A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

  “Madam Berenilde’s valet,” Fox said, chuckling. “I don’t even know his name—he’s not very chatty!”

  “He looks interesting.”

  “Come on, don’t mock! It’s the first time the boy’s been here and I’m showing him the ropes.”

  “Free of charge, of course?” the woman asked, sarcastically.

  “Sonny,” said Fox, turning to Ophelia, “this charming brunette is Gail, our mechanic. Heating, plumbing, all the piping, she does it.”

  “I’m not your mechanic,” grumbled Gail, “I’m in Mother Hildegarde’s service.”

  “And since Mother Hildegarde is the architect of Clairdelune,” he smoothly went on, “it comes to the same thing.”

  The mechanic ignored the handkerchief Fox was offering her. She just continued casually on her way, bumping, as she passed, into Ophelia, whose pile of sheets fell to the floor.

  Fox put his handkerchief away, looking peeved. “You took her fancy, it seems. Hands off, hey! Been after her for years, that one.”

  While gathering up her sheets, Ophelia would have liked to reassure him. The last thing she had on her mind was whispering sweet nothings to a pretty mechanic.

  “Baths Road!” Fox finally announced, a few corridors later. They had arrived at a gangway where the bricks were rotting with damp and the air was putrid. Ophelia put her key into the lock of door No. 6. Fox lit the gas lamp and shut the door behind them. When Ophelia saw the private space allotted to her for the months to come, her mouth went dry. Dirty walls, a rickety bed, an old copper basin, an appalling smell . . . It was squalid.

  “Leave it in the state you find it,” the steward had said. He’d certainly had a laugh at Mime’s expense.

  “That, my boy,” said Fox, pointing to a board above the bed, “is your new nightmare.” On the board, a set of small bells was linked to multiple labels: ballroom; billiard room; tearoom; smoking room; library . . . Fox showed her the “bedroom” bell. “You’re now tied to the personal clock of your mistress. You’ll sleep and wake at the same rhythm as her. And at Clairdelune, sonny, that can end up being at any time. The master’s never short of inspiration when it comes to entertaining the crowd; it comes to him at all hours of the night.”

  Fox grabbed a stool, plonked his large, dresser-like body on it, and indicated to Ophelia to sit opposite him. “Now, we talk.”

  Ophelia and her pile of sheets settled on the bed; the back legs instantly collapsed under the weight.

  “Well, you jammy so-and-so, you’ve fallen on a real gem. I’ve been slaving away at Clairdelune for twenty-three years now, so you could say that, when it comes to experience, I’m not short of it. And I’m a nice chap, me, not one of the countless perverts swarming around here. When I saw you coming, with your eyes like saucers, I instantly said to myself: ‘My dear Foster, that boy there’s going to be eaten alive by the first comer, you must give him a nudge in the right direction.’”

  Ophelia blinked to encourage him to continue. Making the stool squeak, Fox leant towards her, so close that, for a moment, she feared he’d knock her glasses. And Mime didn’t wear glasses.

  “So here’s what I’m proposing to you. I teach you all you need to know in this place, and in exchange I only ask of you a trifling compensation.” He unbuttoned his livery and, from an inside pocket, pulled out a small, red sandglass. “Know what this is?” Ophelia shook her head. “Thought you wouldn’t. These things are only made in these parts. In short, the nobles here thank us with these gratuities. These sandglasses, you’ll only ever see them in four colors: green ones, red ones, blue ones, and yellow ones. Ah, the yellow ones!” Fox rolled his eyes in ecstasy and then pressed his sandglass into her hand. “Have an eyeful of that.”

  Ophelia felt the weight of the object. It was no bigger than her thumb, but was as heavy as if the sand had been replaced with lead balls. It had a little copper label: “seaside resort.”

  “There’s a whole load of destinations,” Fox explained, since she was frowning. “Shopping streets, women’s quarters, gaming rooms, to name but a few! What you need is the luck of the draw, ’cause you never really know where you’ll end up. Once, I pulled the pin on one pretentiously labeled ‘breath of fresh air,’ and found myself in a rotten chalet surrounded by mountains.”

