Berenilde turned away whenever she came across someone going into one of these lifts. That’s when Ophelia understood that they were going to Farouk’s tower. Puzzled, she studied the embassy carefully from the gardens. The castle had every appearance of being a totally enclosed space, with regular roofs and pepperpot towers beneath the starry night sky. And yet, some of these lifts rose beyond the sky, towards an invisible world.
“Lesson No. 2,” said Fox when Ophelia was able to pass him another sandglass. “You’ll have noticed that the architecture here is highly changeable. Never linger in the provisional rooms if you can’t see anyone else there. Mother Hildegarde has been known to erase rooms when mates were still in them.”
Ophelia shuddered with horror.
She’d still never met Mother Hildegarde, but, having heard her spoken about, she was starting to know her better. This Hildegarde was a foreign architect. She came from a distant and little known ark, the LandmArk, where people played with space as though with an elastic band. Ophelia had finally understood that it wasn’t the Mirages’ illusions that distorted the laws of physics on the Citaceleste, it was the prodigious power of Mother Hildegarde. If the bedrooms at Clairdelune were more secure than safes, it was because each turn of the key locked them into an enclosed space, that’s to say, cut off from the rest of the world, totally impregnable.
Ophelia got hold of some paper and a pencil, and, during their breakfast in the servants’ hall, made Fox draw her a plan of the premises. She was tired of getting lost due to the absurdities of this space. How many staircases led to impossible destinations? How many rooms had windows that defied logic?
“Whoa! You’re asking too much of me!” Fox protested, scratching his red mane. “Just you try to make rooms containing more space than they should fit on to a page. What, what’s up?”
With her pencil, Ophelia was hammering on a small corridor that she just couldn’t get her head around. “That?” said Fox. “It’s what’s called a Compass Rose. Never seen one? There are loads round here.” He took the pencil and drew large arrows going off in all directions. “With this Compass Rose, you’ve got a shortcut to the gardens on the cascades side; a shortcut to the large dining room; a shortcut to the men’s smoking room; and a normal door that leads to the service corridor. The trick,” he concluded, “is to memorize the colors of the doors. You get the idea?”
As she was staring at her sketch, what Ophelia grasped was that she was going to have to put her memory to work, rather than her sense of direction. She’d have liked to ask Fox where this famous Mother Hildegarde, whom he was always going on about, lived, but, alas, a mute doesn’t ask questions.
That didn’t stop her from learning a good deal from her contact with him—much more than with Thorn and Berenilde, in any case. As they ate meals together, Fox became increasingly talkative with Mime, sometimes giving advice without having received a sandglass in exchange: “Kid, you really mustn’t bow the same way to a duke and a baron, even if they’re from the same family! With the first, you bow until you can see your kneecaps; with the second, a simple bow of the head will do.”
Ophelia was starting to know her way around all these aristocrats; she even went so far as to learn the order of precedence and its numerous exceptions. Titles corresponded to the nobles’ fiefdoms, on the Citaceleste or in the Pole’s provinces; or to honorary offices; or to privileges bestowed by Farouk. Sometimes, to all three at once.
“All notorious incompetents!” bewailed Gail. “Who can pin fake suns on to fake skies, but are incapable of fixing a boiler.”
Ophelia nearly choked on her lentil stew and Fox raised his bushy eyebrows. Normally, the mechanic didn’t mix with them, but on that occasion she had invited herself to their supper. She pushed Fox along the bench, planted her elbows on the table, and trained her electric-blue eye on Ophelia. Her pitch-dark, cropped hair and black monocle obscured half of her face.
“You, I’ve been observing you for a while now and, I must say, you intrigue me. Behind your standoffishness, you’re finding out about everything and everyone. You wouldn’t be a bit of a spy, in your own way?”
Gail had placed an ironic emphasis on that spy that made Ophelia uncomfortable. This woman, with her brusque manners, did she intend to denounce her to Archibald’s policemen?
