Ophelia reread the opening sentence of Tales of Objects and Other Animist Stories for the twentieth time without managing to understand it. The surrounding conversations and laughter didn’t help. The lift descending from the sixth to the fifth floor of the tower was packed. Squashed between the farthingales of the old Valkyries, sterner and more silent than ever, who were sitting on either side of her on a banquette, Ophelia was feverishly leafing through her great-uncle’s book. Should she choose that tale? Or rather this one? She was continually interrupted by favorites coming to wish her good luck with barely concealed insincerity. Berenilde had to resort to some gems of diplomacy and flattery to get them to go away.
“Badly powdered wigs alive!” cursed Aunt Rosaline. “They never once uttered a word to us since our arrival, and now that we need quiet, they can’t hold their tongues. And you, stop turning those pages,” she said, tapping Ophelia’s fingers, “you’re getting nowhere. Choose a single tale and read it right through several times.”
Ophelia applied this advice to the letter. She picked a story at random, “The Doll,” skimmed through it from beginning to end without taking in a single word, and then started again. She didn’t tear her eyes away from her book when the lift’s gate opened on to the dazzling sunshine of the court; or when she was carried along by a throng of nobles through a Jetty-Promenade arcade; or when her bootlace came undone, threatening several times to trip her up; or when she ascended a red-carpeted staircase with gold rods.
She only lifted her nose out of her book when a butler came and spluttered in her ear: “Miss Vice-Storyteller, please come this way.”
Blinded, Ophelia blinked. She found herself in the theater’s reception hall, where the white flagstones, white columns, and white statues were reflecting the light from the windows like snow. With champagne flutes in one hand and blue sandglasses in the other, all of Citaceleste high society was here. The women were dressed in sophisticated ensembles and hung with long pearl necklaces; the men wore white suits, black bow ties, and blue-ribboned boaters. Ophelia had rarely felt so out of fashion, in her little purple dress that buttoned her up to the chin, her old, badly knitted scarf, and her shapeless hair, which she’d forgotten to style.
“This way, Miss Vice-Storyteller,” the butler patiently repeated while coughing against his fist. He was indicating a secret door, behind the reception bar. “Normally, Miss Vice-Storyteller should have gone through the stage door, behind the theater.”
“Is Mr. Farouk here?”
“Yes, the lord is already settled in his seat. He is eager to hear miss’s stories. Very sorry, madam,” the butler added when Aunt Rosaline attempted to follow Ophelia behind the bar. “This area is off-limits to the public.”
“What’s this nonsense?” protested Aunt Rosaline. “But come now, this is my niece!”
“Not at the Splendid, madam. Here, miss is the vice-storyteller of Lord Farouk. Access to the stage is strictly controlled for security reasons.”
“Come now, I’m hardly carrying explosives under my dress!”
“Don’t worry, auntie, everything will be fine,” promised Ophelia, not believing a word of it. “Try to find yourself a seat close to the stage. If I see you, it will give me courage.”
“Here,” Aunt Rosaline whispered, slipping a comb into her hand. “When you have a moment, try to untangle your hair.”
“A final word of advice, madam?” Ophelia asked, turning to Berenilde. For the first time, the smile the beautiful widow gave her didn’t seem like one of those made-to-measure expressions she produced with the ease of an actress. It was a somewhat fragile smile, quivering at the corners of the mouth. The smile of a concerned mother.
“Be impressive.” Berenilde laid her velvet-gloved hand on Ophelia’s cheek. “I don’t say that to make you anxious. I say it because you are capable of it, as I have witnessed more than once.”
Ophelia didn’t feel remotely impressive as she walked unsteadily towards the secret door, and even less so when Cunegond stood in her way, pointing her big, red fingernail at her. “Well, well, my dove, is that your only material?” she asked, indicating her book. “Know that my offer still stands: your hands for my illusions. Accept,” she cooed, “and I’ll furnish you, starting this evening, with special effects so grandiose that they will suffice to make you the new official storyteller.”
“I’m not interested,” Ophelia replied.
