A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

“I’m not forgetting your pavilion, Madam Astrid!” she promised a lady hiding, in vain, behind a fan. Ophelia watched the scene with unavoidable sympathy. All of these people requested the services of the architect but were ashamed to be seen with her. And the more unwelcome they made her feel, the more she behaved like she owned the place. As she kept shouting out to the nobles, the policemen considered intervening, but Archibald signaled to them not to get involved. He calmly crossed the chapel and leant over the back bench, his old opera hat pressed to his chest. “Madam, you are disrupting our mourning. Could you behave yourself?”

  Mother Hildegarde’s face cracked into a witch’s smile. “How could I refuse a favor to you, Augustine?”

  “Archibald, madam. Archibald.”

  Mother Hildegarde sniggered as she watched the ambassador moving off, but she kept her word and stopped making the guests scarper. Ophelia decided this was the ideal moment to deliver her oranges.

  “What’s he after, that midget?” Hildegarde asked, while drawing deeply on her cigar.

  Ophelia placed the basket beside her on the bench and thought it best to salute her. Mother Hildegarde might not be a noble, and her manners were certainly lacking in refinement, but she still deserved a minimum of respect. “She’s the mother of folk like you and me,” Gail had said. It was silly, but Ophelia suddenly felt full of expectation. She didn’t understand why she’d been chosen to make this strange delivery, but she realized that she was hoping for a small miracle out of it. A word, a look, some encouragement, anything that would enable her finally to feel at home here. Gail’s words had affected her more than she’d thought.

  Mother Hildegarde slowly picked up an orange. Her small black eyes darted from the fruit to Ophelia and from Ophelia to the fruit with a vivacity that was surprising for her age. “Did my little brunette send you?”

  She spoke croakily, but Ophelia couldn’t tell whether that was due to her foreign accent or too many cigars. “Lost your tongue, midget? What’s your name? Whom do you serve?”

  Ophelia placed a helpless hand on her mouth, truly sorry not to be able to reply to her. Mother Hildegarde was enjoying rolling the orange in her plump, wrinkled hand. She studied Mime from head to toe with a sneering curiosity, then beckoned him over to whisper something in his ear: “You look so insignificant, it almost makes you special. Do you, too, have a few little things to hide, sonny? Deal done.”

  To Ophelia’s amazement, the Mother slipped three blue sandglasses into her livery pocket and dismissed her with a slap on the bottom. Ophelia had understood absolutely nothing of what had just taken place. She hadn’t got over her astonishment when Fox caught her by the arm and spun her round like a weather vane. “I saw everything!” he hissed between his teeth. “Three blues for a basket of oranges! You knew it, hey? Wanted to keep your paradise all to yourself, false brother!”

  He was unrecognizable. Greed and bitterness had erased all trace of friendliness from his big green eyes. Ophelia felt ineffably sad. She shook her head to say to him, no, she didn’t know, she didn’t understand, she didn’t even want those sandglasses, but then a yell distracted their attention: “Murder!”

  All around them there was chaos. The noble ladies left the vicinity with panicked cries, while the men, shocked, formed a circle around the chapel’s back bench. Mother Hildegarde had gone totally stiff in her spotted dress, eyes frozen in their sockets, pale as a corpse. The orange she’d been holding a moment ago had rolled onto the flagstones. Her hand was all black and swollen.

  “It’s him!” shouted someone, pointing at Ophelia. “He poisoned the architect!”

  There followed an eruption of echoes throughout the chapel: “Poisoner! Poisoner! Poisoner!” Ophelia felt as if she’d plunged into a nightmare. As she was spinning around, accused by dozens of fingers, she glimpsed, fleetingly, Fox’s contorted face, Berenilde’s shattered face, Archibald’s intrigued face. She jostled the policemen trying to get hold of her, quickly pulled off her glove, ran to the basket of oranges, and touched the handle with her fingertips. A risky move, but perhaps her only chance of knowing. Then, in two blinks of an eye, she read the devastating truth.

  The next moment, all Ophelia could see was an avalanche of truncheons.