“You always see evil everywhere, my lovely,” Fox broke in, half-smiling. “This poor chap has never seen anything other than his mistress’s little manor, so it’s normal he feels disorientated. And anyhow, keep out of our conversations, they’re our business.”
Gail paid him no attention. She remained focused on Ophelia, who was trying to chew her lentils as innocently as possible. “I’m not convinced,” she muttered, finally. “The fact is, you intrigue me.” She slapped her hand on the table to reinforce her words, and got up as abruptly as she’d sat down.
“Not happy about that,” admitted Fox, looking peeved, when Gail had gone. “Seems like you seriously took her fancy. Years I’ve been after that woman, me.”
Ophelia finished what was on her plate, feeling a little anxious. When playing the part of Mime, she wasn’t supposed to attract too much attention. Then she thought about Gail’s opinion of the nobles. In this world, servants had very little value. They weren’t descendants of Farouk, issuing instead from the people with no powers, so had to compensate with their hands for what they couldn’t contribute with their talents. It certainly gave one food for thought. A Mirage who conjures up illusions is thus considered better than those who clean his linen and prepare his meals?
The closer Ophelia got to Pole society, the more disenchanted she became. She’d come here hoping to find trustworthy people, but all she saw around her were big, capricious children . . . starting with the host. Ophelia just couldn’t understand how the role of ambassador could have fallen to such an offhand and provocative man. Archibald never combed his hair, barely shaved, displayed holes in every glove, every frock coat, every hat he wore, without any of it diminishing his seraphic beauty. And this beauty he used and abused in his dealings with women. Ophelia better understood why Thorn and Berenilde were protecting her from him: Archibald’s way of life consisted of leading women to commit adultery. He got all of his female guests into his bed, and then spoke to their husbands with staggering candor:
“You’re as fat as a pig!” he guffawed to the provost of the merchants. “Beware, your wife is the most unsatisfied of all those whom I’ve had the pleasure of visiting.”
“You seem to be showing a lot of interest in my sister Relish,” he said softly to the Keeper of the Seals. “Touch her but once, and I’ll make you the biggest cuckold of all the arks put together.”
“Do you occasionally find yourself doing your job?” he asked the police lieutenant. “As I was saying to your wife only yesterday, anyone can just walk right into the Citaceleste! Not that it displeases me, but I’ve found myself bumping into the least expected people in places where they really shouldn’t be . . . ”
On hearing these last words, Ophelia almost tipped her tray of pastries over Berenilde’s dress. She was touching wood, but Archibald still hadn’t mentioned their meeting. If the Web had witnessed the scene through him, as Thorn seemed to believe they could, Archibald’s sisters were likewise remaining discreet. Did they all not care a fig about it? Or were they waiting for the right moment to slip a note to Berenilde? Ophelia felt as though she were permanently walking a tightrope.
One morning, however, it was her turn to uncover one of Archibald’s little secrets. It was during one of those rare lulls when the guests were sleeping off the drunkenness of the last party and Clairdelune’s metronome hadn’t yet been restarted. Apart from a glassy-eyed noble wandering the corridors like a sleepwalker, only a few servants were tidying up on the ground floor.
Ophelia had gone down to find a poetry anthology that Berenilde, subject to one of those strange cravings of pregnant wom
en, had urgently requested. When she opened the door of the library, Ophelia at first wondered whether her glasses weren’t playing tricks on her. There were no more pink armchairs or crystal chandeliers. There was a musty smell, the furniture was arranged differently, and, when she scanned the shelves, she couldn’t see the usual books. Gone were the licentious works; gone the doctrines of pleasure; gone the romantic poetry! All that was there were specialist dictionaries, strange encyclopedias, and, especially, an impressive collection of linguistic studies. Semiotics, phonemics, cryptanalysis, linguistic typology . . . What were such serious tomes doing in the home of the frivolous Archibald?
Her curiosity piqued, Ophelia began to leaf through a randomly plucked book—In the Days When Our Ancestors Spoke Several Languages—but it nearly fell from her hands when she heard Archibald’s voice behind her:
“Inspiring reading?”