Cunegond shook her head, looking sorry, and the golden pendants on her veil tinkled like little bells. “You’re as stubborn as a mule.” She leant so close up, she brushed Ophelia’s ear with her lips. “Haven’t you heard the rumor, then?” she whispered very quietly to her. “Your dear Archibald has apparently lost one of his guests in entirely obscure circumstances. Perhaps you should review your friendships, my dove.”
Considering the conversation closed, Ophelia slipped through the secret door and plunged into the backstage area of the theater. She hadn’t the slightest idea what Cunegond was referring to, and for the moment it was the least of her worries.
With heart pounding and scared stiff, she sat down on the first chair she found. Only then did she notice that she was sitting beside an old man who was meticulously cleaning a small, painted glass slide with a cloth. He bore the mark of the Mirages on his eyelids.
“Good evening,” she whispered to him. “I’m Ophelia. You’re Mr. Eric, the official storyteller?”
Moving slowly, the old man turned in his chair so that he was facing Ophelia. He was muscular for his age. His hair and beard, dyed blue, merged into a single plait hanging down his body and almost touching the floor. For a brief moment, he raised his eyes in surprise to the top of Ophelia’s head, disconcerted, perhaps, by her mass of messy curls, then frowned with eyebrows also dyed blue.
“I hope you’re very inspired, Miss Vice-storyteller,” he said, rolling his “r”s as though chomping on rock. “Because for my part, I’m going to ensure that our two names are never again linked on an invitation card.”
With these words, he grabbed his box of slides with one hand, a magic lantern with the other, and went off to a different backstage corner.
Now that she was alone, with only her restless scarf for company, Ophelia could feel her knees knocking, one against the other. She wasn’t ready. She’d already forgotten half of her doll story, but if she reread it just one more time, she would definitely make herself sick. She remembered how much she’d suffered when Farouk had merely looked at her, on the rostrum at the Goose Game; what on earth happened when one disappointed such a creature? If she failed, would Ophelia be allowed a second chance, or would her whole future be in jeopardy?
She pulled Aunt Rosaline’s comb through her thick hair, trying to keep her hands occupied, but broke one of its teeth at the first knot.
“Drink this.”
Ophelia squinted at the glass that had just suddenly appeared in front of her nose. On the other side of it there was Archibald and his immutable smile.
“No thanks,” muttered Ophelia, instantly averting her eyes. Her throat was dry, but Berenilde had taken her through such a long list of the poisons swilling around the court that she’d retained the gist of it: never accept a gift from a stranger. And despite all that time spent at the embassy, Ophelia barely knew Archibald.
“I promise you that it’s just water,” he said, cajolingly. “Look, I’m drinking a mouthful of it myself.”
He matched action to words, in an exaggerated way, and then again held the glass out to Ophelia. This time she accepted it, but still refused to look Archibald in the eye.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, defensively. “Backstage is off-limits to the public.”
Archibald swiveled the chair old Eric had just been sitting on and sat on it the wrong way around, casually resting his elbows on its back. “I’m not ambassador for nothing. I have access almost everywhere. And I do feel that you have the right to be in the know.”
“In the know about what?”
Archibald grabbed a mirror propped against a wall, dusted it off with a sweep of his sleeve, and, theatrically, held it up. Ophelia hadn’t passed through a single mirror since she’d been consigned to the Gynaeceum, but she was very tempted to dive into the one Archibald was holding for her, and never come out of it.
Her head had sprouted two ass’s ears.
Ophelia would have liked to tear them off, but her hand passed through them as if they were made of smoke. An illusion, of course. “You’re as stubborn as a mule,” Cunegond had said. Only a Mirage would apply an expression so literally.
Archibald observed Ophelia, now fiercely gripping her glass. “You arouse a certain curiosity in me, Thorn’s fiancée. It’s quite a novelty for me, I’m not used to it.”
He tipped his chair forward and craned his neck to look Ophelia in the eye. She had barely glimpsed, by candlelight, his puzzled smile, big sky-hued eyes, and messy blond hair, before she turned her head away and slapped her hand over her glasses, so she was blinkered.
“Is it my imagination, or are you avoiding meeting my eyes?” asked Archibald, laughing.
“I have no idea how you go about charming women, but I have no desire to fall for it myself. Particularly tonight.”
