A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

  Ophelia held a finger to her mouth to get her to speak less loudly. She went up to the writing desk and turned her aunt’s envelope over in her hands. “You heard Lady Berenilde,” she whispered. “It’s to Mr. Thorn that we have to hand our letters. I’m not so naive as to think he won’t check that the contents don’t scupper their plans.”

  Aunt Rosaline rose abruptly from her chair and looked sharply down at Ophelia, somewhat surprised. The lamplight made her complexion even yellower than normal. “So we’re totally alone, is that what you’re telling me?”

  Ophelia nodded. Yes, she was entirely convinced of that. No one would come to find them, the Doyennes wouldn’t go back on their decision. They had to extricate themselves, however tricky that might be.

  “And that doesn’t terrify you?” Aunt Rosaline continued, her eyes half-closed like those of an old cat.

  Ophelia puffed some mist on to her glasses and polished them on her sleeve. “A little,” she admitted. “Particularly what we’re not being told.”

  Aunt Rosaline’s lips tightened; even so, her horse teeth stuck out. She considered her envelope for a moment, tore it in two, and sat back down at her writing desk.

  “Very well,” she sighed, picking up her quill again. “I’m going to try to be more subtle, even though such ruses are not my forte.”

  When Ophelia also returned to her footrest, her aunt added, drily: “I always thought that you were like your father, without personality or willpower. I realize now that I really didn’t know you, dear girl.”

  Ophelia contemplated the inkblot on her letter for a long time. She couldn’t say why, but these words had instantly warmed her. I’m glad that Aunt Rosaline is here, she wrote to her parents.

  “Night’s fallen,” commented her godmother, looking disapprovingly at the window. “And our hosts still haven’t returned! I hope they’re not going to forget about us altogether. The grandmother’s charming, but she’s still a bit senile.”

  “They have to submit to the rhythm of the court,” said Ophelia with a shrug. She didn’t dare mention the croquet game that Berenilde had gone off to. Her aunt would have been outraged that children’s games were chosen over them.

  “The court!” whispered Rosaline, scratching the paper with her quill. “A very fine word to define a grotesque stage set where dagger blows are dispensed in the wings. Given the choice, I think we’re better off here, well away from those maniacs.”

  Ophelia frowned while stroking her scarf. On this, she didn’t share her aunt’s feelings. The thought of being deprived of her freedom of movement horrified her. First they put her in a cage to protect her, then one day that cage would turn into a prison. A woman confined at home with the sole purpose of producing children for her husband, that’s what they’d turn her into if she didn’t take control of her future, as of now.

  “Are you in need of anything, my dears?”

  Ophelia and Rosaline looked up from their correspondence. Thorn’s grandmother had opened the double door so discreetly that they hadn’t heard her enter. She really did remind one of a tortoise, with her bumpy back, wrinkly neck, slow movements, and that wizened smile cutting right across her face. “No, thank you, madam,” replied Aunt Rosaline, enunciating each word loudly. “You’re most kind.”

  Ophelia and her aunt had noticed that if they sometimes found the Northern accent hard to understand, the reverse was also true. The grandmother sometimes seemed a bit lost when they spoke too fast.

  “I’ve just had my daughter on the telephone,” the old woman announced. “She asks that you forgive her, but she has been held up. She’ll be home tomorrow, mid-morning.” The grandmother was shaking her head ruefully. “I’m not very keen on this social whirl that she feels she has to join. It’s not reasonable . . . ”

  Ophelia noticed some anxiety in the sound of her voice. Was Berenilde also taking risks by appearing at court? “And your grandson?” she inquired. “When will he be back?” In truth, she was in no hurry to see him again, and the old woman’s reply totally reassured her:

  “My poor child, he’s such a serious boy! He’s always busy, watch in hand, never standing still. He barely takes the time to feed himself! I fear you will only ever see him in short bursts.”

  “We’ll have some letters to give him,” said Aunt Rosaline. “We’ll need to give our family the address at which they can contact us in return.”

  The grandmother was nodding her head to such an extent that Ophelia wondered whether she wouldn’t end up tucking it in between her shoulders, like a tortoise into its shell.

