A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

  She held it in her arms, stroked its binding, rolled the smooth pages between her fingers. Right through it there were strange arabesques, a script long forgotten. Never in her life had Ophelia handled something even approaching such a phenomenon. Was it just a book, after all? It had the texture neither of vellum nor of rag paper. Awful to admit, but it resembled human skin, drained of its blood. A skin that would benefit from exceptional longevity.

  Ophelia then asked herself the ritual questions, those of many generations of archivists and archaeologists. What story was this strange document telling? Why did Artemis want it to feature in her private collection? And what was that message engraved on the base of the Reliquary—Never, on any account, attempt to destroy this Book—all about?

  Ophelia would carry all these questions away with her to the other side of the world, a place where there were neither archives nor museum nor a duty to remember. None that concerned her, at least.

  Her great-uncle’s voice resonated right down the stairs and kept reverberating beneath the low vault of the second basement in a ghostly echo: “Come back up! I’ve dug out a little something for you!”

  Ophelia placed her palm on the Book one last time and then closed the dome. She had said her farewells to the past, in due form.

  Over to the future now.

  The Journal

  Saturday June 19th. Rudolf and I have arrived safely. The Pole has turned out to be very different from all I expected it to be. I don’t think I have ever felt so dizzy in my life. The ambassadress kindly received us on her estate, where an eternal summer evening reigns. I’m dazzled by so many marvels. The people here are courteous, very considerate, and their powers surpass all understanding.

  “May I interrupt you in what you’re doing, dear cousin?”

  Ophelia jumped, as did her glasses. Immersed in the travel journal of her forebear, Adelaide, she hadn’t noticed the arrival of this scrap of a man, bowler hat in hand and smile stretching from one jug-ear to the other. The puny fellow couldn’t have been much more than fifteen. With a sweeping flourish of his arm he indicated a group of jovial chaps not far off, all guffawing in front of an old typewriter. “My cousins and I, myself, were wondering whether you might grant us permission to read a few of the curios in your august museum.”

  Ophelia was unable to stifle a frown. She couldn’t, of course, claim to know personally every family member who came through the turnstile at the entrance to the Museum of Primitive History, but she was certain she’d never come across these characters before. From which branch of the family tree did they spring up? The guild of hatters? The caste of tailors? The clan of confectioners? Whichever, there was certainly a strong whiff of the farcical about them. “I’ll be right with you,” she said, putting her cup of coffee down.

  Her suspicions proved justified when she went over to Mr. Bowler Hat’s group. Far too much grinning going on.

  “And here’s the museum’s star exhibit!” cooed one of the gang, with a telling look for Ophelia. His irony was, in her opinion, somewhat lacking in subtlety. She knew she wasn’t attractive, with her messy plait releasing dark wings over her cheeks; her scarf trailing; her old brocade dress; her mismatched boots; and the incurable clumsiness she was stuck with. She hadn’t washed her hair for a week and had dressed in whatever first came to hand, not caring whether it all went together.

  This evening, for the first time, Ophelia would meet her fiancé. He had come especially from the Pole to present himself to the family. He would stay a few weeks, then he would take Ophelia away with him to the Great North. With a bit of luck, he would find her so off-putting that he would abandon the idea of their union on the spot.

  “Don’t touch that,” she said, addressing a great lump of a man whose fingers were moving towards a ballistic galvanometer.

  “What are you mumbling on about, cousin?” he chortled. “Speak up, I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Don’t touch that galvanometer,” she said, raising her voice. “I’m going to provide you with some samples specifically for reading.”

  The great lump shrugged. “Oh, I only wanted to see how this contraption works! Anyhow, I can’t read.”

  Ophelia would have been amazed to hear the opposite. The reading of objects wasn’t a widespread power among Animists. It sometimes manifested itself at puberty, in the form of vague intuitions at the tips of the fingers, but it waned in a few months if a tutor didn’t swiftly take charge. Ophelia’s great-uncle had performed that role with her—after all, their branch worked in the preservation of the family heritage. Going back into the past of objects at the slightest contact? Rare were the Animists who wished to take on such a burden, especially if it wasn’t their line of work.