  Ophelia rubbed her nose; she wasn’t sure she quite understood. She turned the sandglass upside down, but, to her great surprise, the sand didn’t flow. Fox burst out laughing at her stunned face, and showed her a little metal ring she hadn’t noticed. “You can turn this sandglass in any direction you like, it won’t work so long as the pin is intact. Don’t touch it, now, I don’t want you disappearing with my holiday! Just look at this.”

  He pointed to a golden seal set in the wood:

  FAMILY MANUFACTURER

  HDE & Co

  “It’s Mother Hildegarde who makes ’em,” Fox explained. “Any knickknack without this stamp isn’t worth my toenails. Don’t let yourself be fobbed off with rubbish, son; forgery’s more rife here than anywhere else.”

  Abruptly, he took the sandglass from her and put it back in his pocket. “Some friendly advice: if you don’t want to get fleeced, use the strong room; or pull your sandglasses’ pins without delay. Once, an old mate had accumulated 12 years’ salary in what he thought was the perfect hiding place. The day the whole lot was stolen from him, he hanged himself.”

  Fox got up, pushed the basin under a tap, and filled it with water. “I’m soon back on duty, mind if I freshen up a bit here?”

  Ophelia tried to look disapproving to discourage him, but he stripped off in front of her without a modicum of modesty. He soon had nothing on him but a chain around his neck holding his personal key. It really wasn’t easy having someone else’s face on one’s body; Ophelia would have to learn how to work her expressions.

  “These sandglasses,” continued Fox from the basin, “are our holidays. Don’t know how long you’ve been serving Berenilde, but I imagine it’s no picnic. Well here, with these ladies’ and gents’ way of life, it’ll be even worse! It got so crazy for the flunkies that some were getting really angry behind their masters’ backs. That’s when Mother Hildegarde got the idea of the sandglasses. Lend me a towel, will you?”

  Ophelia held a bath towel out to him while avoiding looking at him. She felt extremely uncomfortable. This man was having a wash right under her nose and seemed in no hurry to put his clothes back on.

  “As I’m a decent chap, I’ll be happy with your first ten sandglasses, whatever the color,” Fox then declared. “What you earn after that will be all yours.”

  He rose from the basin, wrapped himself in the towel, and rubbed himself down. His red side-whiskers looked wild when he leant over to Ophelia, hand outstretched to shake on it. She shook her head vehemently. She’d understood nothing of this sandglass business, and refused to seal a deal without knowing every clause.

  “What, sir’s turning his nose up? You realize, buddy, that others will guzzle up your salary without even asking you? Fox, he’s just offering to keep you in the know, without malice, and to protect you with his fists if need be. It’s worth at least three times what I’m asking you for!”

  Offended, he turned his back on her, slipped his clean shirt on, and buttoned his valet’s livery on top of it. When he turned once more to face Ophelia, his anger had given way to a wide smile.

  “That’s good, sonny—mustn’t let people take advantage of you. So let’s say you only pass me your green sandglasses, how’s that?”

  Ophelia remained arms dangling before the hand that Fox again held out to her. His smile widened even more. “You’re not as naïve as you look, kid. Swear I’m not trying to bamboozle you. Greens are worth the least. D’you want me to explain the whole thing in a few words?”

  Ophelia accepted. But she’d have felt more at ease if he’d put some trousers on.

 
; Fox fastened his cuff links with the air of a schoolmaster. “Four colors, hence four values. The greens, the most common, give you the right to a day off in the Citaceleste: big covered market, opium den, fairground stalls, sauna . . . As I said, hope you strike it lucky.”

  To Ophelia’s great relief, he at last buttoned up his trousers and tied his stockings. “The reds, they’re an even bigger thrill. A day’s leave! Not to be confused with the greens, right? With the reds, you’ve official permission to go out into the real great outdoors, the world beyond. You choose your destination, you pull out the pin, and you can enjoy it until all the sand’s run through. Those I keep for fine weather!”

  Fox leant towards a shard of mirror nailed to the wall. He slicked back his red mane and stroked his strong, perfectly beardless jaw with satisfaction. “With the blues, you’re getting the pick of the bunch,” he went on with a fond sigh. “You’ll need to be ambitious to pick ’em up, but it’s worth the effort. Those sandglasses drop you into a real waking dream. Twice in my life I’ve had a taste of it, and I’ve got goose bumps just talking about it.”

