A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

  “You’re unfair, little sister. Our aunt has never been as radiant!”

  A man unknown to Ophelia had boldly gone up to Berenilde to kiss her hand. He had a prominent jaw, athletic shoulders, and a glowing complexion. If he was Freya’s brother, then he was Thorn’s half-brother. He didn’t resemble him at all. His intervention had the merit of relaxing Berenilde, who slid an affectionate finger down his cheek. “Godfrey! It’s getting so hard to prise you away from your province! Every year, I wonder whether you’ll survive the terrible winter, out there, in the depths of your forest.”

  The man burst into resounding laughter, a laughter that bore no resemblance to the usual tittering of the courtiers. “Come, come, dear aunt, I would never allow myself to die without taking tea with you one last time.”

  “Berenilde, where’s Catherine? She’s not with you?” This time it was an old man who had spoken. At least, Ophelia supposed he was old—despite his wrinkles and white beard, he was built like an ox. He cast a disdainful look at the elegant furniture surrounding him. As soon as he had started speaking, all the members of the family had turned towards him to listen. A real patriarch.

  “No, Father Vladimir,” said Berenilde, gently. “Mother has left Citaceleste. She’s unwell, and won’t be at tomorrow’s hunt.”

  “A Dragon who doesn’t hunt is no longer a Dragon,” the old man muttered into his beard. “From spending too much time in salons, your mother and you have become delicate little flowers. Perhaps you’re going to tell us now that you won’t be there, either?”

  “Father Vladimir, I believe Aunt Berenilde has attenuating circumstances.”

  “If you weren’t our best hunter, Godfrey, I’d chop off your hands for uttering such shameful words. Do I have to remind you what it represents for us, this great spring hunt? A noble skill practiced by us alone that reminds those at the top who we are. The meat the courtiers find on their plates, it’s the Dragons that bring it to them!”

  Father Vladimir had magnified his voice so that every person present in the room could hear him. Ophelia had heard him, certainly, but she’d barely understood him. The man had an atrocious accent.

  “It’s a highly respected tradition,” agreed Godfrey, “but one not without danger. In her condition, Aunt Berenilde could be excused—”

  “Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed a woman, who had remained silent until then. “When I was about to give birth to you, my boy, I was still hunting in the tundra.”

  Thorn’s stepmother, Ophelia noted to herself. She was the spitting image of Freya, but with more pronounced features. She’d probably never become a friend, either. As for Godfrey, Ophelia wasn’t really sure what to think of him. She felt an instinctive liking for him, but she’d been wary of those oozing goodness ever since the grandmother had played that odious trick on her.

  Father Vladimir raised his great tattooed hand to point at the triplets, who were busy demolishing a harp. “Look at them, all of you! Behold the Dragons! Not yet ten years old, and tomorrow they’ll be hunting their first Beasts with nothing but their claws.”

  Sitting at her harpsichord, Freya was exultant. She exchanged a complicit look with Haldor, her husband with the huge blond beard.

  “Which woman among you can boast of perpetuating our line in this way?” continued Father Vladimir, casting a hard look at all around him. “You, Anastasia, too ugly to unearth a husband? You, Irina, who’ve never carried a single one of your pregnancies to term?”

  Everyone looked down under the implacable beam of his gaze, like that of a lighthouse, scanning the horizon. An embarrassed silence fell on the whole room. Archibald’s sisters pretended to be busy getting ready, but missed not a jot of what was being said.

  As for Ophelia, she couldn’t believe her ears. Making women feel guilty in that way, it was appalling. Beside her, Aunt Rosaline was so choked, she could hear her every breath.

  “Don’t get enraged, Father Vladimir,” said Berenilde, in a calm voice. “I’ll be one of you tomorrow, just as I’ve always been.”

  The old man looked scathingly at her. “No, Berenilde, you haven’t always been one of us. By taking the bastard under your wing and by turning him into what he is today, you betrayed us all.”

  “Thorn belongs to our family, Father Vladimir. The same blood flows in our veins.”

