, he rose, taking her full weight in his arms; and walked through toward the side door he remembered from his night of endless, bloodied crawling.
He didn’t know where he was going; only that he couldn’t leave her in the House, where she would be dissected for her magic, everything collected by the alchemist who would come after her: skin reduced to powder, hair cut and saved in jewelry cases, all inner organs weighed and cataloged, every scrap of magic put into service again.
She had done her duty to the House, to its bitter end; and he would give her the rest she deserved.
* * *
WITH Nightingale dead, the roots stopped growing and regrowing; and they at last managed to cut away some of them. The hollow trunk of the banyan, though, remained, completely wrapped around Notre-Dame, a grim reminder of what they had survived. Aragon returned, grumbling, as though nothing had ever happened; and took Madeleine and Morningstar, neither of whom had woken up, to the hospital wing.
They didn’t find Isabelle’s body, or Philippe. Selene gave some thought as to whether they should search further; but Isabelle had died for the House, and Selene didn’t feel callous enough to hound her after death. Morningstar’s wings were a loss, but one she could deal with.
Ironic, given that she had been callous enough to watch Nightingale die — and sent Morningstar to die — the fact that he had survived it didn’t change anything.
Selene walked back into her office, which was a little worse for wear, with cracked walls and unusable furniture, though Javier found her a chair from the less damaged part of the House. She sat down before her broken desk, and stared at the wall for a moment.
Morningstar’s heir. Heir to a rotten throne, a rotted House, while all around them vultures circled, eager for their pound of flesh.
Speaking of vultures…
A knock at the door heralded the coming of Emmanuelle; and behind her, Asmodeus.
He had dressed soberly for once, with a white shirt and minimal amounts of ruffle; and pressed, impeccable trousers that conveyed quite effectively the fact that Hawthorn had suffered no damage whatsoever in the affair. “Selene. What a pleasure.”
“I’m sure,” Selene said, sourly. “Do make yourself at ease. I’d offer you a chair, but I’m afraid we’re a little short.”
“On many things, I should think.” Asmodeus smiled. “I won’t bother you for long. I’m here to collect my dependent.”