Like the highest wind, Ophelia flew over the old world. The land was intact, as it must once have been, before it inexplicably shattered to pieces. From the sky, Ophelia gazed at its towns, forests, oceans, and fields, which remained out of her reach. For as long as she could remember, she’d always had this dream, but this time it took an unusual turn. The clouds turned into a carpet, and barely had Ophelia set foot on it when, suddenly, there was no more old world—no more oceans, no more towns, no more fields. She now found herself in a bedroom. Not any bedroom: it was her childhood bedroom, on Anima. Ophelia was standing before the wall mirror and her reflection was much younger, wrapped in a dressing gown, with hair that was still red, curling around her face. What was she doing here, in the middle of the night? Something had woken her, but what? It wasn’t her sister Agatha, who slept in the top bunk; or the furniture, which sometimes moved on the quiet. No, it was something else. It was the mirror.
Ophelia opened her eyes wide, her heart racing. In a daze, she watched the tabby kitten that was playing with her scarf. It leapt off the dining table when Ophelia sat up in her chair. She had fallen asleep halfway through both breakfast and her book of tales.
“I had a strange dream,” she told Aunt Rosaline, as she arrived with the coffee pot.
“If you saw a cat, it wasn’t a dream. It got in through the window. Berenilde has shut herself in the bathroom, waiting for it to be chased away. She really doesn’t like animals.”
“No. Well, yes, I saw the cat, but that wasn’t my dream. I thought . . . I don’t know . . . I heard something,” mumbled Ophelia, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses. Now that she was waking up, the dream was losing its clarity and intensity. She couldn’t really remember what she’d found so perturbing. “It must be due to the mirror accident yesterday. It brought back memories.”
“Yes, it’s mentioned in the ‘Strange but True’ column,” sighed Rosaline. She had placed that day’s Nibelungen on the table, with its mocking headline:
THE FOREIGNER LEAVES BITS OF HERSELF EVERYWHERE!
“Last week, it reported a logjam of mattresses in a lift,” responded Ophelia, casually leafing through the paper. “I think I’m going to stop reading this load of nonsense—it’s not what I call news.”
Ophelia tried to concentrate on the pile of letters and sandglasses heaped on the tray used for the day’s mail. It wasn’t going to be easy to find a free moment, between two invitations, to visit Thorn without Berenilde and Aunt Rosaline knowing.
“Have you seen how you’ve dressed yourself?” her aunt asked her, pointing at the seams along her sleeves, which were inside out. “I think you should stay away from mirrors as long as you’re not rested,” she continued, pouring her some coffee. “You do realize that they could leave you with aftereffects? Since I don’t like those sandglasses, either, I suggest we take lifts together, alright? And too bad if you arrive late to your appointments.”
Ophelia’s coffee went down the wrong way, she shut her book on her scarf, and got up so abruptly that she knocked her chair over.
“I’m sorry, aunt, I have to go. Let Berenilde enjoy her bath—you can tell her afterwards.”
“Sorry? But where? How?” stammered Aunt Rosaline, astonished.
Not even bothering to reply, Ophelia went over to the two Valkyries, seated on their usual banquette, arms crossed on their large, black dresses. They were as stiff, silent, and vigilant as on their first day.
“Archibald?” Ophelia called out, leaning towards the old women. “Archibald, if you’re listening to me, I’m letting you know that I’ll be outside your office in one minute. If you want to spare me being arrested by your policemen, meet me there as soon as possible. Come with your steward; I’ll explain everything there. Thanks in advance.”
The Valkyries looked at each other, frowning sternly, shocked to be taken for a telephone exchange.
“What’s got into you?” Aunt Rosaline asked, impatiently, as, still clutching her coffee pot, she followed Ophelia to her room. In reply, Ophelia merely handed her the note she’d just opened, with its few hastily scribbled words:
F. is in a fix. You owe him one, so get him out of there.
Signed G.
“Who is F.? Who is G.?”
