The Knight threw his lollipop stick on the floor and started carefully going through Ophelia’s letters. “I keep a very close watch over everything that concerns Madam Berenilde. Intercepting her family’s mail is a real little obsession. It’s when I came across yours that I learnt that you were at the manor. Don’t worry,” he added, pushing his glasses back up his nose, “I’ve said nothing to no one, not even Gustave.”
He swung his legs at the end of the bed, gripped by a sudden interest in his little furry slippers. “To be honest, I’m a trifle offended. First an unknown girl is put up in my house without my permission being asked. And when I decide to pay you a visit myself, I discover that a servant is pretending to be you. A decoy for the curious, is that it? I’m afraid I don’t share that particular sense of humor, miss. As that poor girl discovered to her cost.”
Ophelia shook with nervous shivers. Who had replaced her at the manor? Pistache? She’d never worried about it. She hadn’t spared a single thought for the girl risking her life in her place. “Did you harm her?”
The Knight shrugged his shoulders. “I just delved inside her head. That’s how I knew that the little valet was, in reality, you. I wanted to see for myself what you looked like and I’m totally reassured now that I have. You’re much too ordinary for Madam Berenilde to feel affection for you.” He dived back into the letters, wrinkling his nose in concentration.
“That other lady, she’s a relation of yours, isn’t she?”
“Don’t you go near her.” Ophelia had been quicker to speak than to think. Provoking this child was a reckless, dangerous thing to do—she sensed it with every fiber of her being. He raised his round glasses back up at her and, for the first time, she saw him smile. An awkward, almost timid smile.
“If Madam Berenilde loses her baby before this evening, I’ll have no reason to attack your relation.” The Knight tucked Ophelia’s letters back inside his pajama top and almost tripped as he got up from the bed. For such a clumsy child, he certainly wasn’t lacking in cheek. Cracked rib or not, Ophelia would have given him the spanking of the century if she’d been capable of moving, but she felt as if she were drowning, body and soul, in those bottle-bottom glasses. Young as he was, the Knight, once standing, wasn’t that much smaller than her. She could no longer tear herself away from his placid eyes, which tattooed eyelids closed.
No, thought Ophelia, with all her might. I must not allow him to manipulate my mind.
“I’m really sorry, miss,” the Knight sighed, “but you will retain no memory of this conversation. I am, however, convinced that it will leave an impression on you. A very bad and very tenacious impression.” With these words, he took his leave with a bow of the head, and closed the door behind him.
Ophelia remained stock-still in Thorn’s big coat. She had the most splitting headache. She stopped the gramophone to shut it up; why had she restarted it, anyway? She frowned on seeing the key not properly inserted in the lock. She hadn’t locked the door, what a scatterbrain! As she crossed the room, something stuck to her stocking. Ophelia rubbed her foot on the ground to get rid of it, and looked closely to see what it was. A small stick. This room was turning into a dump.
Carefully, she sat on the bed, and looked anxiously around her. Her livery was folded over the back of a chair. The basin had been emptied of its dirty water. The door was at last locked. Why, then, did she have that feeling of having forgotten something very important?
“He hanged himself? Lot of good that’ll do him.”
Ophelia had only just sat at the table in the servants’ hall when Fox had hurled that statement at her, between two gulps of coffee. Who hanged himself, she would have liked to have asked him. She stared at him for a long time until he decided to say more. With his chin, he indicated the feverish commotion of the servants around the tables. “You really must get your head out of the clouds, sonny. It’s all everyone’s talking about! Gustave, the head butler. Found attached to a beam in his room.”
If Ophelia hadn’t been sitting on a bench already, her legs would have given way beneath her. Gustave was dead. She’d spoken to Thorn about him and he was dead. She urged Fox with her eyes, eager to know what had happened.
“You seem really shaken,” said a surprised Fox, raising his eyebrows. “You’re definitely the only one to shed a tear over his fate, believe me. He was a real pervert, that guy. And he didn’t have a totally clear conscience, you know. Apparently, they found a summons from the Chamber of Justice: illegal possession of yellow sandglasses, abuse of trust, and more!” Fox ran his thumb under his imposing jaw in a meaningful gesture. “He was finished in any case. Play too much with fire, and you get your butt burnt.”