  At these words, Freya let out a scornful laugh that made all the harpsichord’s strings jangle. “He’s power-hungry, a shameless schemer! He’ll disinherit my children to benefit his own, once he’s married his ridiculous little woman.”

  “Calm down,” whispered Berenilde. “You’re attributing to Thorn a power he doesn’t have.”

  “He’s the Treasurer, aunt. Of course he has that power.”

  Ophelia clung to her gondolier’s oar with both hands. She was starting to understand why her future in-laws hated her so much.

  “That bastard is not a Dragon,” Father Vladimir insisted, in a fearsome voice. “If he so much as shows his ugly nose tomorrow at our hunt, I’ll take great pleasure in adding a new scar to his body. As for you,” he said, pointing his finger at Berenilde, “if I don’t see you there, you will be dishonored. And don’t rely too much on the attentions of Lord Farouk, my lovely, as they now hang but by a thread.”

  Berenilde responded to his threat with a sweet smile. “Please excuse me, Father Vladimir, but I must finish getting ready. We’ll meet again after the performance.”

  The old man let out a contemptuous snort, and all the Dragons followed him closely out of the room. Ophelia counted them with her eyes as they went though the doorway. There were twelve of them, including the triplets. Was that it, the entire clan?

  As soon as the Dragons had gone, the chattering resumed in the music room, like birdsong after a storm.

  “Madam?” stammered the tailor, returning to Berenilde. “Can we finish your dress?”

  Berenilde didn’t hear him. She was stroking her stomach with a melancholy tenderness. “Charming family, isn’t it?” she murmured to her baby.

  The Opera

  When the clock in the main gallery struck seven, Clairdelune was already empty of its denizens. Everyone, from the embassy’s permanent guests to the little courtiers just passing through, had taken the lifts that went up to the tower.

  Archibald had waited until the last minute to gather the opera performers around him. They comprised his seven sisters, Berenilde and her retinue, the ladies of the chorus, and the dukes Hans and Otto, who were singing the only two male roles in the piece. “Please give me all your attention,” he said, taking his watch out of a pocket full of holes. “In a few moments, we’re going to take the lift and leave diplomatic sanctuary. I therefore urge you to take care. The tower is situated out of my jurisdiction. Up there, it will no longer be within my power to protect you from your enemies.”

  He plunged his sky-blue eyes into those of Berenilde, as though addressing her in particular. She smiled at him, mischievously. In truth, she seemed so sure of herself right now that she emanated an aura of invulnerability.

  Hiding under her gondolier’s hat, Ophelia wished she shared her confidence. Her encounter with her future in-laws had had the effect of an avalanche on her.

  “As for you,” continued Archibald, this time turning to his sisters, “I’ll bring you back to Clairdelune as soon as the performance is over.” He turned a deaf ear when they made a big fuss, protesting that they weren’t children anymore, and that he was heartless. Ophelia wondered whether these young girls had ever known anything other than their brother’s estate.

  When Archibald offered his arm to Berenilde, the whole group rushed up to the lift’s golden gate, jealously guarded by four policemen. Ophelia couldn’t stop her heart from beating harder. How many nobles had she seen going up in one of these lifts? And what did it look like, then, this world on high towards which everything converged?

  A
porter opened the gate and pulled a request cord. A few minutes later, the lift descended from the tower. Seen from the corridor, it only looked big enough to carry three or four people. And yet, all twenty-two members of the group entered it without needing to jostle. Ophelia wasn’t surprised to discover a vast room with velvet-covered banquettes and tables laden with pastries. Such spatial absurdities were now part and parcel of her daily life. Trompe l’oeils of sunny gardens and galleries of statues seemed to extend the already considerable space. They were so convincing that Ophelia banged into a wall, believing she was entering an alcove.

  The air around her was heavy with heady perfumes. The two bewigged dukes were leaning on the knobs of their canes. The ladies of the chorus elegantly re-powdered their noses. Milling around all these people without hitting anyone with her oar was a real challenge. Aunt Rosaline, beside her, didn’t have the same problem as her only prop was the phial she had to give Berenilde on stage. She was fingering it nervously, increasingly agitated, as though holding a burning coal.

