Ophelia peered into the darkness, hair disheveled, eyelids still half-shut with sleep. Something had woken her up, but she didn’t know what. Sitting up in bed, she gazed at the blurred contours of the room. Beyond the brocade drapes of the four-poster, she could just about make out the latticed window. Night was fading through the misted panes; it would soon be dawn.
Ophelia had struggled to get to sleep. She’d shared her bedroom with her brother and sisters all her life, so it felt strange to spend the night alone in a house she didn’t know. That conversation at supper hadn’t helped, either.
She listened carefully to the silence that was punctuated by the clock on the mantelpiece. What on earth could have woken her up? Suddenly, small knocks could be heard on the door. So she hadn’t been dreaming.
As soon as Ophelia pushed off her eiderdown, the cold took her breath away. She slipped a cardigan over her nightdress, tripped against a footrest on the carpet, and turned the doorknob. An abrupt voice instantly boomed down at her: “It’s not for want of warning you.”
A huge black coat, lugubrious as death itself, could only just be made out in the gloom of the corridor. Without glasses, Ophelia guessed it was Thorn more than saw it was him. He certainly had his own peculiar way to start a conversation.
Still half-asleep, she shivered in the icy draft coming through the door, just long enough to collect her thoughts. “I can no longer pull out,” she ended up muttering.
“It is, indeed, too late. From now on, we’ll have to compromise, one with the other.”
Ophelia rubbed her eyes, as though that could help lift the veil of her shortsightedness, but of Thorn she could still only see a huge black coat. It didn’t really matter. His tone had made it quite clear how little this prospect appealed to him, which Ophelia found very reassuring. She thought she could make out a bag hanging from his arm. “Are we leaving already?”
“I’m leaving,” the coat corrected her. “You, you’re staying here with my aunt. My absence has already been too prolonged; I have to get back to my activities.”
Ophelia suddenly realized that she still didn’t know what work her fiancé did. Because she’d always seen him as a hunter, she’d forgotten to ask him the question. “And what do your activities consist of?”
“I work at a finance office,” he replied, impatiently. “But I haven’t come to see you to make small talk; I’m in a hurry.”
Ophelia half-opened her eyelids. She just couldn’t imagine Thorn as a bureaucrat. “I’m listening to you.”
Thorn pushed the door so roughly towards Ophelia that he crushed her toes. He turned the bolt three times to show her how it worked. He really took her for a half-wit. “From today onwards, you must double-lock yourself in every night, is that totally clear? You must eat nothing other than what is served to you at the table, and, for pity’s sake, make sure your wittering chaperone tones down her remarks. It’s not very smart to offend Lady Berenilde under her own roof.”
Although it wasn’t polite, Ophelia couldn’t stifle a yawn. “Is that advice or a threat?”
There was a leaden silence from the huge black coat. Finally, he said: “My aunt is your best ally. Never leave her protection, go nowhere without her permission, trust no one else.”
“‘No one else’—doesn’t that include you?”
Thorn sniffed and shut the door in her face. He clearly didn’t have a sense of humor.
Ophelia went in search of her glasses, somewhere between the pillows, and then posted herself at the window. She rubbed a pane with her sleeve to clear the condensation. Outside, dawn was painting the sky mauve and adding its first touches of pink to the clouds. The majestic autumnal trees were bathed in mist. It was still too early for the leaves to have shed their grayness, but before long, when the sun had taken over the horizon, there would be a blaze of red and gold across the park.
The more Ophelia contemplated this magical landscape, the more convinced she became. This decor was a trompe l’oeil: a very convincing facsimile of nature, but a facsimile all the same.
She looked down. Between two beds of violets, Thorn, in his huge coat, was already heading off along the avenue, bag in hand. That fellow had managed to quell her desire to sleep.
With teeth chattering, Ophelia turned her attention to the dead cinders in the fireplace. She felt as though she were in a tomb. She took off her night gloves, which stopped her from reading randomly in her sleep, and tipped a ewer over the pretty china washbowl of the dressing table.