“My friends from Clairdelune,” said Ophelia, pulling off her dress to put it back on the right way.
Until that moment, she had chosen never to speak openly of either Fox or Gail. She’d always thought she’d cause more harm than good by revealing her interest in the servants of another family. Such friendships were forbidden up here, and her reputation would have suffered less than theirs. And yet, from the moment she’d read Gail’s message, Ophelia had felt her whole body catch fire. She could no longer think coldly about the consequences of her deeds and words. Fox had helped her like no one else at Clairdelune. The invitations, the sandglasses, the protocol, the decorum no longer counted; all that mattered was the urgent need to do the same for him.
Standing in the middle of the corridor, Aunt Rosaline looked in turn at the note, at her niece, and at the door of the bathroom in which Berenilde was singing the latest fashionable opera to herself.
“We’ll go together. It’s out of the question that you wander around alone in the lair of that libertine.”
Ophelia couldn’t help noticing how her aunt’s waxen cheeks had reddened. Her turmoil was more eloquent than any warning: frequenting Archibald was playing with fire.
“No, aunt. You can’t pass through mirrors and the lifts are too slow. What with the connections and the checks, it would take me almost an hour to get to Clairdelune. My friend needs my help, it may be urgent,” she cut in, firmly, as her aunt was about to respond. “I’m not stopping you from meeting up with me over there, but please, don’t slow me down.”
Aunt Rosaline clenched and unclenched her long teeth, before banging her coffee pot down on a console table. “I’ll join you as quickly as possible. In the meantime, just don’t let yourself be bamboozled by that ambassador.”
Without wasting another second, Ophelia plunged head first into her large swing mirror. She resurfaced through the mirror of a corridor that led to Archibald’s private office. The last time she’d been reflected in it was just before going up to be officially presented at court. It felt, to her, like an eternity ago.
Barely had Ophelia stepped on to the thick, blue carpet, in the midst of a golden world of wood paneling, bronzes, and gas lamps, when she saw an on-guard policeman frowning under his cocked hat and then marching towards her. Not for nothing was the embassy the Citaceleste’s best-guarded place.
“Return . . . to your post. Miss . . . is the guest of . . . Mr. Ambassador.”
A breathless man had just appeared at the other end of the corridor. Ophelia recognized Philibert, the steward at Clairdelune. Due to his wrinkled face, all the servants called him Papier-Mâché. He was a man so dull of complexion, dress, and character that, normally, he could disappear into any decor, but on this occasion, he was all one could see, with his lopsided wig, scarlet cheeks, sweat-soaked jabot, and wheezy breathing.
“Miss,” he greeted her, stumbling, with register under arm. “I rushed here . . . as soon as Sir telephoned me. He asked me . . . to let you into his study. He will join you there . . . soon.”
Ophelia sat up very straight on the seat she was offered, raised her chin, crossed her hands on her outside-out dress, and displayed a calmness she didn’t feel. For the first time, she was applying to the letter the posture lessons Berenilde had tried, for months, to drum into her. If she had to play the perfect society lady in order to come to Fox’s aid, she would do so.
“Mr. Steward?” she called, searching around for him.
“Does Miss require something?” Philibert was standing right beside the door, register still under arm. Now that he had got his breath and his sallow complexion back, he had already resumed his usual transparency.
“The valet Foster belongs to the permanent staff at Clairdelune, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t quite understand, Miss,” he said, in a monotone. “Did poor service give Miss cause for complaint on her last visit here?”
Berenilde had decided it was best not to reveal the little masquerade they had put on for weeks at Clairdelune, disguising Ophelia as a valet. This sometimes made conversations rather complicated.
“I have no complaints whatsoever, quite the opposite. I appreciated the manners of that servant and I’m simply asking you how he is. Is he still serving Madam Clothilde?”
“Now this is embarrassing, Miss,” said Philibert, seeming far from embarrassed. “The late-lamented Madam Clothilde sadly departed from us several weeks ago. Did Miss not attend the funeral?”