  The Dungeons

  Lying on a carpet that stank of mold, Ophelia was thinking. At least, she was trying to think. She had a distorted vision of the room in which she found herself. Her glasses had got bent on her nose and she couldn’t put them back on properly as her wrists had been handcuffed behind her back. The only source of light was the fanlight of a door, and it caused strange silhouettes to spring out from the shadows: broken chairs, torn paintings, stuffed animals, stopped clocks. There was even a bicycle wheel, alone in its corner.

  So, is that all they were, the Clairdelune dungeons? An old junk room?

  Ophelia made an attempt to get up, instantly abandoned. Her handcuffs were hurting her. Moving hurt her. Breathing hurt her. She probably had a cracked rib; those policemen hadn’t pulled their punches. They’d even been scrupulous enough to confiscate the three blue sandglasses Mother Hildegarde had given her.

  All her thoughts were for Aunt Rosaline, who must be worried sick. And Thorn? Had he been informed of what was going on? Ophelia hadn’t received a single visit since she’d been thrown onto that carpet a few hours earlier. In all her life, she’d rarely known time to drag this much.

  What would she be expected to do when they came for her? Keep playing her part to the end, so as not to reveal Mime’s imposture? Disobey Thorn and speak out loud to plead her case? Her only defense rested on her reading of the poisoned basket; why would anyone take her word for it? She found it hard enough to believe herself.

  And Ophelia did feel partly guilty of what she was being accused of: if Mother Hildegarde was dead, it was due to her naivety.

  She blew on a strand of hair that was sticking to her glasses. She couldn’t see it, due to the effective camouflage of her livery, but the sensation bothered her. She seized up when she noticed a movement in the shadows, close to her, on the ground, and then she realized that it was just Mime’s reflection. There was a mirror right there, leaning against a pile of furniture. The thought of escaping crossed her mind, but then, disappointment: on closer inspection, the mirror was broken.

  Ophelia raised her head to look at the door, her heart pounding. Someone was turning a key in the lock. A bewigged silhouette, round as a barrel, stood out against the light of the corridor. It was Gustave, head butler at Clairdelune. Closing the door behind him, candleholder in hand, he moved forward through the junk until Ophelia could see him more clearly. The light from the flame emphasized his chalky skin and red lips, turning his fat, grinning face into a grotesque comedy mask. “I thought I’d find you more battered and bruised,” he cooed in his reedy voice. “Although our little policemen aren’t known for their soft touch.”

  Ophelia had blood sticking to her hair and an eyelid so swollen that she could barely open it, but the butler couldn’t see that: the illusion of the livery concealed it all behind Mime’s immutable face. Gustave leant over her with a condescending little tut-tut. “It would certainly seem that you were manipulated, hmm? Murdering in such a crude way, in full diplomatic territory, right in the middle of a funeral ceremony! No one, not even you, is that stupid. Alas, barring a miracle, I can’t see what could save your insignificant little self. Madam Hildegarde wasn’t popular, I’ll grant you, but we don’t kill at Clairdelune. That’s the rule.”

  Bothered by her handcuffs, Ophelia stared wide-eyed with her one working eye. Since when did this fat butler care about her fate? He leant closer and his smile widened. “As I speak to you, Madam Berenilde is pleading your case to the master, as if her own honor were at stake. She’s doing it with such fervor that no one’s fooled. I don’t know what you do to her in private, but she’s seriously infatuated with you, hmm? And I must admit that that makes you p
articularly precious in my eyes.”

  Ophelia was listening to him as though in a dream. This scene was unreal.

  “I think Madam Berenilde could even end up convincing the master to give you a fair verdict,” Gustave continued with an amused chuckle. “Unfortunately, time is against you, hmm? Our dear policemen are overzealous, and I heard that they’re shortly to put the rope round your neck, with no inquest, no trial, no witnesses. It’ll be over before your mistress is even informed.”

  Ophelia felt her whole body go into a cold sweat. She was really starting to be afraid. If she revealed her true identity, would they show more clemency towards her or would she worsen the situation? Wouldn’t she risk dragging Berenilde down with her?