“And now?” she asked herself, splashing her cheeks with cold water. She didn’t feel in the mood to stay put. Thorn’s warnings had intrigued her much more than scared her. Here was a man going to great lengths to protect a woman that he didn’t like . . .
And then there was that little something, that indefinable hesitation that Berenilde had betrayed at supper. Maybe it was just a small thing, but it was playing on her mind.
Ophelia gazed at her reddened nose and her eyelashes beaded with water in the mirror of the dressing table. Were they going to keep a close watch on her? The mirrors, she suddenly decided. If I want to maintain freedom of movement, I must locate all the mirrors around here.
She found a velvet dressing gown in the wardrobe, but no slippers for her feet. She winced as she slid into her boots, stiffened by the sodden journey. Ophelia sneaked out of the room. She proceeded along the main corridor of that floor. The two guests occupied the best bedrooms, on either side of Berenilde’s private apartments, and in addition there were six small, unoccupied bedrooms, which Ophelia visited one by one. She discovered a linen room and two bathrooms, and then went downstairs. On the ground floor, men in frock coats and women in aprons were already busy, despite the earliness of the hour. They were polishing the banisters, dusting the vases, lighting fires in the hearths, and filling the place with the combined aroma of polish, wood, and coffee.
They greeted Ophelia amiably when she went around the small reception rooms, the dining room, the billiard room, and the music room, but their politeness became uneasy when she also invited herself into the kitchen, the laundry, and the office.
Ophelia made sure that she captured her reflection in every mirror, every cheval glass, every medallion. Mirror-traveling wasn’t that different an experience to reading, whatever her great-uncle might think, but it was certainly more enigmatic. A mirror retains a memory of any image imprinted on its surface. By a little-known procedure, some readers could thus create a passage between two mirrors in which they had already captured their reflection, but it didn’t work on windows, or on tarnished surfaces, or across great distances.
On Anima, Ophelia had once attempted, without much conviction, to pass through a corridor mirror to get to her childhood bedroom. Instead of turning into a liquid consistency, the mirror had remained solid beneath her fingers, as hard and cold as the most ordinary of mirrors. The destination was much too far; Ophelia knew it, but was still disappointed.
Going back up the service stairs, Ophelia came across a wing of the manor that had been neglected. The furniture in the corridors and antechambers had been draped in white sheets, like sleeping ghosts. The dust made her sneeze. Was this area reserved for other members of the clan when they visited Berenilde?
Ophelia opened a double door at the end of a gallery. The musty atmosphere of the long hall hadn’t prepared her for what awaited on the other side. Hangings of brocaded damask, a large carved bed, ceiling decorated with frescoes—never had Ophelia seen such a sumptuous bedroom. Here, a cozy warmth prevailed that made absolutely no sense: there was no fire burning in the hearth and the adjoining gallery was freezing cold. Her surprise only increased when she noticed rocking horses and an army of lead soldiers on the carpet.
A child’s room.
Curiosity propelled Ophelia towards the framed photographs on the walls. A sepia-tinted couple with a baby reappeared in each one.
“You’re an early riser.”
Ophelia turned around to see Berenilde smiling at her between the two half-opened doors. She was already freshly attired in a loose-fitting satin dress, her hair gracefully coiled above the nape. In her arms she held some embroidery hoops.
“I was looking for you, my dear girl. Where on earth did you lose your way?”
“Who are these people, madam? Members of your family?”
Berenilde’s parted lips revealed a glimpse of pearly teeth. She approached Ophelia to look at the photographs with her. Now they were standing side by side, the difference in height between them was notable. She may not have been as tall as her nephew, but Berenilde was a head taller than Ophelia. “Certainly not!” she replied with her delightful accent, laughing heartily. “Those are the former owners of the manor. They’ve been dead for years.”