  It was past noon the following day when Berenilde returned to the manor and collapsed onto her chaise longue, pleading for coffee. “The shackles of the court, my little Ophelia!” she exclaimed when the latter came to greet her. “You don’t know how lucky you are. Would you pass that to me, please?”

  Ophelia spotted the pretty little mirror on the console that she was pointing at and passed it to her, having first almost dropped it on the floor. Berenilde propped herself up on her cushions and anxiously examined the small line, barely visible, that had imprinted itself on her powdered forehead. “If I don’t want to totally ruin my looks, I’m going to have to take a rest.”

  A servant poured her the cup of coffee she had pleaded for, but she pushed it away with a look of disgust, and then directed a weary smile at Ophelia and Aunt Rosaline. “I’m terribly sorry, most terribly sorry,” she said, rolling her “r”s sensually. “I didn’t think I’d be away so long. You didn’t languish too much, I hope?”

  The question was purely rhetorical. Berenilde dismissed them both and shut herself away in her room, which made Aunt Rosaline choke with indignation.

  The days that followed were much the same. Ophelia barely saw her fiancé; caught Berenilde fleetingly between absences; exchanged a few polite words with the grandmother when their paths crossed in a corridor; and spent most of her time with her aunt. Her existence soon slipped into a dreary routine consisting of solitary walks in the gardens; meals eaten without a word being uttered; long evenings reading in the sitting room; and a few other attempts to keep boredom at bay. The only noteworthy event was the delivery, one afternoon, of the trunks, which somewhat reassured Aunt Rosaline. For her part, Ophelia ensured that she had a resigned expression on her face at all times, so as not to arouse suspicions when she disappeared for too long at the back of the park.

  One evening, she retired early to her room. When the chime sounded four times, she stared wide-eyed at the canopy above her bed. Ophelia decided that the time had come for her to stretch her legs. She buttoned up one of her old, outmoded dresses and threw on a black cloak, whose roomy hood swallowed her head right up to her glasses. She didn’t have the heart to wake up her scarf, dozing at the bottom of the bed, curled in a ball. Ophelia dived, body and soul, into the mirror in her room, sprang out from the mirror in the hall, and, taking every precaution, pulled back the latches on the front door.

  Outside, a fake starry night hung over the park. Ophelia walked on the lawn, merging her shadow with those of the trees, crossed a stone bridge, and leapt over the streams. She arrived at the little wooden door that separated Berenilde’s estate from the rest of the world.

  Ophelia knelt down and placed her hand flat on the surface of the door. She’d made the most of all her strolls in the park in preparation for this moment, whispering friendly words to the lock, breathing some life into it, bringing it out of its shell, day after day. Everything now depended on her performance. For the door to consider her as its owner, she had to behave as such. “Open up,” she whispered in a firm tone.

  A click. Ophelia seized the handle. The door, which stood in the middle of the grass with nothing in front or behind it, half-opened on to a flight of stairs. Wrapped in her cape, Ophelia closed the door after her, proceeded into the small, badly paved courtyard, and had one final look back. It was hard to believe
that this decrepit building concealed a manor house and its estate.

  Ophelia plunged into the foul-smelling fog of the alleyways, which the light of the street lamps only just penetrated. A smile came to her lips. For the first time in what seemed to her an eternity, she was free to go wherever she fancied. It wasn’t an escape, she just wanted to discover for herself the world in which she was about to live. After all, it wasn’t emblazoned on her forehead that she was Thorn’s fiancée, so why should she worry?

  She disappeared into the half-light of the deserted streets. It was noticeably colder and damper here than in the manor’s park, but she was happy to breathe in “real” air. Noticing the area’s boarded-up doors and bricked-up windows, Ophelia wondered whether each of these buildings concealed castles and gardens. At the turning of an alley, she was stopped by a strange noise. Behind a streetlight, a panel of white glass was vibrating between two walls. That was a window; a real window. Ophelia opened it. A flurry of snow went straight into her mouth and nose, blowing her hood backwards. She turned away, had a good cough, held her breath, and used the support of both hands to lean out of the window. With half her body above the void, Ophelia recognized the anarchy of the wonky turrets, soaring arcades, and ramshackle ramparts that rose from the surface of the Citaceleste. Far below, the frozen water of the moats glittered. And even farther down, beyond reach, a forest of white fir trees shivered in the wind. The cold was almost unbearable; Ophelia pushed shut the heavy pane of glass, shook her cape, and returned to her exploring.