  Ophelia glanced at Bowler Hat, who was touching the frock coats of his companions and giggling. He himself could read, but probably not for much longer. He wanted to play with his hands while he still could.

  “That’s not the problem, cousin,” Ophelia remarked calmly, returning to the great lump. “If you wish to handle a piece from the collection, you have to wear gloves like mine.”

  Since the last family decree on the preservation of the heritage, going anywhere near the archives with bare hands was forbidden without special permission. Coming into contact with an object was to contaminate it with one’s own state of mind, adding a new stratum to its history. Too many people had sullied rare items with their emotions and thoughts.

  Ophelia went over to her key drawer. She pulled it too far open: the drawer remained in her hand and its contents scattered on the tiled floor in a joyous cacophony. Ophelia heard sniggering behind her back while bending to pick up the keys. Bowler Hat came to her aid with his mocking smile. “We mustn’t poke fun at our devoted cousin. She’s going to place at my disposal a bit of reading, to educate me!” His smile turned carnivorous. “I want something tough,” he said to Ophelia. “You wouldn’t have a weapon? A war thing, you know.”

  Ophelia replaced the drawer and took the key she needed. The wars of the old world fired up the imagination of the young, who had only experienced minor family quarrels. All these greenhorns were after was having fun. Mockery of her little self didn’t bother her, but she wouldn’t tolerate anyone showing so little consideration for her museum, today of all days. She was determined to remain professional to the end, however. “Please follow me,” she said, key in hand.

  “Submit your samples to me!” trilled Bowler Hat, with an exaggerated bow.

  She led them to the rotunda where flying machines of the first world were displayed—the most popular part of her collection. Ornithopters, amphibious aircraft, mechanical birds, steam helicopters, quadruplanes, and hydroplanes were suspended on cables like giant dragonflies. The group laughed even more at the sight of these antiquities, all flapping their arms like geese. Bowler Hat, who had been chewing gum for some time, stuck it onto the fuselage of a glider.

  Ophelia observed him doing it without batting an eyelid. That was the limit. He wanted to entertain the crowd? Well, they’d soon be laughing.

  She led them up some mezzanine stairs, then past some glass shelves. She popped her key into the lock of a display cabinet, slid back the glass panel, and, with a handkerchief, picked up a tiny lead ball, which she handed to Bowler Hat. “An excellent starting point towards a better understanding of the wars of the old world,” she stated flatly. He burst out laughing as he snatched the ball with his bare hand. “What’s this you’re offering me? An automaton’s dropping?”

  His smile gradually faded as, with the tips of his fingers, he went back into the object’s past. He became pale and still, as though time had frozen around him. Seeing the look on his face, his beaming companions started poking him in the ribs, but became concerned when he didn’t react. “You’ve given him something horrid!” said one of them in a panicky voice.

  “It’s an item highly prized by historians,” countere
d Ophelia in a professional tone.

  From pallid, Bowler Hat turned gray. “It’s not . . . what I . . . was asking for,” he struggled to get out.

  With her handkerchief, Ophelia retrieved the lead ball and replaced it on its little red cushion. “You wanted a weapon, didn’t you? I gave you the projectile from a cartridge that, in its time, punctured the stomach of a soldier. That’s what war was about,” she concluded, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “Men who killed and men who were killed.”

  Since Bowler Hat was clutching his stomach and looking queasy, she softened a little. It was a tough lesson, she was aware of that. This boy had come here with his head full of heroic epics, and reading a weapon was like looking his own death in the face. “It will pass,” she told him. “I’d advise you to go outside and get some air.”

  The whole group left, but not before shooting a few dirty looks at her over the shoulder. One of them called her “scarecrow” and another “four-eyed sack of spuds.” Ophelia hoped that, later on, her fiancé would think the same of her.