Ophelia found it a bit strange that Berenilde would have inherited their estate if they weren’t part of the family. She looked again at the severe portraits. A shadow deepened their eyes, from lid to brow. Makeup? The photographs weren’t sharp enough for her to be sure. “And the baby?” she asked.
Berenilde’s smile became more reserved, almost sad. “As long as this child lives, this room will also live. I could cover it in dustsheets, remove the furniture, brick up the windows, but it would always remain looking exactly as you see it now. It’s certainly better this way.”
Another trompe l’oeil? Ophelia found it a strange idea, but not that strange. After all, the Animists certainly left their mark on their homes. She wanted to ask what this power was that generated such illusions, and what had become of the baby in the photographs, but Berenilde stopped her short by suggesting that she sit with her in the armchairs. A pink lamp bathed them in a pool of light.
“Do you like to embroider, Ophelia?”
“I’m too clumsy for it, madam.”
Berenilde placed a hoop on her knees, and her delicate hands, adorned with tattoos, serenely guided the needle. She was as smooth as her nephew was angular. “Yesterday, you defined yourself as ‘ordinary,’ today as ‘clumsy,’” she trilled mellifluously. “And that tiny voice that swallows every word you say! I’m going to end up thinking you don’t want me to like you, my dear child. Either you are too modest, or you are false.”
Despite its cozy comfort and elegant tapestries, Ophelia felt ill at ease in this room. It felt as though she were violating a sanctuary in which all the toys looked accusingly at her, from the clockwork monkeys to the dislocated puppets. There was nothing more sinister than a child’s bedroom with no child. “No, madam, I really am very clumsy. An accident with a mirror when I was thirteen.”
Berenilde’s needle remained suspended in midair. “An accident with a mirror? I confess that I don’t quite understand.”
“I remained stuck in two places at the same time, for several hours,” muttered Ophelia. “Since that day, my body no longer obeys me as readily. I endured some physiotherapy, but the doctor predicted that I’d be left with some aftereffects. Some discrepancies.”
A smile spread across Berenilde’s lovely face. “You’re amusing! You please me.”
With her muddy boots and messy hair, Ophelia felt like nothing but a little peasant beside this dazzling society lady. In an impulse full of affection, Berenilde left her embroidery hoop balanced on her knees and seized Ophelia’s gloved hands in her own.
“I can imagine that you’re feeling a little nervous, my dear girl. All this is so new to you! Don’t hesitate to confide your concerns to me, just as you would to your mother.”
Ophelia refrained from telling her that her mother was probably the last person in the world to whom she would confide her concerns. And more than pouring out her feelings, it was concrete answers that she needed.
Almost instantly, Berenilde released her hands, apologizing. “I’m so sorry, I sometimes forget that you’re a reader.”
Ophelia took a while to understand what was making her uncomfortable. “I can’t read anything with my gloves on, madam. And even if I took them off, you could hold my hand without fear. I don’t read living beings, just objects.”
“I’ll know better in future.”
“Your nephew informed me that he works in a finance office. So who is his employer?”
Berenilde’s eyes, as sparkling and exquisite as precious stones, widened. She let out a crystalline laugh that filled the whole room.
“Did I say something stupid, madam?” asked an astonished Ophelia.
“Oh, no, it’s Thorn who’s to blame,” said Berenilde, still laughing. “I recognize his style there, as economical with his words as with his good manners!” Lifting a flounce on her dress, she wiped the corner of her eyelids and became more serious again. “You should know that he doesn’t just work ‘in a finance office,’ as you say. He’s Lord Farouk’s Treasurer, the principal financial administrator of the Citaceleste and all the provinces of the Pole.”
Since Ophelia’s glasses were turning blue, Berenilde gently confirmed: “Yes, my dear, your future husband is the chief treasurer of the realm.”
It took Ophelia some time to digest this revelation. This shaggy, rude hulk of a man as a top-ranking official—it defied the imagination. Why had they gone and betrothed a simple girl like her to such an individual? It was as if it weren’t actually Ophelia being punished, but Thorn.