Since what had occurred in the Goose Garden, Aunt Rosaline would blush furiously as soon as Archibald’s name was mentioned in a conversation. Ophelia had really tried to talk about it with her, to understand what he’d done to her, but she sidestepped it every time by changing the subject.
“It’s not very practical for talking,” Archibald commented, calmly.
“I don’t want to talk. You’re actually distracting me.”
With the reflexes of an acrobat, Archibald caught in midair the glass that Ophelia had just let slip.
“Quite right. I’m distracting you from your fear. Fine,” he sighed, “if that’s all it takes to put you at ease.” Archibald placed the glass on a nearby pedestal table, gripped the rim of his top hat, and, in one go, pulled it down to his nose. “There you are, you have nothing more to fear from my eyes.”
So ridiculous was he like this, with his nasal voice and tufts of hair sprouting through the flapping crown of his hat, that Ophelia caught herself smiling.
“Stay serious for a second, Mr. Ambassador. Why are you here? You didn’t just want to offer me a glass of water, now did you?”
Archibald tucked his chin between his arms, which he had crossed on the back of his chair. Due to the pulled-down top hat, all Ophelia could see of his profile was that huge slash of a smile.
“I’ve told you, Thorn’s fiancée. Out of curiosity. Do I need to remind you that you officially made me your friend? I’ve been watching you for some time now. At first, it was just a glance from time to time, to check that your life wasn’t in danger, but I got to enjoy it. Your pronunciation exercises, your minor mishaps, your Animist manners, your resolve in the face of every ordeal, and your aunt, too: I like this, the fabric of your daily life. The reading of your correspondence, earlier on, almost tugged my heartstrings.”
Ophelia was astounded, not at what Archibald was saying to her, but at her own forgetfulness. The Valkyries! How could she have lost sight of the fact that these grandmothers were linked to each member of the Web, Archibald included? For all this time, Ophelia had spoken, eaten, slept in front of a crowd of people. She thought of the many times she’d taken something to read with her to the lavatory, and right under the noses of the old ladies, too. Due to this, she almost forgot the hubbub rising on the other side of the theater’s curtains, as the courtiers gradually took their seats in the auditorium.
“It’s very embarrassing.”
“Why?” asked Archibald, with surprise, from under his hat.
“It doesn’t bother you, having no privacy? Sharing all you see, all you do with the whole of your family?”
Swinging, blindly, on his chair, Archibald casually shrugged his shoulders. “It means we save money on telephone bills. But don’t get the wrong idea, Thorn’s fiancée. You seem to believe that, at this very moment, the entire Web is lapping up all we say. It doesn’t work quite like
that . . . How can I explain?” Beneath the top hat, Archibald’s mouth puckered into a thoughtful pout, before breaking into a new smile. “I know! Imagine yourselves, you and your family, gathered together in a single room. Each one of you gets on with their own thing; the atmosphere is forever changing, confused and noisy, you get the picture? So if you wanted to know what your sister or your mother were doing at this precise instant, you’d have to turn towards them and listen carefully. It would clearly be impossible for you to know what all the others were doing at that same time. Well, that’s virtually what it’s like for us!”
“But Mr. Farouk,” murmured Ophelia, suddenly struck by a thought, “isn’t he supposed to possess a concentration of all his descendants’ powers? I mean . . . What if he were listening to your every conversation? If he were listening to us, here, now?”
“He has the powers of concentration of a cherry stone,” retorted Archibald. “He’s already incapable of following a normal conversation. No, really, I’ve already traveled several times to other arks and I’ve never seen a family spirit so unworthy of his own power.”
It was a small consolation for Ophelia to know that, if this evening had to end in disaster, she would at least have learnt one or two things.
“I received an anonymous letter,” she declared, point-blank.
“What kind of letter?”
“The deterrent kind. I think it has something to do with Mr. Farouk’s Book.”
“Threats are all the rage around here. Stay close to the Valkyries.”
Ophelia couldn’t see Archibald’s eyes, due to his pulled-down hat, but she could have sworn that, despite his smile, he had tensed up in his chair. She suddenly remembered what Cunegond had whispered to her. “Is it true, what they say? You’ve . . . um . . . lost a guest?”