  She hid just in time in the shadows of a dead end as a metallic clicking approached from the far end of the pavement. It was an old man who was splendidly adorned, with rings on each finger and pearls threaded into his beard. A silver cane rang out his every step. A king, Ophelia would have thought. His eyes were strangely shadowed, just like those of the people in the photos in the child’s bedroom.

  The old man was getting closer. He passed the dead end in which Ophelia was lurking without noticing her presence. He was humming, his eyes like half-moons. They weren’t shadows on his face, but tattoos; they covered his eyelids right up to his brows. At that precise moment, a firework dazzled Ophelia. The ditty the old man had been mumbling exploded into carnival music. A crowd of cheery masks gathered around her, blew confetti into her hair, and vanished as suddenly as they had appeared, while the man and his cane went off along the pavement.

  Disconcerted, Ophelia shook her hair for confetti, found none, and watched the old man disappearing into the distance. A weaver of illusions. Did he belong to the Dragons’ rival clan? Ophelia decided it would be safer to turn back. Since she had no sense of direction, she could no longer find the road back to Berenilde’s manor. These stinking alleys, clogged in fog, all looked the same.

  She went down some stairs that she didn’t recall having gone up, dithered between two avenues, went under an arch that stank of sewage. As she passed some advertising posters, she slowed down.

  HAUTE COUTURE:

  BARON MELCHIOR’S GOLDEN FINGERS

  WILL TACKLE ANYTHING!

  ASTHMA? RHUMATISM? NERVES?

  EVER CONSIDERED A THERMAL CURE?

  THE EROTIC DELIGHTS OF MADAME CUNEGONDE

  LUMINOUS MIME SHOWS—OLD ERIC’S OPTICAL THEATER

  There was anything and everything . . . Ophelia frowned when she came across a poster that was more incongruous than the rest:

  SANDGLASSES FROM HILDEGARDE’S WORKSHOP

  FOR A WELL-DESERVED REST

  She tore off the bill to study it closely. Then found herself nose to nose with her own face. The advertisements were stuck on to a reflective surface. Ophelia forgot the sandglasses and advanced along the corridor of advertisements. The posters became fewer, but her reflection, on the contrary, kept multiplying.

  It was the entrance to a hall of mirrors. Too good to be true: a mirror was all she needed to get back to her room. Ophelia gently strolled among the other Ophelias, hooded in their cloaks, their eyes a little wild behind their glasses. Lured by the fun of the labyrinth, she followed the maze of mirrors and soon noticed that the appearance of the ground had changed. The paving had given way to a fine polished parquet, the color of a cello.

  A burst of laughter froze Ophelia to the spot, and, before she had time to react, the triple reflection of a couple surrounded her. She did what she was best in the world at doing: she didn’t speak, didn’t panic, didn’t make the slightest movement that might attract attention. The man and woman, fabulously dressed, brushed past without noticing her. They both wore masks on their faces.

  “And your husband, my dear cousin?” teased the gentleman, smothering the gloved arms with kisses.

  “My husband? Squandering our fortune at bridge, naturally!”

  “Let’s be sure, in that case, to bring him a bit of luck . . . ” With these words, the man carried his companion off into the distance. Ophelia remained still for a moment, still incredulous that she’d so easily gone unnoticed. A few steps further on, and the hall of mirrors led to additional, increasingly complex halls. Soon, other reflections mingled with her own, drowning her in a crowd of veiled women, uniformed officers, feathered hats, bewigged gentlemen, porcelain masks, glasses of champagne, wild dancing. As the cheerful music broke into a waltz, Ophelia realized that she was circulating in the middle of a costumed ball.

  So that was why she hadn’t been noticed under her black cloak. She might just as well have been invisible.

