Free The House of Shattered Wings by Aliette de Bodard

observing each other warily in the weeks that had preceded, and had had a few desultory exchanges, nothing particularly deep or meaningful.
    â€œSit here,” Aragon said, pointing to an examination table covered with a white sheet. “I will come in a moment.”
    Emmanuelle pulled her chair away into the farthest corner, staring at the images of human bodies on the wall—there was a cross section of lungs, accompanied by information on magical rot and on the nonexistent ways to prevent it; a detailed anatomy of a Fallen, compared point by point to a human, with peculiar emphasis on the muscles of the back—paying particular attention to the muscle pairs that had been used for lifting and pulling down wings; and a detailed map of Paris, charting the points of greatest magical pollution.
    After a while, Aragon closed the file. “So,” he said. “A complete exam. Selene seems to think I have time to waste.”
    â€œYou certainly took your time humoring her,” Emmanuelle said, with a tight smile. “It’s been weeks.”
    â€œI had other things to do,” Aragon said, stiffly.
    Emmanuelle shrugged. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”
    Aragon didn’t deign to answer.
    â€œShe doesn’t like insolence. Or mysteries.”
    That last was clearly directed at Philippe. Mysteries. As if he were a thing, to be prodded and analyzed; and then he realized that, to Selene, he might well be.
    The arrogance of her . . .
    No. No anger. He couldn’t afford that. Not here, not now. He had been in a House army once; had kept his face a blank through the orders that sent him into the fray to buy a plot of land with blood and death. He could do it again here; it wasn’t so hard.
    The Jade Emperor had said it was vital to maintain dignity in all things; what advice would he have had, if he’d seen Philippe in Silverspires, imprisoned by Fallen magic? Perhaps he would have been glad; after all, he was ruler of Heaven; he had exiled Philippe from the company of Immortals—so he could learn humility and decorum. He’d probably never dreamed that foreigners would sweep in with Fallen magic, seizing Philippe when he was still weakened from his exile; sending him to a land where his status meant almost nothing. Perhaps he’d have viewed it as a fitting punishment.
    Humility and decorum. What a joke.
    Aragon unhooked his stethoscope from the wall, and came closer to Philippe. “Open your mouth, please.”
    After a while, Philippe found it easier to tune out and let his body take over the simple exercises—Heaven knew what Aragon had been asked, or how he’d chosen to interpret it, but he was performing a simple medical exam.
    The
khi
currents in the room—as elsewhere in the House—were slow and lazy, as if everything had been severely depleted. Water was the strongest one, because of the proximity of the Seine and the general stagnation of the place; wood was the weakest one, because nothing had grown fast and vigorous in the House for years now. They swirled around Aragon’s feet—metal, for harvest, for collecting—around Emmanuelle’s still face—water, for stillness, for withdrawal into one’s self—but of course all of it had deeper meanings, insights he couldn’t read or draw on anymore.
    And there was darkness, too; but there always was—ever since he had touched the mirror. It lay like a shadow across everything he looked at; and sometimes in his dreams he would meet Morningstar’s pale gaze, and stand transfixed, like a deer before a hound or a hunter—and he’d wake up drenched in sweat, both terribly afraid and terribly awed. There was . . . something infinitely seductive about Morningstar, the promise that he’d be welcomed as a Fallen, reshaped until he was part of Silverspires—tied to the House in ten thousand ways, each stronger and more durable than