“I’m incapable of lying,” said Archibald. “Permit me not to answer that question.”
The sergeant’s opening knocks echoed all around, behind the big, black curtains, bringing the audience’s buzzing to a stop. “My lord, ladies, young ladies and gentlemen, it is midnight!” proclaimed a cheery voice. “Let the nocturnal event commence!”
From the darkness that fell like sudden night, Ophelia realized that all the lamps in the theater had been extinguished. Only the candle on the pedestal table now enabled one to make out the outline of the ladders and furniture backstage. Ophelia held her breath as she heard old Eric’s voice rise against a backing of accordion music.
“My lord, tonight you will hear how a one-eyed vagrant changed the destiny of three heroes!”
His “r”s still sounded like gravel, but his tone was completely different to the one he’d used to threaten Ophelia. Old Eric was now deploying a voice that was deep, sonorous, and spellbinding, capturing the attention from his very first words. The voice of a true storyteller. Listening to him, Ophelia would have liked to drink a second glass of water, to clear her own voice. She rose from her chair, walked on tiptoe, and glimpsed, in the gap between the big, black curtains, a small section of the stage.
What Ophelia witnessed made her understand how right old Eric was. Combining their appearances in the same show, it was an insult to the profession.
A large white canvas screen had been stretched across the proscenium, preventing her from seeing a good part of the audience. Old Eric was concealed at the back of the stage, his fingers dancing with virtuosity on the accordion’s two keyboards; close by, the magic lantern’s mechanism projected onto the white canvas, in a beam of light, the animated illusion from the glass slide. A tall, caped character was entering a cave in which a dwarf was busy forging a sword. Viewed from the wings, the illusion unfolded in reverse to what the audience saw, and after a few seconds, kept repeating, but that took nothing away from the beauty of the sequence. Each time, Ophelia discovered incredibly realistic new details: the sparks flying from the blacksmith dwarf’s hammer; the iridescent reflections on the cave’s icy walls; the swishing of the one-eyed vagrant’s cape. It was hard to believe that it was all merely a two-dimensional show, without contours or depth.
Ophelia tried to catch a glimpse of the audience, on the other side of the canvas screen. What she could make out in the half-light left her deeply pensive. Not a single noble was watching the show. The spectators in the back rows only applauded, exclaimed, and laughed if the spectators in the front rows applauded, exclaimed, and laughed. It was like the ripples produced by a pebble thrown into water, and the epicenter of this strange quake was, of course, Farouk, seated in the front row. Ophelia knew it even though the canvas prevented her from seeing him. It was exactly like the evening of the Spring Opera. Everyone yawned if Farouk yawned, everyone praised if Farouk praised.
Ophelia remained watching old Eric for a long time, as he changed his illusory slides without ever interrupting the music from his accordion or the flow of his heroic epic, full of monsters and giants, and in which the dead rubbed shoulders with the living in a macabre phantasmagoria. The different episodes of the tale were each more horrifying than the last; it was nothing but honor to be regained, incestuous love affairs, and bloody murders.
Ophelia felt a little stupid with her doll story and her ass’s ears.
“He’s good,” she muttered, once she’d returned to her chair. “He’s very good.”
“He’s the court’s official storyteller,” said Archibald, bursting out laughing. “What were you expecting?”
Still sitting the wrong way round on his chair, he’d kept his top hat pulled down to his nose, but Ophelia no longer found it at all amusing. She looked at the cover of Tales of Objects and Other Animist Stories, as if a miracle might yet emerge from it.
“I’ve never felt so nervous in my life,” she admitted. “I won’t be able to equal Mr. Eric.”
“Indeed,” replied Archibald, with his usual frankness.
“Leave me alone, Mr. Ambassador,” Ophelia begged. “Please.”
Archibald stood up without unscrewing his top hat, and bowed his half-head towards Ophelia, his mouth revealing a row of teeth like a scarecrow’s smile.
“You won’t be able to equal him,” he stressed in a whisper. “It’s up to you to differentiate yourself.”
Ophelia watched Archibald depart, arms outstretched, feeling his way, like some strange hat that had been endowed with a body.