  Breathless from leaning over too long, fat Gustave stood up straight. He looked for a chair that still had its four legs, put it beside Ophelia’s carpet, and sat on it. The wood creaked ominously under his weight. “Would you like to do a deal with me, young man?”

  In too much pain to sit up, all Ophelia could see of Gustave was a pair of patent shoes and white stockings. She indicated that she was listening to him by blinking.

  “It is in my power to save you from the policemen,” Gustave’s shrill little voice continued. “I give you my word that no one will come to bother you until the master has made his decision. That’s your only chance of salvation, hmm?” He guffawed, as though the situation truly was hilarious. “If the master decides to give you a chance and if, by a miracle, you come through, then you’ll owe me a small favor.”

  Ophelia waited for what was coming, but Gustave said nothing more. She realized that he was writing when she heard a light scratching sound. He leant over close enough to stick his message on her nose, with backup from the candle: Berenilde must have lost her baby before the evening of the opera.

  For the first time in her life, Ophelia knew what it meant to hate. This man disgusted her. He burnt the message on the flame of the candle.

  “Since you’re so intimate with madam, you should be up to it, hmm? And no trickery,” he warned her, in a sugary voice. “The person commissioning me is powerful. If you so much as think of betraying me, or fail in this task, your miserable existence will immediately be over, hmm?”

  Gustave left with his hurried little steps without even waiting for a sign of consent. After all, it wasn’t as if Mime was in a position to refuse his offer. He closed the door with the click of a key, and Ophelia found herself alone again on her dusty carpet, curled up in the dark.

  A reprieve. That’s all she’d just obtained.

  Ophelia struggled for a long time with anxiety and pain before sinking into a dreamless sleep. The click of the door roused her from her torpor a few hours later. Three policemen in black cocked hats entered the junk room. When they grabbed her under the armpits to get her on her feet, Ophelia almost groaned out loud in pain.

  “Buck up! You’ve been summoned to the ambassador’s office.”

  Supported by a firm grip, Ophelia stumbled out of the junk room. She blinked, dazzled by the light of the corridor, which seemed to go on forever, punctuated by countless doors leading to other junk rooms. Ophelia knew that beyond this corridor there was nothing. Fox had told her about the dungeons: they were a vast enclosed space, with no stairs, no lift, no windows, no possibility of leaving. Only the policemen could come and go as they pleased.

  One of them collected a white sandglass from a little recess close to Ophelia’s cell. The sand it contained trickled slowly, one grain at a time. Each servant thrown into the dungeons was linked to such a sandglass; their detention ended once it was empty. When one knew that some sandglasses were designed to turn around automatically, in perpetual motion, it sent shivers down the spine.

  The policeman smashed Ophelia’s sandglass on the floor. Before she’d even had time to blink, she found herself back in the Clairdelune chapel, at the precise spot she’d been arrested. “An emptied sandglass always takes you back to your starting point,” Fox had explained to her. It was the first time she was experiencing it. Other policemen were already there to seize her by the shoulders and request she follow them. Their orders echoed against the checkered flagging, the large stained-glass windows, and the stone statues. They alone remained in the chapel. Ophelia couldn’t believe that a funeral ceremony had taken place here that very morning. Or was it yesterday?

  She was led from shortcut to shortcut, and from Compass Rose to Compass Rose, in order to cross the Clairdelune estate. She could only just put one foot in front of the other. Every breath tore at her ribs. Her mind a blank, she hadn’t the faintest idea what she should do to get them out of this mess, Berenilde, Rosaline and herself. Speak or say nothing? Ophelia felt so alone with her uncertainty that she surprised herself by wishing that Thorn was there to help them out. She could barely stand anymore when the policemen pushed her into the private office of the ambassador.

  Ophelia wasn’t prepared for what awaited her there.

  Archibald and Berenilde were calmly drinking tea. Sitting in comfortable armchairs, they were chatting amiably while a chubby little girl was playing them a little piano. They didn’t even seem to have noticed Mime’s presence.

  Only Aunt Rosaline, who was serving the tea, started to shake nervously. Her jaundiced complexion had become very pale—pale with rage against the entire world, pale with anxiety for her niece. Ophelia would have liked to rush into her arms. She alone seemed to her to have a human face in the midst of all this indifference.