  He put his arm around Ophelia’s shoulders. She was glad she’d rolled her hair up above her nape. If Fox had felt hair where Mime didn’t have any, there would have been trouble. “Try to imagine the brightest colors, the most intoxicating perfumes, the most passionate caresses,” he murmured to her. “And you’ll still be way off what this illusion can do for you. A supreme pleasure, so intense that it’s hardly bearable and, once it’s vanished, leaves you bereft.”

  The twelve strikes of midnight rang out in the distance. Fox released Ophelia and hastily checked his appearance. “In short, a dirty trick. They always ensure you get one taste of it. After that, you’re under their heel, asking for more, in the totally crazy hope of one day landing the top prize, a one-way ticket to paradise: the yellow sandglass. Get the picture now, sonny?”

  What Ophelia certainly got was that these sandglasses were a real flytrap.

  “Right, so what have you decided?” Fox pressed her while shaking his watch. “Ten green sandglasses and I’ll teach you all you need to know to fit in at Clairdelune. Deal?”

  Ophelia raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. She knew nothing about this world, she needed a guide. Maybe this man would betray her trust, maybe he’d give her bad advice, but how would she know if she didn’t give him a chance? She couldn’t forge ahead without ever taking the slightest risk.

  This time, she willingly accepted Fox’s handshake. He crushed her fingers with a cordial smile. “Fine! I’m going to teach you a thing or two, good and proper, and you won’t regret it. With that, I must leave you. Midnight’s struck. Madam Clothilde requires my services!”

  The Child

  As soon as Fox had gone, Ophelia felt as if he’d taken with him what little warmth the room had possessed. Narrow, gray, freezing cold, this place had something of the prison cell about it. Ophelia put her hand to her neck, out of habit, but the dear old scarf was no longer there. Berenilde had forced her to leave it in a trunk at the manor. Just the thought of months without seeing that dust-collector writhing around gave Ophelia a pang of anguish.

  She wedged something under the wobbly bed and finally lay on it with a sigh. She hadn’t slept since Berenilde had roused her that morning at four o’clock, to teach her how to sit in a chair.

  While she was familiarizing herself with the cobwebs on the ceiling, Ophelia thought again about the sandglass business. Objects that transport you to all sorts of destinations, just for a few hours . . . She’d imagined that the servants received wages for their services. True, she didn’t know much about money—she worked for nothing on Anima—but still, it seemed like a real swindle.

  Ophelia lifted her gloved hands up to her face and contemplated them thoughtfully. This evening more than ever, she was missing the Museum of Primitive History. How long ago was it now since she’d read an antiquity? These ten clumsy fingers, whose only skill was evaluating, would they now just serve to satisfy Berenilde’s whims?

  She laid her hands back on the mattress. She was feeling homesick. Since her arrival in the Pole, she hadn’t received a single letter, either from her parents or her sister or her great-uncle. Had she already been forgotten?

  I mustn’t linger here, she told herself, flat on her back. Berenilde’s going to need me. And yet she let the sounds of the sleeping quarters gently wash over her. The hurried footsteps. The ringing of bells. The flushing of toilets, next door.

  The ceiling started to move. Tall fir trees shot up across it, and the cobwebs turned into a wild forest, stretching as far as the eye could see. Ophelia knew that beyond this forest was the land, and then the sea, and then towns, with no abyss, no break, because that was the land of the old world. The landscape became hazy and a figure, long and thin, emerged in the distance. Swept along against her will, Ophelia was hurled towards this man, who kept snapping his fob watch in her face. “Your fate is of real concern to me.”

  Ophelia woke up with a start and stared at the ceiling of her room in shock. Had Thorn really uttered such words? She sat up to a creaking of springs, took her glasses off her nose, and rubbed her eyes. Yes, he really had said them. At the time she’d been far too anxious to dwell on it, but now it was rising to surface like an air bubble. That’s how it went with Ophelia, she always had a delayed reaction.

  She fiddled nervously with her glasses. Thorn worried about her? He had a peculiar way of showing it; she didn’t know what to make of it at all.