  Armed with a spatula, she attacked the chewing gum Bowler Hat had stuck on the glider. “I definitely owed you a small revenge,” she whispered, affectionately stroking the side of the aircraft as she would that of an old horse.

  “My darling! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  Ophelia turned around. With skirts hitched up and parasol tucked under arm, a splendid young woman was trotting towards her, clicking her white boots on the flagstones. It was Agatha, her elder sister, who was as red-haired, well-dressed, and stunning as her little sister was brown-haired, scruffy, and withdrawn. Day and night.

  “But what are you still doing here?”

  Ophelia tried to dispose of Bowler Hat’s chewing gum, but it was stuck to her gloves. “I’ll remind you that I work at the museum until 6 o’clock.”

  Agatha theatrically squeezed both of Ophelia’s hands in her own. She immediately grimaced: she’d just squashed the gum onto her pretty glove. “Not any longer, stupid,” she said, annoyed, while flapping her hand. “Mom said you must think only of your preparations. Oh, little sister!” she cried, throwing herself onto Ophelia. “You must be so excited!”

  “Er . . . ” was all Ophelia managed to get out.

  Agatha instantly pulled away to look her up and down. “Holy hot water bottle! Have you looked at yourself in a mirror? You can’t possibly, with any decency, show yourself to your betrothed in that state. What will he think of us?”

  “That’s the least of my worries,” Ophelia declared, going over to her counter.

  “Well, that’s not the case for your kin, you little egoist! We’re going to remedy this at once!”

  With a sigh, Ophelia got out her old shopping bag and put her belongings into it. If her sister was convinced she had a sacred mission, she’d never let her work in peace. There was nothing she could do but close the museum. While Ophelia took her time gathering her things with a heavy heart, Agatha was stamping her feet with impatience. She perched up on the counter, her white boots swinging under her lace bloomers.

  “I’ve got some gossip for you, and it’s juicy! Your mysterious suitor has finally got a name!”

  For that, Ophelia lifted her head from her bag. A few hours before they were to be introduced, it was about time! Her future in-laws must have insisted on the utmost discretion. The Doyennes had maintained a deathly silence throughout autumn, divulging not a single piece of information about her fiancé, to an extent that had become ludicrous. Ophelia’s mother, furious not to have been taken into their confidence, had been fuming for two months. “Well?” she asked, as Agatha was savoring her little moment.

  “Mr. Thorn!”

  Ophelia shuddered behind the coils of her scarf. Thorn? She was already allergic to the name. It rang hard on the tongue. Rough. Almost aggressive. A hunter’s name.

  “I also know that this dear man won’t be much older than you, sis. No old codger incapable of fulfilling his conjugal duties for you! And I’ve kept the best for last,” Agatha continued without drawing breath. “You’re not going to end up in the middle of nowhere, believe me—the Doyennes have really treated us right. Mr. Thorn has apparently got an aunt who’s as beautiful as she’s powerful, who ensures that he has an excellent position at the Pole’s court. You’ll be living the life of a princess!”

  Agatha, eyes shining, was triumphant. As for Ophelia, she was devastated. Thorn, a court gentleman? She would have preferred even a hunter. The more she learnt about her future husband, the more he made her feel like fleeing.

  “And what are your sources?”

  Agatha adjusted her hat, from which quivering little red curls were escaping. Her cherry mouth puckered into a smug smile. “Rock solid! My brother-in-law Gerard got this information from his great-grandmother, who herself got it from a close cousin who is the actual twin sister of a Doyenne!”

  Like a little girl, she clapped her hands and leapt to her booted feet. “You’ve got yourself a serious ring on your finger, my dear. For a man with such a position and of such a rank to ask for your hand in marriage, it’s unhoped for! Come on, get a move on sorting out your mess, we don’t have much time before Mr. Thorn’s arrival. We’ve got to make you presentable!”

  “Go on ahead,” muttered Ophelia, fastening her bag. “There’s one last thing I must do.”

  With a few dainty steps, her sister was off. “I’ll save a carriage for us!”

