A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

  “So, miss?” asked Pistache with a mischievous grin. “What d’you ’ear?”

  “There are going to be some changes,” muttered Ophelia.

  “Changes? What changes?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Ophelia felt a sense of foreboding. Thorn and Berenilde would never risk leaving her alone at the manor, they didn’t trust her enough for that. What fate did they have in store for her?

  “Miss! Miss! Come and see!”

  Pistache was jumping for joy at the window, her plaits dancing on her shoulders. Ophelia blinked behind her glasses, dazzled. A radiant sun was piercing the clouds with its golden arrows. The sky became so blue, the park’s colors so blazing, that it hurt the eyes after so much grayness. Ophelia concluded that at least Berenilde wasn’t angry with her.

  Someone knocked on the door. Quickly, Ophelia hid the hand mirror under her pillow, then indicated to Pistache that she could open the door. It was Thorn. He marched straight in, pushed Pistache into the corridor, and closed the door. He found Ophelia sitting in an armchair, book in hand and scarf on knees. She wasn’t a good enough actress to feign surprise, so she just scaled the interminable figure standing before her with her eyes.

  “The weather’s changed,” she remarked.

  Thorn positioned himself at the window, rigid as an easel, hands linked behind his back. The daylight made his face in profile seem paler and more angular than it already was. “We have just received an unpleasant visit,” he finally said, reluctantly. “In fact, the situation could hardly be worse.”

  Ophelia was surprised suddenly to see Thorn in blue, but then realized it was her glasses that had turned that shade. Blue was the color of apprehension. “Explain yourself.”

  “You’re leaving this evening.” He was expressing himself both abruptly and haltingly. Ophelia had at first thought he was looking out of the window, but not at all. His gray eye glowered under the scarred brow. Anger was strangling him, and it was radiating beyond him, piercing Ophelia’s forehead with a thousand pinpricks. It was clearly an odd family trait, this transferring of one’s nerves on to other people’s brains.

  “Going where?” she whispered.

  “Into the nest of a vulture by the name of Archibald. He’s our ambassador and Farouk’s right-hand man. You will be there with my aunt until her pregnancy reaches full term.”

  Seated in her armchair, Ophelia felt as though the cushions, the stuffing, and the springs were all collapsing beneath her. If Archibald saw her, he would denounce her in front of everyone. “But why?” she stammered. “Wasn’t I supposed to be kept in solitary confinement?”

  With an exasperated flourish, Thorn drew the curtains across the window, as though all that light were attacking him. “We can’t do otherwise. You and your chaperone will pass yourselves off as members of our household staff.”

  Ophelia stared at the fire crackling in the hearth. Even if she made herself up as a servant, Archibald would recognize her and expose her imposture. He had immediately spotted her right in the middle of a costumed ball—this was a man with fiendish powers of observation.

  “I don’t want to,” she declared, closing her book. “We’re not pawns that you can just manipulate as you please, sir. I desire to remain at the manor with my aunt.”

  In return, Thorn looked down at her with stupefaction. Ophelia thought for a second that he was going to lose his temper and stick his claws into her, but he merely snorted noisily with impatience. “I won’t commit the error of taking your refusal lightly. It’s better to convince you than to compel you, would I be right?”

  Caught off guard, Ophelia raised her eyebrows. Thorn grabbed a chair and sat down not far from her armchair, his joints doing their best to bend outsized legs. He leant his elbows on his knees, rested his chin on his fists, and drilled his metallic eyes deep into Ophelia’s glasses. “I’m not very talkative,” he said, finally. “I’ve always considered speaking a waste of time, but, as I hope you will have noticed, I do try to counter my nature.”

  Ophelia drummed her fingers nervously on the cover of her book. What was Thorn driving at?

  “And you’re not a chatterbox, either,” he went on, in his excessively hard accent. “If that was a relief to me at first, I’ll confess that your silences are now more wont to bother me. I’m not pretending to think you’re happy, but, basically, I haven’t the slightest notion of your opinion of me.”