Ophelia turned around and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t her being spoken to. She hadn’t noticed them when she came in, but Archibald and another man were at the back of the room, leaning over a wooden lectern. Apparently, they hadn’t noticed her either.
“Certainly, it’s a remarkable reproduction,” commented the man with Archibald. “If I weren’t an expert, I would have sworn we were dealing with an original.”
He spoke with an accent Ophelia had never heard before. Concealed behind some shelving, she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to be here, but she couldn’t resist a quick, surreptitious look. The stranger was so small, he must have been standing on a stool to reach the height of the lectern.
“If you hadn’t been an expert,” Archibald replied, nonchalantly, “I wouldn’t have treated myself to your services.”
“Where’s the original, signore?”
“Only Farouk knows. Let’s make do with this copy for now. What I need to be sure of first is that you’re up to this translation. Our Lord officially charged me with distributing it to all my relations, but he’s losing patience, and I’m harboring under my roof a female competitor who wants to beat me to it. So I’m in rather a hurry.”
“Come, come,” the stranger said in his reedy little voice, laughing nervously. “I may be the best, but don’t expect miracles from me! To this day, no one has ever deciphered the Book of a family spirit. What I can propose to you is a statistical study of all the distinctive features of this document: the number of signs, the frequency of each one, the size of the spacing. Then I could proceed to a comparative study of the other reproductions, of which I am the proud owner.”
“And that’s it? You’ve traveled across the world at my expense to inform me of what I already know?” Archibald’s tone didn’t betray any annoyance, but there was something about his honeyed diction that seemed to make the stranger uneasy.
“Forgive me, signore, but no one can be expected to do the impossible. What I can assure you is that the more we compare, the more the overall statistics gain in precision. Perhaps one day we’ll succeed in getting some logic to emerge from the chaos of this alphabet?”
“And you’re described as the best in your discipline!” sighed Archibald with disappointment. We are wasting each other’s time, sir. Allow me to see you out.”
Ophelia hid behind a marble bust while the two men left the library. As soon as the door was closed, she tiptoed over to the lectern. A huge book was resting on it. It was so like the one in Artemis’s archives that it would be hard to tell them apart. With her reader’s gloved fingertips, she carefully turned the pages. There were the same enigmatic arabesques, the same silent story, the same skin-like texture. The expert was right, this reproduction was a small masterpiece.
So, there were other Books across the arks? If that little stranger were to be believed, each family spirit possessed a copy, and if Archibald were to be believed, Lord Farouk had a burning desire to decipher his own.
Perturbed, Ophelia had a sudden premonition. The pieces of an astounding jigsaw puzzle were falling into place in her mind. That “female competitor” mentioned by Archibald, she was convinced that he meant Berenilde. This was neither the place nor the time to think, however. Her instinct told her that she shouldn’t have heard what she’d heard, so best not to linger in the vicinity.
Ophelia made for the door. When she couldn’t turn the handle, she realized that she’d got locked in. She looked around for a window, or a service door, but this library didn’t resemble the one she knew in any way. There wasn’t even a fireplace. The only source of light came from the ceiling, where an illusion, quite a successful one at that, imitated a sunrise on the sea.
Ophelia could hear her own heart beating, and suddenly realized that the silence here was abnormal. The sounds of the servants’ activities no longer reached her through the walls. Anxious, she ended up banging on the door to make her presence known. Her blows produced not the slightest sound, as though she were hitting a pillow.
A double room.
Fox had already spoken to her of these rooms that superimposed two places in a single space. Only Archibald possessed the key that allowed access to each one. Ophelia was trapped in the double of the library. She sat on a chair and clarified her thoughts. Force open the door? It led nowhere. One part was there, the other no longer was, and one can’t do anything to something that doesn’t exist. Await Archibald’s return? If he didn’t come back for weeks, it promised to be a long wait.
“I must find a mirror,” Ophelia then decided, getting up.