Ophelia barely touched the coffee that Fox had served her with a theatrical flourish. The Chamber of Justice was closely linked to the Treasury; it was Thorn all right who was behind all this. He’d kept his word. Ophelia should have felt relieved, for herself and for the baby, but her stomach remained in knots. And now? Thorn surely wasn’t going to invite his grandmother to throw herself from a window, was he?
As Fox was insistently scratching his throat, she put aside her thoughts to return to him. He was contemplating the bottom of his empty cup with an uneasy expression. “You’re returning to service today, eh? For that singsong?”
Ophelia nodded. She had no choice. This evening it was the Spring Opera, presented in Farouk’s honor. Berenilde was absolutely counting on her presence; she’d even managed to secure her a minor role, as a gondolier. With a cracked rib, it promised to be a long evening.
“Me, I won’t be there,” grumbled Fox. “My mistress is deaf as a post, so operas bore her to death.” He hadn’t looked up from his cup, and a furrow had appeared between his eyebrows. “Isn’t it a bit soon, for you?” he suddenly asked. “I mean, after all you’ve been through . . . A single day of rest, it’s really not that much, eh?”
Ophelia waited patiently for him to say what he had to say. Fox scratched his throat, combed his side-whiskers, and glanced warily around him. Suddenly, he thrust a hand in his pocket. “Here. But don’t get used to it, eh? It’s just for this once, to give you a chance to breathe, eh?”
Dazed by all those “eh?”s, Ophelia looked at the green sandglass placed near her cup of coffee. She was grateful for her enforced silence: had she been able to speak, she wouldn’t have known what to say. Until now, it was she who handed over all of her tips.
Fox crossed his arms on the table with a sulky expression, as if playing it charitable was bad for his reputation. “The three blue sandglasses,” he grumbled between his teeth, “the ones Mother Hildegarde gave you. The policemen didn’t return them to you, eh? I just don’t think that’s right, that’s all.”
Ophelia studied Fox closely—his strong face, his expressive eyes under the burning bush of his eyebrows, his flaming hair. She felt she was suddenly seeing him with more clarity than before. Thorn had ordered her not to put her trust in anyone; at that moment, she felt incapable of obeying him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Fox, turning away. “It gives you, like, a woman’s eyes . . . It’s really unnerving, you know?”
Ophelia gave him back his sandglass. Whatever he thought, he would need it more than she would. Once he’d got over his surprise, Fox broke into a mocking smile. “Ah, I think I understand! You want to see him and be seen by him, is that it?” He lay flat on the table like a big ginger cat, elbows forward, to be able to speak to her, nose to nose. “The Immortal Lord,” he whispered. “He whom only the toffs are allowed to look at directly. Me, my boy, I’ve already met him. Cross my heart and hope to die! It was only an instant, when I was escorting Madam Clothilde, but I could see him just as I’m seeing you, yourself. And, believe me or not, lad, he glanced at me. Being seen by an Immortal, can you imagine?”
Fox seemed so proud that Ophelia wasn’t quite sure whether to smile or grimace. While rubbing should
ers with the servants, she’d soon noticed that they were incredibly superstitious when it came to Farouk. They seemed convinced that the slightest attention from him, even involuntary, left such an imprint on the soul that it became immortal. Those who were fortunate enough to be looked at by the family spirit, a privilege normally reserved for nobles, would survive the death of the body. The others were condemned to oblivion.
Animists didn’t entertain this kind of belief with regards to Artemis. They were pleased to think that they would continue to exist through the memory of their possessions, and that was as far as it went.
Fox patted Ophelia’s shoulder as if to console her. “I know you have a minor role in the show, but don’t hope to be noticed for that. You and me, we’re invisible to the eyes of those in high places.”