  Thorn was silent, as though expecting a response, but Ophelia was incapable of uttering a word. She had been ready for anything except this statement. What she thought of him? Since when had he cared about that? He didn’t even trust her.

  Deep in thought, Thorn’s eyed wandered down to the scarf rolled up in a ball in the lap of the young girl. “You were right, the other day. I haven’t taken enough time either to get to know you or to allow you to get to know me in return. It’s not something I do often, making concessions, but . . . I admit I should have had a different attitude towards you.”

  He stopped short when he looked up at Ophelia. With hideous embarrassment, she realized that her nose was bleeding. “It must be the heat from the fireplace,” she stammered while pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve.

  Ophelia tilted her head into the handkerchief, while Thorn waited, priestlike, on his chair. Only she could get herself into such a ridiculous position in circumstances that couldn’t have been worse.

  “It doesn’t matter,” muttered Thorn with a glance at his watch. “In any case, I’m no good at things like this and time is ticking.” He breathed in deeply, then continued in a more formal tone: “Here are the facts. Archibald is having my aunt to stay at his home at Clairdelune so that I can turn my attention to my backlog. That’s the official version, at any rate, as I fear this pest is cooking up something else.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wisest for me to stay here, then?” insisted Ophelia, nose in handkerchief.

  “No. Even in a wolf’s lair, you’ll be infinitely safer with my aunt than alone in the manor. Freya knows you’re here and, believe me, she doesn’t wish you only the best. All the servants on this estate wouldn’t be sufficient to protect you from her.”

  Ophelia had to admit that she hadn’t thought of that. If the choice was between Freya and Archibald, she would actually prefer Archibald. “Is that what my existence is going to be reduced to forever?” she muttered, bitterly. “Clinging to your aunt’s skirts?”

  Thorn wound his watch and stared at its face for a long while. Ophelia counted a good many tick-tocks during this silence. “I’m not a man who is available enough to watch properly over you.” He pulled a little silver notebook from a pocket and scribbled something down in pencil. “Here’s the address of the Treasury. Memorize it well. If you find yourself in difficulty, if you need help, come and see me without attracting any attention.”

  Ophelia stared at the little piece of paper. It was all very nice, but it didn’t solve her problem. “This Archibald, he’s never going to suspect my identity, if I spend the coming months in his home?”

  Thorn’s eyes narrowed to two thin slits. “He must never suspect. Don’t trust his inane smiles, he’s a dangerous man. If he discovers who you are, he will make it his duty to dishonor you for the simple pleasure of humiliating me. So be very sure to control your Animism.”

  Ophelia pushed her mass of hair to the back of her shoulders. Not giving herself away was going to be a serious challenge.

  “It’s not just in front of Archibald that you must take extreme precautions,” Thorn continued, emphasizing each syllable, “but in front of his whole family. Those people are all connected to each other. What one sees, they all see. What one hears, they all hear. What one knows, they all know. They’re known as ‘the Web’—you can spot them by the mark they bear on their forehead.”

  Archibald’s parting words came back to Ophelia like an electric shock: “Tell your cousin not to s
pout everything and anything to those who bear this mark. It could backfire on her one day.” So that night, Archibald’s whole family had witnessed their encounter? Did they all now know her face?

  Ophelia felt cornered. She couldn’t lie any longer to Thorn and Berenilde, she had to tell them what had happened. “Listen . . . ,” she whispered, quietly.

  Thorn interpreted her awkwardness quite differently. “You must think I’m throwing you into the lions’ den with total indifference,” he said in a more serious voice. “I don’t show it to you very well, but your fate is of real concern to me. If the slightest offense is committed against you behind my back, it will be paid for at the highest price.”

  With a metallic click, Thorn snapped shut the cover of his watch. He departed as suddenly as he had arrived, leaving Ophelia alone with her bad conscience. She banged a few times on the door of her room, asking to see Berenilde, repeating that it was very important, but nothing could be done for her. “Madam is very, very, very busy,” Pistache explained through the half-open door. “Be patient, miss, I’ll open to you soon. I ’ave to leave you!” she exclaimed, as the sound of a bell ringing could be heard in the distance.