Ophelia was speechless. She knew that Archibald’s grandmother’s health was delicate, but she had lived long enough under this roof for the news to come as a shock. “But Foster? What’s become of him?”
It was Philibert’s turn to be shocked. For a guest at Clairdelune to attach more importance to the fate of a valet than to the death of an aristocrat—to him, that probably defied every convention. “Since Miss insists on knowing.” He put on his gold-rimmed spectacles and opened the register that never left him. “The man named Foster is currently residing in our dungeons.”
Ophelia’s glasses paled on her nose. “How did that happen?”
“In the column ‘grounds’, I have written ‘absence of key.’ Keys serve as identity papers for our staff. The police carry out checks every day for security purposes. And for the reputation of the embassy, Miss.”
“Come, now, that’s ridiculous,” said Ophelia, with annoyance. “That valet has worked here for years. You can’t throw him in prison because he once forgot to present his key.”
“He didn’t forget to present it, Miss,” said Philibert, considering her with increasing puzzlement. “From what is recorded here, he didn’t possess one.” As though realizing himself the peculiarity of this state of affairs, the steward reread his register more carefully. “Ah, I understand now. Upon the death of the late-lamented Madam Clothilde, Foster deposited his old key, as is correct procedure. He must have been checked before a new position and new key had been allocated to him. That’s really unlucky,” he concluded, all in the same tone.
“You mean to say that he’s been rotting in your dungeons for weeks because you delayed sorting out his situation?”
“Only the master can lift the sentence. And the master is terribly busy, so I’ve not yet had a chance to mention it to him. In any case, we no longer require Foster’s services as we are fully staffed. And a servant who has frequented the dungeons would look awfully bad for our establishment.”
Ophelia was so outraged that it was all she could do not to snatch Philibert’s register from his hands and tear up every page. Archibald, a busy man? For twenty-three years, Fox had been working for that family, and he was treated with less consideration than a laundry basket!
“You have a sense of the unexpected, Thorn’s fiancée.” Archibald, smiling sleepily, had just entered his study. Apart from his irremovable top hat, he was wearing old, ragged, red-and-black-striped pajamas. His hair was as messy and his chin as stubbly as ever. Even in an inside-out dress, Ophelia would have looked more presentable than him.
“I woke you up,” she observed, politely. In her haste, she’d forgotten how early it was. She didn’t apologize in the slightest. It was the first time she felt such anger at someone other than Thorn.
“And in a highly unorthodox way,” sniggered Archibald, collapsing onto his usual chair. “I didn’t place you under the watch of the Valkyries for you to make personal use of them.” He stretched with a long yawn, rested his elbow on an arm of the chair, and looked at Ophelia with a twinkle in his eye. “Coming to see me, so many floors down the Citaceleste, with no one chaperoning you? You’re putting your respectability in jeopardy.”
“I had an urgent favor to ask you. I’ll do you one in return to make up for it.”
Archibald’s eyebrows and smile expanded in parallel. “Unpredictable, nonconformist, and enterprising. Watch out, one of these days I could end up falling in love with you. And so, what favor can I do for Thorn’s fiancée?”
It wouldn’t have been very smart to come out with all the Animist insults that Ophelia had in mind at that second. She forced herself to take a deep breath to get rid of the nasty red tint that had flooded her glasses.
“We’re short of staff at the Gynaeceum, so I’ve come to borrow a trustworthy man from you. Please,” she added, after a slight hesitation, arming herself with all the politeness she could muster.
Propped up in his chair, Archibald considered Ophelia with a look of fascination. “You got me out of bed at six in the morning over some staffing problem?”
“I’ve discussed it with your steward. You have an unoccupied valet who has been the victim of a technicality. With your permission, I would like to employ him.”
“Foster is the man in question, Sir,” Philibert clarified, with his cold professionalism. “He served your late—lamented grandmother.”
Archibald shrugged his shoulders while using his toe to play with his slipper.
