A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

  She felt nauseous.

  Slumped on her stool, Ophelia didn’t immediately notice that Berenilde was kneeling down beside her. She stroked the knots in her dark hair and then the gashes on her face with a sorrowful expression. “Ophelia, my little Ophelia. I thought that you were lacking in heart and common sense, and now I realize my error. For pity’s sake, don’t be too hard on Thorn and on me. We’re simply trying to survive; we’re not exploiting you for the pleasure of it.”

  Ophelia would have preferred her to say nothing. The more Berenilde spoke, the more her stomach ached.

  Overcome with tiredness and the worse for drink, Berenilde laid her cheek on Ophelia’s knee, like a child craving affection. Ophelia didn’t have the heart to push her away when she noticed that she was crying. “You’ve drunk too much,” she chided her.

  “My . . . children,” hiccupped Berenilde, burying her face in Ophelia’s stomach. “They were taken from me, one by one. One morning, it was hemlock poured into Thomas’s hot chocolate. One summer’s day, my little Marian was pushed into a pond. She would have been your age . . . she would have been your age.”

  “Madam,” Ophelia murmured.

  Berenilde could no longer hold back her tears. She was sniffing, groaning, hiding her face in Ophelia’s shirt, ashamed of this weakness she was giving in to.

  “And Peter who was found hanging from that branch! One by one. I thought I would die. I wanted to die. And he, he . . . You can tell me that he has every failing, but he was there when Nicholas . . . my husband . . . died while hunting. He made me his favorite. He saved me from despair, showered me with presents, promised the only thing in the world that could give meaning to my life!” Berenilde’s sobbing made her choke, and then, with difficulty, she said: “A baby.”

  Ophelia let out a deep sigh. She gently cleared Berenilde’s face, shrouded as it was in tears and hair. “You have finally been honest with me, madam. I forgive you.”

  The Maid

  Ophelia helped Berenilde back to her bed. She fell instantly asleep. With her creased skin, smudged eyelashes, and hollowed eyes, her face seemed older against the white pillowcase. Ophelia contemplated her sadly, and then switched off the bedside lamp. How could one hate someone devastated by the loss of her children?

  Stirring on the divan, stuck in her past, Aunt Rosaline was cursing some paper of second-rate quality. Ophelia stole an eiderdown from the grandmother’s empty bed and spread it over her godmother. Once she realized there was nothing else she could do, she slid slowly down onto the carpet and drew her legs up. Her chest was hurting. More than her gashed cheek. More than her ribs. A deep, searing, incurable pain.

  She felt ashamed. Ashamed of not being able to bring Aunt Rosaline back to reality. Ashamed of thinking herself capable of regaining control of her life. Ashamed, so ashamed, of having been so naïve.

  Ophelia drew her chin to her knees and looked at her hands with bitterness: some women are married for their fortunes; me, I’m married for my fingers.

  Deep in her chest, suffering gave way to an anger as hard and cold as ice. Yes, she forgave Berenilde for her scheming and her meanness, but she forgave Thorn nothing. Had he been sincere with her, had he not led her to believe certain things, she might have excused him. There’d been no shortage of opportunities to tell her the truth; not only had he let them pass, but he’d also had the cheek to pepper their encounters with, “I’m starting to get used to you,” and, “Your fate is of real concern to me.” Because of him, Ophelia had seen feelings where there had only ever been ambition.

  That man, he was the worst of them all.

  The clock struck five. Ophelia got herself up, wiped her eyes, and, with a look of determination, put her glasses back on her nose. She no longer felt at all downhearted. Her heart was beating furiously within her ribs, producing a surge of willpower with every beat. However long it took, she would get her revenge on Thorn and this life he was imposing on her.

  Ophelia opened the medicine cupboard, and took out some sticking plaster and surgical spirit. When she took a look at herself in Berenilde’s hand mirror, she discovered a face covered in bruises, a split lip, scary shadows under her eyes, and a somber expression that wasn’t really her. Her bedraggled plait was spilling brown curls onto her forehead. Ophelia clenched her jaw as she wiped the surgical spirit over Freya’s claw mark. It was a clean cut, as if done by a splinter of glass. She’d probably be left with a small scar.