  Ophelia’s hopes were falsely raised two hours later when there was the sound of a key turning in the lock. It was Aunt Rosaline, whom they had forgotten in the reading room and who had just been made to come up.

  “It’s intolerable!” she screamed, purple with rage. “These people are forever locking us up as if we were thieves! And then, what on earth’s going on, for a start? There are trunks all over the place downstairs! Is the manor being emptied?”

  Ophelia told her what Thorn had just said to her, but that put Aunt Rosaline into an even worse mood. “What do you mean? That boor was alone with you here, with no one to chaperone you? He didn’t give you too rough a time, at least? And what’s this business about going and pretending to be servants elsewhere? Who is he, this Archimedes?”

  Ophelia considered for a moment confiding a bit more, but soon realized that Aunt Rosaline wasn’t the right person in whom to do it. She already had a real job explaining to her what Thorn and Berenilde expected of them.

  After a long conversation and much repetition, Ophelia sat back in her armchair, while Aunt Rosaline walked around and around the room. They spent a good part of the day listening to the general commotion shaking up the manor. Trunks were being packed, dresses taken out, skirts ironed, as Berenilde, whose loud, clear voice echoed through the corridors, issued her orders.

  Outside, daylight was fading. Ophelia drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees. However much she thought about it, she was cross with herself for not having immediately told Thorn the truth. Whatever she did, right now, it was much too late. Let’s recap, she reasoned with herself. The Dragons want to get rid of me because I’m marrying their bastard. The Mirages want me dead because I’m marrying a Dragon. Archibald wants me in his bed because it amuses him; and, through him, I’ve lied to the whole Web. My only allies are Berenilde and Thorn, but I’ve managed to turn one against me, and it won’t be long before I’ve done the same with the other.

  Ophelia buried her head in her dress. This world was much too complicated for her; a longing for her old life wrenched her stomach. She got a start when the door to her room was finally opened. “Madam desires to converse with miss,” the butler announced. “If miss would care to follow me.”

  Ophelia did follow him into the large sitting room, where the carpet was strewn with hatboxes. “My dear girl, I’ve been longing to speak to you!” Berenilde was radiant as a star. Powdered from top to toe, she was strutting around in a corset and white petticoat with no concern for modesty. She exuded a strong smell of curling iron.

  “As I have you, madam,” said Ophelia, who’d suddenly had an idea.

  “No, not ‘madam!’ Into the bin with ‘madam’s! Call me by my first name, call me ‘aunt,’ even call me ‘mommy,’ if you like! And now, give me your honest opinion.” Berenilde twirled gracefully to show off her perfect, shapely figure from the side. “Do you find me plump?”

  “Plump?” stammered Ophelia, taken aback. “Well, no. But . . . ”

  Berenilde clasped her theatrically in her arms, covering her clothes in powder. “I regret my childish attitude towards you, dear girl. I held a grudge against you, like a true adolescent. But that’s all forgotten now!”

  Berenilde’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure and her eyes were sparkling. A woman in love, quite simply. Farouk had shown concern for her, she was triumphant. “Thorn explained to you what’s happening to us, I believe. I think Archibald’s offer is the best opportunity we could be given.” She sat in front of her dressing table, on which three mirrors reflected her beautiful face from different angles. She squeezed the bulb on a bottle of perfume to spray her bodice. Ophelia sneezed.

  “You see,” Berenilde continued, looking more serious, “I feel the life we were leading wasn’t viable. It’s perilous for courtiers to cut themselves off from everyone else, and, to be perfectly frank, I believe it won’t do my nephew any harm to be a little deprived of you.” With a hint of irony at the corner of her lips, and also faintly flustered, she smiled at the reflection of Ophelia, who was standing behind her, arms dangling. “That boy has softened since he took you from your family. I find him excessively understanding with you, which isn’t like him. And I, who flattered myself in front of you that I alone reigned over his heart, I confess to you that I did feel a touch jealous!”