  A liftboy in honey-yellow livery shook a little bell. “Ladies, young ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to depart. We will be stopping at the Council chamber, the hanging gardens, the courtesans’ thermal baths, and, our last stop, the Family Opera House. The Lifts Company wishes you an excellent ascent!”

  The golden gate closed and the lift rose with lumbering slowness.

  Clutching her oar as if her life depended on it, Ophelia didn’t take her eyes off Berenilde. With the evening in prospect, it seemed crucial to her that at least one of them remained vigilant. Never had the atmosphere felt so oppressively stormy to her. Lightning would strike, that was certain; all that remained now was to know where and when.

  When she saw Archibald leaning towards Berenilde’s ear, Ophelia moved a step closer, the better to hear: “I was present, much against my will, at your little family reunion.”

  Ophelia frowned, and then recalled that Archibald could see and hear everything his sisters saw and heard.

  “You shouldn’t take any notice of all that provocation, dear friend,” he continued.

  “Do you think I’m made of glass?” Berenilde teased him, with a shake of her little blonde curls. Ophelia saw a smile spreading across Archibald’s angelic face.

  “I know full well what you are capable of, but I’m obliged to watch over you and the child you’re carrying. Every year, your great family hunt brings its tally of deaths. Just don’t forget that.”

  Ophelia’s whole body shuddered. She saw once again the immense carcasses of mammoths and bears that her forebear, Augustus, had sketched in his travel journal. Was Berenilde seriously contemplating taking them to the hunt, tomorrow? With all the goodwill in the world, Ophelia couldn’t imagine herself participating in a hunt in the snow and the dark, in minus twenty-five degrees. She was suffocating from having to remain forever silent.

  “The Family Opera House!” announced the liftboy.

  Lost in thought, Ophelia followed the movement of the group. What was bound to happen did happen: she hit someone with her gondolier’s oar. She kept bowing to apologize, before realizing that she was doing so to a little boy.

  “It’s nothing,” said the Knight, rubbing the back of his head. “It didn’t hurt me.” Behind his thick, round glasses, his face was expressionless. What was this child doing with them in the lift? He was so discreet that Ophelia hadn’t noticed him. This incident left her with an inexplicable feeling of uneasiness.

  In the large foyer, a few gentlemen still lingered to smoke their cigars. As the group went by, they turned their heads and joshed. Ophelia was too dazzled to see them clearly. The twelve crystal chandeliers up in the gallery were reflected perfectly in the highly polished parquet floor; she felt as if she were walking on candles.

  The foyer led to the foot of a monumentally grand double staircase. All marble and copper, mosaics and gilt, it led to the Opera House’s auditorium. At each landing, bronze statues brandished gas lamps in the form of lyres. The two symmetrical flights led to the circular corridors, where the curtains of the boxes and dress circle were already nearly all drawn. The air there hummed with murmurs and stifled laughter.

  Ophelia felt dizzy at the thought of having to the scale those endless steps. Every movement plunged an invisible blade into her ribs. Fortunately, however, the group skirted the grand staircase, went down a few steps, and through the stage door, situated just under the auditorium.

  “This is where I leave you,” whispered Archibald. “I must return to my seat in the box of honor before the arrival of our Lord.”

  “You will tell us what you think after the show?” Berenilde asked him. “Others will flatter me without an ounce of sincerity. At least I know I can count on your unfailing frankness.”

  “At your own risk. I’m no great lover of opera.” Archibald raised his hat to her and closed the door behind him.

  The stage door opened onto a complex maze of corridors that led to the scenery storage rooms, the workshops, and the singers’ dressing rooms. Ophelia had never set foot in an opera house in her life; penetrating this world behind the scenes was a fascinating experience. She looked with curiosity at the costumed performers and the capstans for drawing curtains or changing scenery.

  It was only once she’d arrived at the singers’ dressing room that she noticed that Aunt Rosaline was no longer following them. “Go quickly to find her,” ordered Berenilde, sitting at a dressing table. “She only appears at the end of Act I, but she absolutely must stay close to us.”