  She folded a clean handkerchief, stuck on a cross of plaster, and, after three attempts, got the dressing to hold on her cheek. That done, she planted a kiss on her aunt’s forehead. “I’m going to get you out of there,” she promised, speaking into her ear.

  Ophelia picked up Mime’s livery, which she’d thrown to the floor, and buttoned it back on. This disguise would certainly no longer protect her from the Knight, so she’d have to avoid crossing his path.

  She went over to Berenilde’s bed and, not without difficulty, removed her chain with the little key studded with precious stones. She unlocked the door. From now on, she’d have to act fast. For security reasons, the apartments in the embassy could only be locked from the inside. Aunt Rosaline and Berenilde were both fast asleep, as vulnerable as children; they would be exposed to external dangers until her return.

  Ophelia trotted along the corridor. She took the service stairs to get down to the basement. When she went past the servants’ dining hall, she was surprised to see policemen there, distinguishable by their cocked hats and blue-and-red uniforms. They were surrounding a table full of valets having their morning coffee, and seemed to be putting them through a thorough interrogation. A surprise inspection? Best not to linger in the vicinity.

  Ophelia went from the warehouses to the coal-fired boiler to the plumbing room. She found Gail in none of them. However, she did come across a printed notice plastered all over the walls:

  WANTED

  Last night a deplorable incident was reported to us. Yesterday evening, a valet serving at Clairdelune hit a defenseless child. The embassy’s reputation is at stake! Distinguishing features: black hair, small stature, youngish. He was armed with an oar (?) at the time in question. If you know a valet fitting this description, contact the steward’s office without delay. Reward guaranteed.

  Philibert, steward of Clairdelune

  Ophelia frowned. That little Knight was real poison; he’d definitely got it in for her. If she encountered the policemen, she’d end up in the dungeons. She’d have to change her face, and fast.

  She continued along more corridors, hugging the walls, and sneaked into the laundry like a thief. There, she slipped into the steam of the boiling vats, between two rows of shirts on sliding racks. She borrowed a white apron and bonnet. She made another detour to the washhouse, where she stole a black dress that was drying on a line. The less Ophelia wanted to attract attention, the more she kept banging into linen baskets and washerwomen.

  Since she couldn’t decently change in the corridors, she hurried off to Baths Road. She had to change direction several times to avoid the police knocking on doors. Having made it to her room, she double-locked herself in, caught her breath back, undressed as quickly as her rib would allow, hid Mime’s livery under her pillow, and put on the dress from the washhouse. In her haste, she’d started with it on back to front.

  As she was tying the apron around her waist and pinning the bonnet onto her mass of brown hair, Ophelia was trying to reason with herself as methodically as possible. What if I’m inspected? No, the police are prioritizing interrogating valets. And what if I’m asked questions? I stick to “yes” and “no,” because my accent mustn’t betray me. And if I betray myself anyhow? I’m in the service of Mother Hildegarde. She’s a foreigner, she hires foreigners, full stop.

  Ophelia froze when she caught sight of her reflection, her real reflection, in the wall mirror. She’d completely forgotten about the sta
te of her face! With her dressing and her bruises, she looked like some poor abused girl. She looked around for some solution amid all her mess. Thorn’s coat. Ophelia unhooked it from its peg and examined it from top to bottom. It was the clothing of an official, one could tell at a glance. It was the final ingredient missing from her character: what could be more plausible, for a little servant, than taking “sir’s” clothing to the dry cleaner? Ophelia slipped the coat onto a wooden hanger, folded it over one arm, and held it up high with the other. With the coat hoisted before her like a mainsail, no one would notice her face too much.

  All of this should afford her enough time to find Gail.

  Barely had Ophelia stuck her nose outside her room than a fist almost came down on her. It was Fox who was about to bang on the door. His big, green eyes popped out and his mouth hung half-open in surprise; behind her coat, Ophelia couldn’t have looked much less surprised.