  Ophelia was barely listening to her as she was concentrating too much on the words she now had to utter: Madam, I have already met Mr. Archibald.

  “Madam, I—”

  “The past is the past!” Berenilde interrupted her. “What matters is what is to come. I will at last be able to initiate you into the scheming subtleties of the court.”

  “Wait, madam, I—”

  “Because you, my dear Ophelia, you are going to be part of my retinue,” she added, before shouting: “Mother!”

  Berenilde snapped her fingers, imperiously. The grandmother advanced slowly, her tortoise smile splitting her face in two. She presented Ophelia with a little case smelling strongly of mothballs. A black dress, rather odd-looking, was folded inside.

  “Get undressed,” ordered Berenilde, lighting herself a cigarette.

  “Listen . . . ” insisted Ophelia, “I have already—”

  “Help her, Mother. The child’s far too prissy.”

  With a gentle touch, the grandmother unfastened Ophelia’s dress until it fell around her feet. Shivering, with arms crossed over her chest, she was left wearing nothing but a cotton slip. If Thorn came into the sitting room now, she’d give a fine impression.

  “Put this on, dear girl,” said the grandmother. She handed over the black dress from the little case. Feeling increasingly uneasy, Ophelia noticed, as she unfolded the heavy velvet embellished with silver braid, that this was not a woman’s garment.

  “A valet’s livery?”

  “A vest and hose are on their way. Slip it on, just to see.”

  Ophelia passed her head through the narrow collar of the uniform, which hung down to her thighs. Berenilde blew out a cloud of smoke through her satisfied smile. “From tonight onwards, you’re called Mime.”

  Startled, Ophelia discovered a reflection in Berenilde’s triple mirror that she didn’t recognize. A little man with black hair, almond-shaped eyes and bland features was reflecting her own surprise back at her. “What’s that?” she stammered. The little man had moved his lips at the same rhythm she’d moved hers.

  “An effective disguise,” replied Berenilde. “The only drawback is your voice . . . and your accent. But what does that matter if you’re mute?”

  Ophelia saw the eyes of the young man widen. She put her hand up to her glasses to check they were still there, as she could no longer see them. Her reflection seemed to be to
uching the air.

  “You’ll also have to avoid those kinds of mannerisms,” mocked Berenilde. “So, what do you think? I doubt you’ll interest anyone whatsoever looking like that!”

  Ophelia agreed in silence. Her problem had just found a solution.

  At Clairdelune

  The Key

  The Antechamber was the envy of all of Citaceleste. It was decorated like a boudoir and a variety of teas were served. It was called the Antechamber because it was the only means of access to Clairdelune, Archibald’s estate. The only people who could ride in it were the ambassador’s guests, who were distinguished by their lineage and their eccentricity. Doubtless owing to its weight, it was also the slowest lift: it took half an hour to complete its journey.

  Feeling stiff in her uniform, Ophelia crossed her legs, uncrossed them, crossed them again, and rubbed one ankle against the other. It was the first time in her life she’d worn men’s clothing, so she wasn’t sure how to carry herself, and those stockings were horribly scratchy against her calves.

  Seated in a comfortable armchair with cup of tea in hand, Berenilde cast a disapproving look at her. “I do hope you’re not going to wriggle around like that at the ambassador’s. You will stand up straight, heels together, chin up, and eyes down. And, most importantly, do nothing that I haven’t specifically asked you to do.”

  She put her teacup down on a pedestal table and beckoned Ophelia over. Delicately, she took her gloved hands into her own. Ophelia instantly stiffened at this contact. Berenilde had seemed in a good mood since Archibald’s surprise visit, but this lioness’s mood swings were unpredictable. “My sweet girl, never forget that only the livery bears the illusion. You have the face and upper body of a man, but your hands and legs are those of a woman. Avoid anything that could draw attention to them.”

  Women’s hands . . . Ophelia looked at her reader’s gloves, as black as her livery, and clenched her fingers several times to break in the new fabric. She’d relinquished her usual old pair for one of those her mother had given her. She didn’t want to wear anything that might trigger Archibald’s memory.