  “My sisters are not exhausting you too much?” inquired Archibald with polite interest. “I’m not sure all these rehearsals are necessary.”

  “They’re just keen to make a good impression on our Lord,” replied Berenilde. “This opera will be their first official appearance up there, at the court.”

  “More importantly, it will be your great return, my dear. If Farouk sees you again, he’ll undoubtedly want to tear you away from Clairdelune immediately. You have never been so beautiful.”

  Berenilde accepted the compliment with an affected flutter of her eyelashes, but her smile was rather stiff. “I’m not as sure as you on that, Archie. You know how much ‘small feminine issues’ annoy him,” she explained, laying a hand on her stomach. “As long as I’m in this state, he’ll refuse to receive me. That was the price to pay, as I knew from the start.”

  Ophelia’s head was spinning. All this was so far removed from what she was going through right now . . . A woman was dead, another was going to be judged for a crime she hadn’t committed, and they were sipping their tea and talking affairs of the heart!

  A man lurking in a corner of the office coughed on his hand to attract their attention. It was Papier-Mâché, the steward. He was so narrow, so gray, so stiff that he became invisible when he remained silent. “Madam, sir, the accused has arrived.”

  Ophelia didn’t know whether she was supposed to bow or not. Her ribs were so painful that just standing was torture. She stared desperately at Berenilde, asking her with her eyes what she should do, but her protector barely looked at her. She was happy merely to place her cup back on its saucer and wait. As for Aunt Rosaline, she looked as if she were fighting the urge to smash the porcelain teapot over someone’s head.

  Archibald, on the other hand, was fanning himself with his top hat and looking bored. “Let’s get it over with! We’re listening, Philibert.”

  Papier-Mâché put on a pair of spectacles, opened an envelope, and read the letter it contained in a monotonous voice: “I the undersigned, Madam Meredith Hildegarde, certify, on my honor, that I take total responsibility for the events that took place during the funeral ceremony of the late Madam Frida. I ordered a basket of oranges for the occasion, but neither its contents nor the delivery boy are at fault. My indisposition was caused by an extreme allergic reaction to a spider bite. In the hope of having cleared up any misunderstanding, please accept, Mr. Ambassador—”
>
  “Et cetera, et cetera,” Archibald interrupted him, flapping his hand. “Thank you, Philibert.”

  Pursing his lips, the steward refolded the letter and put his glasses away. Ophelia couldn’t believe her ears. It was a cock-and-bull story.

  “The matter is thus closed,” declared Archibald, without looking at Ophelia. “Please accept my humblest apologies, dear friend.”

  He had spoken directly to Berenilde, as though the only injured party were the mistress, and not the valet. Ophelia felt as though she didn’t exist.

  “It was just a regrettable misunderstanding,” murmured Berenilde, while giving a sign to Aunt Rosaline to serve them some more tea. “Poor Madam Hildegarde, those spiders are a veritable scourge! We can’t see them, due to the illusions, but they’re crawling all over the place! Anyhow, a few days in bed and it clears up. You can leave us,” she added with a careless glance at Ophelia. “I’m giving you the day off.”

  Ophelia started moving again as though in a dream. One policeman removed her handcuffs, another opened the door for her. She went out into the corridor, took a few erratic steps, repeating to herself, again and again, that it was over, that she was alive, and then her legs gave way beneath her. She would have been sent sprawling if a helping hand hadn’t caught her in time. “Costly, those sandglasses, eh?” It was Fox. He’d waited outside the office to be there when she came out. Ophelia felt so grateful that the emotion made her eyes smart. “I didn’t cover myself in glory,” he added with an embarrassed smile. “No hard feelings, lad?”

  Ophelia accepted with all her heart. No hard feelings.

  The Nihilist

  In the basement sleeping quarters, bedroom doors were forever opening and closing, regardless of how late it was. The gaslights had been dimmed for the night. Some servants were going off to work, others were coming back to sleep, all were barging into each other without a word of apology. If a few, clutching their coffee, took the time to chat with a neighbor, most totally ignored each other.