  Ophelia stood stock-still behind her counter for a long while. The abrupt silence that had returned to the place once Agatha had left almost hurt her ears. She reopened her forebear’s journal at random and scanned the fine, lively handwriting, nearly a century old, with which she was now so familiar.

  Tuesday July 16th. I find myself obliged to curb my enthusiasm somewhat. The ambassadress has gone traveling, leaving us in the hands of her countless guests. I feel as though we have been completely forgotten. We spend our days playing cards and walking round the gardens. My brother has adapted to this life of leisure better than I have—he is already besotted with a duchess. I will have to bring him into line since we are here for purely professional reasons.

  Ophelia was flummoxed. This journal and Agatha’s gossip didn’t match up at all with Augustus’s sketches. The Pole now appeared to be a highly refined place. Was Thorn a card player? He was a court gentleman, he must play cards. That’s probably all he had to do with his days.

  Ophelia slipped the little travel journal into a felt cover and thrust it to the bottom of her bag. Behind the reception counter, she opened the lid of a writing case to get out the inventory register. Several times already, Ophelia had forgotten the museum keys in a lock, lost important administration documents, and even broken unique exhibits, but if there was one duty that she had never neglected, it was the keeping of this register.

  Ophelia was an excellent reader, one of the best of her generation. She could decipher the life of machines, layer after layer, century after century, through the hands that had touched them, used them, been fond of them, damaged them, patched them up. This ability had allowed her to enrich the description of each piece in the collection with a hitherto unequalled level of detail. Where her predecessors confined themselves to dissecting the past of a former owner, two at a pinch, Ophelia went back to the birth of an object at the hands of its maker.

  This inventory register in some ways told her own story. Custom dictated that she hand it to her successor in person, a procedure she would never have imagined carrying out so early in her life, but no one had yet responded to the request for applications. So Ophelia slid a note under the binding addressed to whomever took over at the museum. She replaced the register in the writing case and locked the lid with a turn of the key.

  Moving slowly, she then leant with both hands on her counter. She made herself breathe deeply, and accept the unavoidable. This time, it really was over
. Tomorrow she wouldn’t open her museum, as she did every morning. Tomorrow she would depend forever on a man whose name she would end up sharing.

  Mrs. Thorn. Might as well get used to it from now on.

  Ophelia grabbed her bag. She looked around her museum for the last time. The sun was coming through the rotunda’s glass roof in a cascade of light, wreathing the antiquities in gold and casting their dislocated shadows on the tiled floor. Never had the place seemed as beautiful to her.

  Ophelia dropped the keys off at the caretaker’s office. She hadn’t even passed under the museum’s glass canopy, which was swamped by a carpet of dead leaves, when her sister shouted out to her from the door of a carriage: “Get in! We’re off to Goldsmiths’ Street!”

  The cabman snapped his whip, even though there was no horse hitched to his carriage. The wheels took off and the vehicle tore along the river, guided only by the will of its master, from the height of his perch.

  Through the back window, Ophelia observed the bustle of the street with a new clarity. This valley, in which she’d been born, seemed to be slipping away from her as fast as the carriage was crossing it. Its half-timbered facades, its market squares, its lovely workshops were all already becoming less familiar to her. The whole town was telling her that this was no longer her home. In the russet glow of this late autumn, people were leading their daily lives. A nanny pushed a pram while blushing at the admiring whistles of workmen up scaffolding. Schoolchildren munched their roast chestnuts on the way home. A messenger rushed along the pavement with a parcel under his arm. All these men, all these women were Ophelia’s family, and she didn’t know half of them.

  The burning breath of a tramcar went past their carriage with a jangling of bells. Once it had vanished, Ophelia gazed at the mountain, criss-crossed by lakes, that overlooked their Valley. The first snows had fallen, up there. The summit had disappeared under a gray shroud—one couldn’t even make out Artemis’s observatory. Crushed under this cold mass of rocks and clouds, crushed under the dictates of a whole family, Ophelia had never felt so insignificant.