  Suddenly, Ophelia was worried about the time. She put her glasses back in place, and Mime’s fake face absorbed them into his white skin. Poking her head out of her half-open door, she consulted the corridor clock. She had to do so several times. If she could believe those hands, it was already five in the morning! How could she have slept so long without even realizing it? To her, it felt as though her sleep had lasted but the blink of an eye.

  No sooner had Ophelia set off in a hurry, than she turned back. She’d almost forgotten her key on the door. The steward had been quite clear: without the key, her presence at Clairdelune had no legitimacy.

  She got lost for a while in the maze of the sleeping quarters, jostled by servants in a hurry, coming to one dead end, and then another. Could Archibald’s guests really still be up at this hour? If Ophelia had failed in her duties, Berenilde would set her claws on her as never before.

  She ended up finding a spiral staircase. Barely had she set foot on the first step than she was already at the top. She didn’t question this phenomenon—she was becoming accustomed to such spatial anomalies. The staircase led to a narrow service corridor, long and windowless. One side was punctuated with countless closed doors: music room; spice boudoir; gentlemen’s smoking room; ladies’ smoking room . . . As she continued along it, she realized that the service corridor went right round the castle. She finally plumped for the door labeled “rear gallery.” Next, she had to find her way around these passages, but they all looked alike, with their glossy parquet flooring, velvet benches, and grand wall mirrors. Ophelia raised her eyebrows when she saw couples passionately embracing each other at the back of the alcoves, and frowned when women in just their petticoats crossed an antechamber in fits of laughter. She wasn’t sure she approved of the turn Archibald’s little party was taking.

  Ophelia popped her head around every half-opened door and pressed her nose against every window. Peacocks were freely strutting around on the large table in the lounge. In a theater auditorium, to rapturous applause, two men were simulating a duel while declaiming poetry. In the garden, young aristocrats were enjoying a motor race between the flowerbeds. Beneath the thick fug of the smoking rooms, many nobles had lost their wigs, while some, on the other hand, were wearing little but their wigs. In the library, elderly ladies were reading licentious tales aloud to each other. Ophelia was flabbergasted when she noticed Thorn’s grandmother cooing with la
ughter among them. Nowhere had she seen Berenilde or Aunt Rosaline, and she wasn’t sure whether she should find that reassuring or not.

  Posted in all the rooms were policemen in cocked hats and blue-and-red uniforms. They remained standing to attention, with a fixed stare, just like lead soldiers. Ophelia wondered what purpose they could be serving.

  She went into a games room and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Aunt Rosaline, easily recognizable in her black dress, asleep on a divan. She gently shook her shoulder, but couldn’t wake her. The air here was heavy with narcotic fumes. Her eyes watering, Ophelia peered around at the billiard and card players nodding off at every table. Valets as discreet as shadows continued to offer cognacs and boxes of cigars to the most resilient among them.

  She found Archibald sitting upside down in an armchair, his back on the seat and his legs crossed on the back, the tip of a hookah in his mouth. His eyes stared vacantly, with a look of pensive melancholy that contrasted with his usual smiling. Ophelia thought that if there was one man she’d never trust, it was definitely him. One really doesn’t organize an orgy in honor of an expectant mother.

  At the back of the room, half-reclining on a sofa, Berenilde was playing chess lethargically. Ophelia made a beeline for her. Although not allowed to speak, she’d surely find a way to convince her to return to her room with Aunt Rosaline, before everything really started to degenerate. She bowed and snapped her heels, as the servants did to announce their presence, but Berenilde barely glanced at her, continuing her game as though nothing had changed.

  Ophelia knew how furniture must feel.

  “Watch out, Knight,” murmured Berenilde, moving her castle forward. “I’m going to put your queen in difficulty.”

  Knight? A valet wasn’t allowed to stare at a noble, but Ophelia couldn’t resist having a quick look at the neighboring armchair. Her surprise was enormous. With his golden curls, chubby cheeks, and round spectacles, Berenilde’s adversary was biting his nails and looking devastated. He couldn’t be more than ten years old—his slippers barely touched the ground. What was this child doing here at this hour?