A glass throne sits atop a pedestal flanked by twin curved staircases that sweep upward on either side toward an upstairs mezzanine. Above it, a vast circular skylight opens to the sky.
A sun is etched in gold into the floor beneath the throne, and frameless mirrors line the walls, reflecting the room into endless, blinding repetitions.
White Roman columns stand in a circle around the pedestal, ensuring the structural integrity of the building. A glass enclosure hangs from the vaulted ceiling, suspended above the throne, its thick golden chains fixed to the skylight above.
Inside, a pair of wings rests in perfect stillness.
They are enormous. Pristine. Their feathers overlap in careful, luminous layers as delicate rays of sunshine glide across their vast span.
Following Iris, I climb the stairs one at a time, remembering how soft Ezra’s wings felt under my touch.
An itch prickles the back of my neck as I pause near the top of the staircase, my hand tightening on the gilded railing.
At the root of the wings, beneath the immaculate down feathers, traces of what they were taken from remain. Not something crafted, but something torn—ragged hints of cutmuscle, thin strands of skin, and the dark, stubborn stain of blood caught in the seams.
It’s all perfectly preserved, untouched by time, as though they were severed and sealed away moments ago.
I study the way they’ve been suspended and bathed in sunlight, and I can’t tell if I’m looking at something horrible or sacred.
Who did they belong to? The poor creature… I glance at the base of the wings again, where mangled pieces of flesh are concealed beneath all that brilliance, and unease coils in my stomach.
Maybe they were cut off after death and kept as a way to remember and honor their owner? The king’s dead wife, maybe? E’s mother?
I hope that’s the case, though something a knight said back in the forest makes me doubt it.
He’s got wings, madam. Our king shan’t suffer anyone he doesn’t approve of to keep them.
“They’re beautiful, no?” Iris says softly, jolting me out of my reverie. “The Sun Court makes glass lanterns in all colors, shapes, and sizes. Most of them are made for souls, but they can hold anything, really.”
I blink. “The Sun Court hunts the souls that fled their reaper, right?”
“Yes, the soul chasers trap the lost souls in glass to prevent their decay, and a soul that is found quickly enough can then rejoin the gods as intended.” She licks her lips, freckles of ice rising along her neck. “While the ones that are too tainted and corroded are condemned to an eternity of stillness.”
I detect a hint of regret—or perhaps longing—in her voice.
The shattered bronze lantern lying on the floor of Luther’s tent comes to mind as I glance back at the wings.
“And these wings?” I ask.
Clouds pass in her eyes. “Light Fae build larger enclosures for bigger things. Bodies. Relics. Anything they consider worth preserving.”
My heart bangs against my ribcage. “To honor them?”
Her lips thin. “That’s what they say.”
“And what doyouthink?” I press on, sensing her diverging opinion on the matter.
“In the Sun Court,” Iris says quietly, “there’s very little difference between love and possession. Light Fae don’t like to part with anything that ever belonged to them.”
Her throat bobs before she adds, “They’ll tell you it’s devotion—that preserving something is the highest form of respect. That letting it change, decay, or disappear is akin to neglect…”
Her voice lowers, not quite bitter, but not soft either. “But it’s also about control. Freezing something in time means it never gets to leave. Never gets to become anything else.”
A full-bodied shudder quakes her from head to toe, and she rubs the chill off her arms, her weary gaze glued to the wings. “It just remains captive forever.”
Chapter 40
Dinner and a Show