Ophelia pondered these words as she elbowed her way along the ground-floor service corridor. There was so much traffic this morning that valets, maids, and messengers were treading on each other’s toes amid indescribable confusion. All of them now spoke only of the opera; Gustave’s death was already ancient history.
Ophelia’s ribs rattled with every breath she took. She looked for less busy routes, but the gardens and sitting rooms were swarming with people. In addition to the embassy’s usual guests, there were now ministers, councilors, fashionable ladies, diplomats, artists, and dandies. They had all come here for Archibald’s lifts, the only ones to serve Farouk’s tower. The spring celebration must be a much-awaited event in the Pole. The number of policemen had doubled for the occasion.
In the music room, the atmosphere was, alas, not much calmer. Archibald’s sisters were panicking over problems with costumes. The dresses hindered their movement, the headdresses were too heavy, they were running out of pins . . .
Ophelia found Berenilde behind a screen, standing on a footrest, her gloved arms gracefully raised. Majestic in her ruff-collared dress, she disapproved of the tailor making her try on satin belts. “I asked you to conceal my stomach, not to emphasize its roundness.”
“Don’t you worry about that, madam. I’m planning on adding some veils that will reveal only what’s required of your figure.”
Ophelia thought it best to stay in the background for the moment, but she could see Berenilde perfectly in the large, swiveling cheval mirror. Her cheeks were all flushed with emotion. She really was smitten with Farouk; that much she wasn’t pretending.
Ophelia could almost read her thoughts in her big, limpid eyes: I’m finally seeing him again. I must be the most beautiful. I can reconquer him.
“I’m sorry about your mother, madam,” sighed the tailor, with a fitting expression on his face. “Falling ill on the day of your performance, that’s really bad luck.”
Ophelia held her breath. Thorn’s grandmother was unwell? That couldn’t be a coincidence. Berenilde didn’t appear particularly concerned, however. She was far too obsessed with her image reflected in the mirror. “Mother always had weak lungs,” she said, distractedly. “Each summer she goes to the Opal Sands sanatorium. She’ll be going earlier this year, that’s all.”
Ophelia would have liked to know how Thorn had managed to get his grandmother to report sick. Maybe he’d openly threatened her? The air had suddenly become much more breathable, and for that, Ophelia was indebted to him. And yet, she still didn’t feel at ease. She felt as if a threat were still hovering in the atmosphere, but without her being able to name it.
Mime’s black-and-white reflection in the mirror caught Berenilde’s eye. “There you are! You’ll find your props on the bench. Don’t lose them, we haven’t any spares.”
Ophelia got the message. She’d also be appearing at the court this evening. Even hidden behind the face of a servant, she’d better not make a bad impression. She looked over at the bench, in the midst of harpsichords and dresses. On it she saw a flat hat with a long blue ribbon, the oar of a gondola, and Aunt Rosaline. A nervous wreck, she was so pale that her skin had lost its usual sallowness. “In front of the entire court . . . ” she moaned between her long teeth. “Handing over the phial in front of the entire court.”
Aunt Rosaline was playing Isolde’s lady-in-waiting, who, unable to bring herself to provide the poison requested by her mistress, swaps it for a love potion. It was a small, wordless part, of the sort saved for servants, but the thought of appearing onstage in front of such a large audience made her feel sick with nerves.
As Ophelia put on the flat hat, she was wondering whether Thorn would also attend the performance. She didn’t particularly fancy pretending to row right under his nose. In fact, thinking about it, she didn’t fancy doing it under anyone’s nose.
The hours that followed trickled by. Berenilde, Archibald’s sisters, and the ladies of the chorus were all busy getting ready, only allowing themselves a break to drink herbal teas with honey. Ophelia and her aunt had to wait patiently on their bench.
Towards the end of the morning, Archibald dropped by at the music room. He’d put on clothes that were tattier than ever, and his hair was such a mess, it looked like a pile of straw. He made it a real point of honor to appear scruffy when the circumstances were least appropriate. It was, along with his implacable frankness, one of the few traits that Ophelia liked in him.
Archibald was making last-minute recommendations to his sisters’ dressmakers. “These dresses are far too revealing for their age. Add leg-of-mutton sleeves to replace those gloves, and add wide ribbons to hide those low necklines.”