  Ophelia completely agreed. She put her oar down, not to be pointlessly burdened, and set off along the gangways. The orchestra pit must be directly above—she could hear the musicians tuning their instruments. To her great relief, she found Aunt Rosaline without difficulty. Planted in the middle of a corridor, rigid in her austere black dress, she was blocking the way for the stagehands. Ophelia gestured for her to follow, but her aunt seemed not to see her. She was spinning around, completely disorientated, clutching her phial. “Close all these doors,” she grumbled between her teeth. “I detest drafts.”

  Ophelia quickly took her by the arm to guide her to the dressing room. It was doubtless due to stage fright, but Aunt Rosaline was being careless. She really mustn’t let herself go by talking like that in public. Her Animist accent could be heard as soon as she diverged from “yes, madam” and “very well, madam.” Aunt Rosaline pulled herself together once Ophelia found her a seat in the singers’ dressing room. She sat up, straight and silent, hugging her phial, while Berenilde did her singing exercises.

  Archibald’s sisters had already gone up to the wings; they were onstage from the overture. Berenilde only made her entrance in scene three of Act I.

  “Take these.” Berenilde had just turned to Ophelia to hand her some opera glasses. Aggrandized by her costume and extravagantly styled hair, she looked regal. “Go up and discreetly take a look at Farouk’s box. When those charming children make their appearance, watch him closely. You have ten minutes, not a minute longer.”

  Ophelia realized that it was her whom Berenilde was addressing, not Mime. She left the dressing room, crossed a corridor, and went up some stairs. She looked up at the gangway, but the large pelmet was in the way; from up there she wouldn’t see the auditorium. She reached the wings, plunged in darkness, where rustling dresses jostled like restless swans. Archibald’s sisters were waiting impatiently to make their entrance onstage.

  Some applause could be heard; the curtain had risen. The orchestra launched into the first bars of the overture and the ladies of the chorus all sang out in unison: “My lords, does it please you to hear a noble tale of love and of death?” Ophelia went around the stage and spotted some floating drapes hung in the background to conceal the wings. She took a furtive look between the curtains. First she saw the back of the set of a two-dimensional town, then the backs of the ladies of the chorus, and, fina
lly, the great auditorium of the opera house.

  Ophelia took off her long-ribboned hat, and positioned the opera glasses over her own glasses. This time she could see very clearly the rows of seats, gold and crimson, covering the stalls. Few seats were empty. Even though the show had officially started, the nobles continued to chat among themselves, behind their gloves and fans. Ophelia thought them outrageously rude; the ladies of the chorus had rehearsed for days for this performance. Annoyed, she raised the opera glasses to the upper circles, which ascended the auditorium on five levels. All the boxes were taken. Inside them there was chatting, laughing, card-playing, but no one listening to the chorus.

  When the grand box of honor appeared in the double circles of the glasses, Ophelia held her breath. Thorn was there. Stiff in his black uniform with frogging, he was consulting what she presumed was his trusty fob watch. So, his position of Treasurer must be important for him to have a seat here . . . Ophelia recognized Archibald by his old top hat, sitting right beside him. He was casually looking at his nails. The two men were ignoring each other so pointedly, without even pretending to be interested in the show, that Ophelia couldn’t stifle an exasperated sigh. They really weren’t setting a good example.

  With a swerve of the glasses, she took in a whole row of diamond-smothered women—probably favorites—before discovering a giant clad in an elegant fur coat. Ophelia stared wide-eyed: so was that him, the family spirit around whom all those nobles, all those clans, all those women revolved? For whom Berenilde felt such boundless passion? For whom people killed each other left, right, and center? As the weeks had passed, Ophelia’s fertile imagination had conjured up contradictory portraits, from icy to fiery, gentle to cruel, splendid to terrifying.

  Apathetic. That was the first word that came to her mind on discovering this hulking form slumped on his throne. Farouk was sitting the way bored children do, right on the edge of the seat, elbows on armrests, back stooped into a hump. He’d propped his chin on his fist to stop it from falling forward, and the tubing of a hookah was wound around his other hand. Ophelia would have thought him sound asleep if she hadn’t glimpsed, between his half-closed eyelids, the flicker of a gloomy look.