“I can’t really envisage my position within your clan,” she admitted. “Leaving aside children, what are you expecting of me?”
“What on earth do you mean?” exclaimed Berenilde.
Ophelia took refuge behind her impassive, ingenuous mask, but inside she was surprised by this reaction. Her question wasn’t that incongruous, surely? “I ran a museum on Anima,” she explained, quietly. “Are they hoping I’ll resume that work here, or something similar? I don’t want to sponge off you, not make my own contribution.”
What Ophelia was mainly trying to negotiate was her autonomy. A pensive Berenilde turned her lovely limpid eyes towards some picture books in a case. “A museum? Yes, I can imagine that that might be an amusing occupation. Life for women up here can be boring—we’re not entrusted with important duties, as is the way where you’re from. We’ll discuss it further once your position at court is sufficiently established. You’re going to have to be patient, my sweet child.”
If there was one thing Ophelia wasn’t impatient for, it was, indeed, joining this nobility. All she really knew about it was what her forebear’s journal had told her—We spend our days playing cards and walking round the gardens—and that didn’t appeal to her. “And how does one establish it, this position at court?” she asked, rather concerned. “Will I have to attend social events and pay homage to your family spirit?”
Berenilde returned to her embroidery. A shadow had crossed the clear pool of her eyes. The needle piercing the hoop’s taut canvas was less lively. For some reason, which escaped Ophelia, she had upset her.
“You won’t see Lord Farouk other than at a distance, my dear. As for social events, yes, but not right now. We’ll wait until your marriage at the end of the summer. Your Doyennes requested that the traditional year of betrothal be strictly adhered to, so we could get to know you better. And,” added Berenilde, with a slight frown, “it will allow us time to prepare you for the court.”
Feeling uncomfortable due to the surfeit of cushions, Ophelia shifted to the edge of the armchair and contemplated the muddy toes of her boots, poking out from under her nightdress. Her doubts were justified: Berenilde wasn’t revealing to her what she was really thinking. She raised her head and let her attention wander through the window. The first glimmers of daylight were piercing the mist with golden arrows and casting shadows at the foot of the trees.
“This park, this bedroom . . . ” Ophelia whispered, “so they’re just visual effects?”
Berenilde lifted the needle, calm as a mountain lake. “Yes, my dear girl, but they’re not my doing. The Dragons don’t know how to conjure up illusions; that’s more a specialty of our rival clan.”
A rival clan from whom Berenilde had still inherited an estate, noted Ophelia to herself. Maybe she wasn’t on such bad terms with them? “And your power, madam, what is it?”
“What an indiscreet question!” Berenilde gently chided, without looking up from her embroidery hoop. “Does one ask a lady her age? It seems to me that it’s more the role of your fiancé to inform you about all that.”
Since Ophelia was looking disconcerted, she let out a sympathetic little sigh and said: “Thorn really is incorrigible! I guess he leaves you in a fog, never bothering to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Neither of us is very talkative,” commented Ophelia, choosing her words carefully. “I fear, however, with all due respect, that your nephew doesn’t hold me very close to his heart.”
Berenilde grabbed a cigarette case from a pocket in her dress. Moments later, she was blowing a tongue of blue smoke between her parted lips. “Thorn’s heart . . . ” she murmured, rolling the “r”s. “A myth? A desert island? A desiccated lump of flesh? If it’s any consolation to you, my dear child, I’ve never seen him enamored of anyone whatsoever.”
Ophelia recalled the unusual eloquence with which he had spoken of his aunt to her. “He holds you in very high esteem.”
“Yes,” said Berenilde, cheering up and tapping her cigarette case on the edge of a sweet tin. “I love him like a mother, and I believe that he, in turn, feels a sincere affection for me, which touches me even more as that doesn’t come naturally to him. For a long time I despaired of his ever knowing any woman, and I know he’s annoyed that I rather forced his hand. Your glasses often change color!” she suddenly said, amused. “It’s entertaining!”