“No recollection of him, I’ll take your word for it. I can see no objection to letting Thorn’s fiancée have him. On one condition,” he added, with a mocking smile for Ophelia. “You promised me a favor in return: I want it now.”
Ophelia slid her hand into her twitching scarf to calm both her and its irritation. She made sure she kept up the bearing and smile of a well brought up young lady. She’d maintain this illusion as long as Fox hadn’t been freed from his dungeon.
“You’re catching me short. If you’d allow me a little time . . .”
“Now,” Archibald interrupted her, with redoubtable sweetness. He leapt on to his slippers, bowed down theatrically, and gallantly held out a hand to invite her to stand. Ophelia was too ill at ease already to accept a man’s arm; this one being clad in ragged pajamas didn’t really help matters. “I’m afraid I haven’t brought anything with me that could interest you.”
“You’re quite mistaken,” declared Archibald, tapping her amiably on the head. “You brought yourself, I wish for nothing else! Follow me, Thorn’s fiancée; my steward will do what’s required for your valet in the meantime.”
In the meantime of what, Ophelia wondered. Archibald was already leading her out of his study, his arm around her shoulders, with a familiarity at once tender and commanding.
“What do you want of me, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Don’t be concerned. I’m certain you’re going to adore it.”
Dubious, Ophelia averted her eyes as far from Archibald’s as possible. She’d witnessed Aunt Rosaline once succumb to the appeal of that azure, and she had no desire to lose her head in turn. Gently, he directed her into the billiard room. There, everything was green, from baize to velvet banquettes, and from damask drapes and wallpaper to lampshades. When Ophelia realized that they were alone, she immediately covered her glasses with her hands.
“Come on, now,” said Archibald, with a burst of laughter, “you’re not back at that again!”
“Would you promise me not to use your charm on me? Please, Mr. Ambassador, it would really put me at ease to proceed with our meeting.”
There was a long silence, during which Ophelia had ample time to contemplate her gloves, pressed against the surface of her glasses.
“I didn’t realize that you feared me that much.”
Ophelia hadn’t heard this sentence with her ears; it had reached her from within. She’d forgotten that Archibald could impose his thoughts on her, and, for a moment, she feared that his bewitchment could seep into her using the same shortcut. “Please, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Contrary to what you imagine, Thorn’s fiancée, I have neither the power nor the desire to steal women’s hearts. If they succumb to me, it’s not because they love me, but because they feel lonely.”
Ophelia screwed up her eyes, behind her glasses. This time, it was Archibald’s true voice talking, but it sounded different, almost serious.
“You don’t believe me? My family received the invaluable gift of transparency from Farouk. You deem this lack of privacy embarrassing, but I will never feel alone as long as one member of my clan is alive. What I offer all those poor wives is simply this: a moment of pure transparency, in which I erase the barrier between us, separating the ‘me’ from the ‘other.’ I don’t feel like making you a promise that both of us could one day regret. A communion of souls . . . it’s quite romantic, don’t you find?”
Ophelia mainly found it extraordinarily shameless, much more so than anything she had imagined. She detested the idea that Archibald had imposed himself on her aunt in this way. He claimed to take women away from their loneliness, but he was listening only to his own egotism. Although Ophelia was dying to say that, she obviously refrained from doing so. She wasn’t in a position to offend her host, she was here for Fox, and only for Fox. So she played along when Archibald pulled away her hands to look her straight in the eye. With top hat askew, he put on a relaxed smile that jarred with the seriousness of his voice.
“You’re here to return a favor to me, must I remind you?” Suddenly, he twitched his eyebrows, looked around the deserted billiard room, and then returned to Ophelia with an apologetic expression. “Oh, I’m beginning to understand. You think I brought you here to cuckold Thorn? No, no, that’s not the plan today. If that’s all that’s needed to reassure you, I have other preoccupations on my mind at the moment. In fact, we’re waiting for someone.”
Ophelia was so taken aback, she forgot her anger. “Who?”
“Me.”
A nightmarish apparition had just entered the billiard room.