  “Well I never!” muttered Fox, scratching his red mane. “If I’d thought for a second the mute had company. Sorry, lovey, need to talk to him.” He placed his strong hands on Ophelia’s shoulders and pushed her gently into Baths Road, as one would dismiss a little girl who hasn’t been good. She’d not taken three steps before Fox called her back: “Hey, lovey! Wait!” In a few strides, he’d planted his body, solid as a dresser, fists on hips, in front of her. He lent forward, eyes squinting, trying to get a better look at what was hiding like that behind the big, black coat Ophelia was holding up between them. “His room’s empty. What were you getting up to in there, like that, all alone?”

  Ophelia would have preferred a question she could have answered with a yes or a no. Making an enemy of Fox was the last thing she needed to do. Hindered by her coat, she awkwardly pulled her key chain out of an apron pocket. “Lent,” she muttered.

  Fox raised his thick red eyebrows and checked the label saying 6, Baths Road with the suspicious curled lip of a policeman. “He’d be crazy to go around without his key! You wouldn’t have been trying to nick some sandglasses off my buddy, by any chance?” In an authoritarian manner, he pushed Thorn’s coat aside like a curtain. His mistrust turned to embarrassment as soon as he saw Ophelia up close, under her glasses and bonnet. “Well, my poor kid!” he sighed, mellowing. “Don’t know who your masters are, but they don’t hold back. You new? Didn’t want to scare you, eh, it’s just that I’m looking for my friend. Know where I might find him? There’s been, like, a ‘Wanted’ notice circulating for the past hour. With his guilty old look, he’ll be in for it again.”

  Ophelia was disarmed to realize that this big valet was more deserving of her trust than her own fiancé was. She raised her chin, no longer trying to hide from him, and looked him straight in the eye. “Help me, please. I must see Gail, it’s very important.”

  For the duration of a few blinks, Fox was speechless. “Gail? But what’s she . . . What’ve you . . . Sandglasses alive, who are you?”

  “Where is she?” implored Ophelia. “Please.”

  At the other end of Baths Road, the police made a noisy appearance. They broke into the showers and lavatories by force, dragged out half-naked men, rained truncheon blows on anyone who protested. The cries and insults were bouncing off the walls as gruesome echoes.

  Ophelia was terrified. “Come,” muttered Fox, taking her by the hand. “If they notice you’ve got someone else’s key on you, they’ll lay into you.”

  Ophelia followed Fox, crushed by his manly grip, tangled up in Thorn’s long coat. The sleeping quarters’ roads followed one after the other, all alike with their checkered tiles and little lamps. Panicked by the police searches, the servants were standing on their doorsteps and pointing the finger at anyone unfortunate enough to match the description. There were more and more policemen around, but Fox managed to avoid them by taking side routes. He was continually checking his pocket watch. “My mistress is going to wake up soon,” he sighed. “Normally, at this time, I’ve already prepared her tea and ironed her newspaper.”

  He showed Ophelia into a Compass Rose and opened the door that led directly to the back of the castle. They crossed the exotic menagerie, the aviary, the sheepfold, and the dairy. The geese in the farmyard honked furiously as they passed.

  Fox led Ophelia as far as the automobile garage. “The master’s organizing a race tomorrow,” he explained. “As the chauffeur-mechanic is ill, Gail’s been picked to check over the motors. She’s in a stinker, I’d better warn you.”

  Ophelia laid a hand on his arm just as he was about to open the garage doors. “Thank you for helping me, but it would be better if you stay out here,” she whispered. “I’ll go in alone.”

  Fox frowned. The lantern hanging over the garage entrance, directly above them, set all his red hair alight. With a cautious look around, he checked that they were definitely alone in this part of the estate. “I’ve no idea what’s going on, I don’t know what you’re after or who you really are, but one thing is clear to me, right now.” He looked down at the silver-buckled patent shoes pointing out from under Ophelia’s black dress. “Those are valet’s pumps, and of valets with such small feet, I know only one.”

  “The less you know about me, the better it will be for you,” Ophelia tried to persuade him. “People have suffered from knowing me too well. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you through my fault.”