“The sun’s rising, madam, and they adjust to the light.” Ophelia looked at Berenilde through the grim gray that had appeared on her lenses, and decided to give her a more honest explanation. “As they do to my mood. The truth is, I was wondering whether Thorn wouldn’t have hoped for a woman more like you. I fear I’m the polar opposite of such a desire.”
“You’re afraid, or you’re actually relieved?” With her long cigarette pinched between two fingers, Berenilde studied the expression on her guest’s face as though indulging in a particularly amusing game. “Relax, Ophelia, I’m setting no trap for you. Do you really imagine that your feelings are unfamiliar to me? You’re forcibly promised to a man you don’t know and who turns out to be as warm as an iceberg!” She stubbed out her cigarette on the bottom of the sweet tin while shaking her little curls into a blond waltz. “But I disagree with you, my child. Thorn is a man of duty and I think he just got stuck on the idea of never marrying. Right now you’re jostling him out of his little routine, that’s all.”
“And why didn’t he want to? Honoring one’s family by starting one’s own, isn’t that what everyone normally aspires to?” Ophelia used a finger to push her glasses back up her nose, while chuckling inside. It was actually her saying that!
“He was unable to do so,” Berenilde gently corrected her. “Not wishing to offend you, but why else would I have looked so far afield for a wife for him?”
“Does madam desire to be served anything here?” It was an old gentleman that had just interrupted them from the door of the room, amazed to have found them in this part of the manor. Berenilde casually threw her embroidery hoop onto the cushion of a chair. “Some tea and orange biscuits! Have them served in the little sitting room, we’re not staying here. What were we saying, my dear child?” she asked, turning her big turquoise eyes back to Ophelia.
“That Thorn couldn’t get married. I must admit, I can’t quite understand what could stop a man from taking a wife, if that’s his wish.”
A ray of sunlight decided to enter the room and planted a golden kiss on Berenilde’s delicate neck. The little curls clustered at her nape gleamed.
“Because he’s a bastard.”
Ophelia blinked several times, dazzled by the light emerging beyond the windowpanes. Thorn had been born to an adulteress?
“His late father, my brother, had the weakness of character to frequent a woman from another clan,” Berenilde explained to her, “and, as ill luck would have it, the family of this slut has, since then, fallen into disgrace.”
The perfect oval of her face had contorted at the word “slut.” This is more than disdain, Ophelia thought, this is pure hatred. Berenilde held out her lovely tattooed hand for her to help her up.
“It was touch and go whether Thorn would be banished from the court along with his harlot of a mother,” she continued in a more composed voice. “With my dearest brother having had the brilliant idea of dying before he’d officially recognized him, I had to use all my influence to save his son from disaster. I succeeded rather well, as you can see for yourself.”
Berenilde shut the double door with a resounding bang. Her pinched smile softened. Her demeanor turned from bitter to sweet. “You keep examining the tattoos that my mother and I bear on our hands. Be warned, my little Ophelia, that they are the mark of the Dragons. That is a recognition to which Thorn can never lay claim. There isn’t a female in our clan who would accept to marry a bastard whose parent was disgraced.”
Ophelia pondered on these words. On Anima, a relation who brought the honor of the family seriously into disrepute could be banished, but between that and condemning a whole clan . . . Thorn was right, the customs here weren’t gentle.
The sonorous chime of a grandfather clock rang out in the distance. Berenilde, deep in her own thoughts, suddenly seemed to return to reality. “The croquet game at Countess Ingrid’s! I was about to forget all about it.”
She leant her long body, supple and smooth, over Ophelia to stroke her cheek. “I won’t invite you to join us, you must still be tired from your journey. So, take tea in the sitting room, rest in your bedroom, and use my lackeys as you please!”
Ophelia watched Berenilde set off with a swish of her dress, along the gallery with the ghostly sheets. She wondered what on earth a lackey could be.