  Ophelia blackened her glasses as a precaution, and then even made so bold as to snatch a glass of something bubbly as it flew past on a servant’s tray, to quench her thirst. She walked along the mirrors, ready to melt into her reflection at any moment, and observed the ball with great curiosity. She listened to the various conversations, all ears, but was soon disenchanted. They were all exchanging sweet nothings, trying to be witty, having fun seducing each other. They tackled no really serious subjects, and some had too strong an accent for Ophelia to grasp what they were saying.

  In truth, this outside world of which she’d been deprived all that time didn’t seem as threatening as it had been depicted to her. Much as she loved calm and valued her tranquility, seeing new faces, albeit masked, was doing her good. Each gulp of champagne made her tongue tingle. She realized, from her enjoyment at being among these strangers, how much the manor’s oppressive atmosphere had weighed on her.

  “Mr. Ambassador!” called out a woman just beside her. She was wearing a magnificent farthingale dress and a mother-of-pearl-and-gold lorgnette. Leaning against a pillar, Ophelia couldn’t take her eyes off the man coming towards them. Could he be a descendant of that ambassadress that her forebear Adelaide had mentioned so often in her travel journal? Tatty frock coat, fingerless gloves full of holes, flattened opera hat: his costume was a blatant contrast to the festive, brash colors of the party. He wore no mask, his face exposed. Ophelia, usually little susceptible to masculine charm, had at least to recognize that this one wasn’t lacking in it. That honest face—harmonious, youngish, totally beardless, too pale, maybe—seemed open to the sky, so light were his eyes.

  The ambassador bowed politely to the woman who had shouted out to him. “Lady Olga,” he greeted her, raising his hat. When he straightened up, he shot a sidelong glance that went straight through Ophelia’s dark glasses, deep within her hood. The glass of champagne almost fell from her hands. She didn’t blink, didn’t draw back, didn’t turn away. She must do nothing to betray the fact that she was an intruder.

  The ambassador’s eyes skated casually over her and returned to Lady Olga, who was playfully rapping him on the shoulder with her fan. “Not enjoying my little party? You’re staying alone in your corner, like a lost soul!”

  “I’m bored,” he stated, frankly.

  Ophelia was astonished at his candor. Lady Olga let out a laugh that sounded a bit forced. “Of course, it doesn’t come up to the receptions at Clairdelune.
All this is a bit too ‘tame’ for you, I presume?”

  She half-lowered her lorgnette, so her eyes were revealed. She was looking at the ambassador adoringly. “Be my partner,” she suggested, cooingly. “You’ll no longer be bored.”

  Ophelia froze. This woman had the same tattoos on her eyelids as the old man she’d come across earlier. She considered the crowd of dancers around her. Did all those masks hide that distinctive marking?

  “I thank you, Lady Olga, but I can’t stay,” declined the ambassador with an enigmatic smile.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, greatly intrigued. “Are you expected elsewhere?”

  “In a way.”

  “There are far too many women in your life!” she scolded him, laughing.

  The ambassador’s smile broadened. A beauty spot between his eyebrows gave him a strange expression. “And there’ll be yet another this evening.”

  Ophelia didn’t find his face that honest, after all. She told herself that it was high time she got back to bed. She put her glass of champagne down on a sideboard, made her way through the dancing and the streamers, and dived back into the halls of mirrors, ready to plunge into the first mirror she came to. A firm grip around her arm made her swivel round on her heels. Disorientated among all the Ophelias spinning around her, she ended up squinting at the smile the handsome ambassador was directing at her.

  “And there I was, telling myself that it was impossible for me not to recognize a woman’s face,” he said, calm as anything. “To whom do I have the honor, little young lady?”

  The Garden

  Ophelia lowered her chin and stammered the first thing that came into her head:

  “A servant, sir. I’m new, I . . . I’ve just come on duty.”

  The man’s smile instantly vanished and his eyebrows shot up beneath the top hat. He clasped her around the shoulders and dragged her forcibly through the halls of mirrors. Ophelia was stunned. At the back of her mind, a thought that wasn’t hers was commanding her not to utter another word. As much as she hit out with arms and legs, she had no choice but to plunge back into the fetid fog of the town. There would be many cobbles and many alleys before the ambassador slowed his pace.