“But, sir . . . ” stammered one dressmaker, with an alarmed glance at the clock.
“Of their skin, allow only that of their faces to be visible.” Archibald ignored the horrified cries of his sisters. His smile wasn’t as airy as usual, as though he found the thought of serving them up to the court repugnant. He was a very protective brother, Ophelia had to give him that.
“It’s nonnegotiable,” he declared, as his sisters wouldn’t stop protesting. “And now, I’m returning to my guests. I’ve just lost my head butler, so I’ve been saddled with some admin problems.”
Once Archibald had left, Ophelia’s eyes kept going back and forth between the clock, Berenilde, and Aunt Rosaline. She felt stressed under her livery, as if a countdown were proceeding in silence. Only seven hours before the performance. Only five hours. Only three hours. Gustave was dead, but, despite that, absurdly, she still felt bound by his blackmail. She should have warned Berenilde of what had taken place in the dungeons. Seeing her so carefree in front of her mirror wasn’t reassuring. Ophelia feared for her, for the baby, for her aunt, too, without any real reason.
Tiredness finally got the better of her anxiety, and she dozed off on the bench.
It was the silence that woke her. A silence so sudden, it hurt the ears. Archibald’s sisters were no longer chattering; the dressmakers had stopped working; Berenilde’s cheeks had lost their bloom.
Some men and women had just burst into the music room. These people looked nothing like the other Clairdelune nobles. They wore neither wigs nor frills and flounces, but all stood so tall that one might have thought them the owners of the place. Their fine fur garments, more suited to the forest than the salon, left the tattoos on their arms uncovered. They all had a hard look in common, cutting as steel. The same look as Thorn.
Dragons.
Encumbered with her oar, Ophelia got up from the bench to bow, as any valet who remotely valued his life would. Thorn had warned her: his family was extremely touchy.
When she straightened up, Ophelia recognized Freya from her pursed lips and thornlike nose. She was surveying the costumes and musical instruments with her icy eyes, and then fixed them on Archibald’s pale and silent sisters. “You don’t greet us, young ladies?” she said, slowly. “Are we thus unworthy to be your guests for one day? We’re allowed to come up to Clairdelune only once a year, but maybe that’s already too often for your liking?”
At a loss, th
e sisters all turned as one, like weather vanes, to the eldest. Patience raised her chin with dignity and clutched her hands to stop them trembling. She may have been the least pretty, due to her stern features, but she didn’t lack bravado. “Forgive us, Madame Freya, we weren’t expecting this surprise visit. Just looking around you will, I think, suffice to understand our embarrassment. We’re all in the middle of dressing for the opera.”
Patience threw a meaningful look at the Dragons with shaggy beards and scarred arms. In their white fur coats, they looked like polar bears who had strayed into the world of humans.
There were indignant cries from among the ladies of the chorus. Freya’s triplets were laughing uncontrollably as they poked their shaved heads under the dresses. Their mother said not a word to make them behave. On the contrary, she sat on the stool of a harpsichord, elbows on the lid, with every intention of staying there. On her lips was a smile that Ophelia knew well: it was the very one she’d displayed in the carriage before vigorously slapping her.
“Carry on as you were, young ladies, we’ll not disturb you. This is just a simple family reunion.”
Some suspicious policemen entered the room to check everything was all right, but Patience indicated that they should go, and then asked the dressmakers to finish their work.
Freya then turned her forced smile towards Berenilde. “It’s been a long time, aunt. You appear to have aged.”
“A very long time indeed, dear niece.”
Behind Mime’s unassuming posture, Ophelia noted everything that transpired. From having played the valet, she’d learnt how to capture every detail in a few attentive glances. She couldn’t blatently stare at Berenilde, but she could compute what she noticed. The controlled tone of her voice. Her perfect stillness in Isolde’s beautiful dress. Her gloved arms, kept along her body to stop them instinctively crossing over her stomach. Under her veneer of calm, Berenilde was tense.
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