Unfortunately for her, this library wasn’t as vain as the other rooms in Clairdelune. It sought neither to be visually pleasing nor to create lighting effects. Unearthing a mirror among these scholarly tomes would be a challenge. There were certainly pocket mirrors on the shelves, for deciphering texts written backwards, but Ophelia couldn’t have got her hand through those.
She finally spotted a silver tray on which bottles of ink were kept. She cleared it and polished it with a handkerchief until she could see her reflection in it. It was narrow, but would do. Ophelia leant it against some library steps. Archibald would surely wonder what the tray was doing in such an unlikely place, but she had no choice.
Kneeling on the carpet, Ophelia conjured the image of her sleeping quarters in her mind and dived headlong into the tray. Her nose bent, her glasses crunched and her forehead rang out like a gong. Dazed, she stared at the expressionless face of Mime in front of her. The passage hadn’t worked?
“Traveling through mirrors, that requires facing up to oneself,” her great-uncle had said. “Those who close their eyes, those who lie to themselves, those who see themselves as better than they are, they could never do it.”
Ophelia understood why the mirror had rejected her. She was wearing Mime’s face and playing the part of someone other than herself. She unbuttoned her livery, and confronted her dear old reflection head-on. She had a red nose and bent glasses from the impact. It felt strange to see once again her vague expression, messy bun, shy mouth, and those shadows under her eyes. This face might be a little rough around the edges, but at least it was hers.
With Mime’s livery under her arm, Ophelia was now able to pass through the tray. She landed awkwardly on the floor of her room at 6, Baths Road, and hastened to put her uniform back on. Her hands were shaking like leaves. She’d really had a narrow escape this time.
When she finally made it to Berenilde’s room on the top floor of the castle, the widow looked at her with impatience from her bath. “For goodness’ sake! I had to send Rosaline in search of you and I’m left with no staff to get me ready. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my poetry anthology, on top of all that?” she moaned, seeing Mime return empty-handed.
Ophelia had a quick look to check no one else was in the apartments, and turned the key in the door. The nauseating gramophone in the adjoining antechamber could no longer be heard: Ophelia and Berenilde had been transported to a separate world.
“What am I
to you?” Ophelia then asked, in a muted voice. Berenilde’s anger instantly abated. She stretched her lovely tattooed arms along the rim of the bath.
“Pardon?”
“I’m not rich, I’m not powerful, I’m not beautiful, and I’m not loved by your nephew,” Ophelia intoned. “Why force him to marry me, when just my presence causes you so many problems?”
Once over her initial astonishment, Berenilde erupted into musical laughter. The foamy water lapped against the porcelain bath while her hilarity lasted. “What kind of tragedy is playing out inside your head? I chose you by chance, my dear; it could just as easily have been the girl next door. So stop being childish and help me up. This water’s getting cold!”
Ophelia then knew for certain that she was lying to her; “chance” was a word that didn’t feature in the court’s vocabulary. Lord Farouk was trying to find an expert to unlock the secret of his Book. What if Berenilde thought she’d finally found that expert?
The Visit
“Young man, you’re a disgrace to your profession,” muttered Gustave.
Ophelia looked at the brown imprint her iron had left on the paper. Of all her daily tasks, if there was one that she found particularly thankless, it was ironing the newspaper. Every morning, a bundle of papers was delivered to the servants’ lobby. The valets had to redo the folds themselves, to make them more manageable for the masters. Ophelia always scorched three or four papers before ironing one properly. Fox had got into the habit of doing it for her, but not today: there had been a green sandglass, so he was enjoying a well-deserved break. And just Ophelia’s bad luck, that morning the head butler was inspecting in the servants’ hall.
“You will understand that I can’t tolerate such wastage,” he told her with a wide smile. “From now on, you’re not allowed to touch the newspapers. For this once, go and give the fruits of your clumsiness to Madam Berenilde. You haven’t a tongue, so at least try to have some guts, hmm?”
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