  Perplexed, Fox scratched the side-whiskers that sprouted on his cheeks like burning bushes. “So, I’m not wrong. It’s . . . it’s really you? Gadzooks,” he muttered, tapping his forehead with his palm, “as embarrassing situations go, this is definitely one. And yet I’ve witnessed plenty of weird things around here.” His great red-haired hands grabbed the ring handles on both doors. “Another reason for going in here with you,” he concluded, with a determined pout. “Heck, I’ve got the right to understand.”

  It was the first time Ophelia was setting foot in the garage. The place, where the heady smell of petrol hung in the air, seemed deserted. Lit by three ceiling lamps, the elegant cabins of sedan chairs were lined up in the foreground. Apple-green wood, sky-blue curtains, old-rose shafts, floral motifs—no two were the same. The Clairdelune cars were parked at the back of the garage, as they were more rarely brought out. They were objects of luxury displayed mainly to please the eye. The uneven and winding roads of the Citaceleste weren’t suited to motorized transport. All of the cars were covered in sheets, except one. From a distance, it resembled a perambulator, with its large, narrow, spoked wheels and flowery hood. Probably a lady’s car.

  Gail was swearing like a trooper as she bent over the internal combustion engine. Ophelia had only ever seen one in her museum, and only in separate parts. On Anima, the vehicles propelled themselves, like well-trained animals; they didn’t need a motor.

  “Hey, my lovely!” called out Fox. “A visitor for you!”

  Gail let out her final expletive, hit the motor with her monkey wrench, angrily pulled off her gloves, and lifted her protective goggles onto her forehead. Her bright-blue eye and black monocle stared at the little maid Fox had brought to her. Ophelia submitted silently to this scrutiny; she knew that Gail would recognize her, since she’d always seen her as she really was.

  “I hope, for your sake, that it’s important,” she finally spat out, impatiently. And that was it. She asked no question, said not a word that could have compromised Ophelia in front of Fox. “Your secret against my secret.” Ophelia awkwardly refolded Thorn’s coat, as it was weighing her hands down. It was her turn not to betray Gail.

  “I’m in difficulty, and you’re the only person I can turn to. I’m going to need your talents.”

  Cautious, Gail tapped the monocle that cast an impressive shadow under her eyebrow. “My talents?”

  Ophelia nodded while tucking the curls which were flowing out of her bonnet behind her ear.

  “It’s not to help out a toff, at least?”

  “You
have my word that it isn’t.”

  “But what on earth are you muttering about?” asked Fox, exasperated. “So you know each other, you two? What’s it mean, all this secrecy?”

  Gail tore off her goggles, shook her black curls, and pulled her straps back onto her shoulders. “Don’t get involved, Foster. The less you know, the better it’ll be for you.”

  Fox looked so flummoxed that Ophelia felt sorry for him. He was the last person she wanted to hide from, but she had no choice. She’d shown him her real face, and that was already too much.

  Gail placed a finger on her mouth to make them be silent. Outside, the geese were honking. “Someone’s coming.”

  “The police,” cursed Fox, checking his watch. “They’re searching every corner of Clairdelune. Speedy, those guys!” He indicated a low door, barely visible behind the rows of shrouded cars. “We must scram. They absolutely mustn’t get their hands on the girl.”

  Gail tightened the clench of her eyebrow around the monocle. “All the lights are on,” she spluttered, “this car’s innards are out in the open! They’ll realize that we’ve run away from the place, and sound the alert.”

  “Not if they find someone right here.” Fox hastily took off his livery, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and sprayed himself with motor oil. “Ladies, I present an overworked mechanic!” he sniggered, raising his hands. “I’ll take care of the police. Go quickly around the back, both of you.”

  Ophelia looked at him with both sadness and amazement. She realized what a significant place in her life this big redhead had taken. Inexplicably, she was afraid she’d never see him again once they’d gone through the low door. “Thank you, Foster,” she muttered. “Thank you for everything.”

  He responded with a cheeky wink. “Tell the mute to watch his backside.”

  “Put these on,” muttered Gail, handing him her goggles. “You’ll look more credible.”