Despite the opera glasses, she couldn’t make out the details of his face. Maybe it would have been possible if Farouk had been endowed with powerful, strongly contrasting features, but he possessed the purity of marble. Seeing him now, Ophelia understood why his descendants were all so pale, of both complexion and hair. His beardless face, on which one could barely distinguish the arch of the eyebrows, the bridge of the nose, the crease of the mouth, seemed to be made of mother-of-pearl. Farouk was perfectly smooth, without shadows, without bumps. His long, white plait was coiled around his body like some strange river of ice. He seemed at once as old as the world and as young as a god. No doubt he was handsome, but Ophelia found him too devoid of human warmth to have any effect on her.
She finally spotted a glimmer of interest amid all that torpor when Archibald’s sisters appeared onstage. Farouk chewed on the tip of his hookah, and, with the slinky slowness of a snake, turned his head towards his favorites. The rest of his body hadn’t moved, so his neck ended up at an unlikely angle. Ophelia saw the lips of his profile moving, and all the favorites, green with envy, passed the message from one to the other until it reached Archibald. The compliment couldn’t have been to his liking, as Ophelia saw him get up from his seat and leave the box.
As for Thorn, he hadn’t taken his eyes off his watch; he was keen to get back to his Treasury, and made no bones about it.
Farouk’s show of interest in the ambassador’s sisters spread from boxes to stalls. All the nobles, who had ignored the show up until now, started to applaud enthusiastically. What the family spirit approved of, his entire court approved of.
Ophelia rearranged the drapes and put the gondolier’s hat back on her head. She could return these opera glasses to Berenilde; she’d certainly learnt her lesson.
In the wings, admirers were already rushing to declare their undying love to Archibald’s sisters. None of them even looked at Berenilde, erect in her gondola on rails, like a solitary queen. When Ophelia climbed into the back to assume the rower’s position, she heard her mutter through her smile: “Make the most of these crumbs of glory, sweethearts, because they won’t last.”
Ophelia pulled the wide brim of her hat over her face. Berenilde sometimes sent shivers down her spine.
In the distance, the violins and harps in the orchestra were heralding Isolde’s entrance. The mechanism gently propelled the gondola along the rails. Ophelia took a deep breath to give herself courage. She would have to keep up the part of rower for the whole of the first act.
As the boat arrived onstage, Ophelia looked at her empty hands in disbelief. She’d forgotten her oar in the dressing room. She threw a panicked look at Berenilde, hoping for a miracle from her to save them from ridicule, but the diva, stunning under the footlights, was already preparing to sing. Ophelia had to resort to improvisation, finding no better solution than to mime the action of a rower, without her precious prop.
She probably wouldn’t have attracted any attention had she not been standing, perched high on the edge of the gondola. Mortified, she bit her lip when bursts of laughter rose up from the auditorium, interrupting Berenilde in full flow as she was singing: “Night of love, in the city of heaven, unlike any other . . . ” Disconcerted, and blinded by the stage lighting, Berenilde choked back several breaths before realizing that it wasn’t she who was being mocked, but her rower. Behind her, Ophelia tried to maintain her composure, silently swaying her hips to the rhythm of an invisible oar. It was either that, or standing like an idiot with arms dangling. Berenilde summoned up the most beautiful smile, which put a stop to the derision, and picked up her song as though never interrupted.
Ophelia sincerely admired her. As for herself, it took a good many imaginary oar strokes before she stopped staring at her shoes. While around her love, hatred, and revenge were being sung about, Ophelia’s ribs were increasingly painful. She tried concentrating on the illusory water that flowed endlessly between cardboard houses and makeshift bridges, but the sight didn’t distract her for very long.
Under the cover of her hat, she then risked a curious glance over at the box of honor. Sitting on his throne, Farouk had been transformed. His eyes were blazing like flames. His waxen face was visibly melting. It was neither the plot of the opera nor the beauty of the singing that had this effect on him, but Berenilde, and Berenilde alone. Ophelia understood now why she had been so determined to reappear in front of him. She knew exactly the hold she had over him. She had mastered to perfection the science of sensuality, which knows how to fan the embers of desire with just the language of the body.
Seeing that marble giant turning to jelly at the sight of this woman was a disturbing spectacle for Ophelia. She’d never felt so alien to their world as right now. The passion that linked them was no doubt the most true and most sincere thing she’d witnessed since her arrival in the Pole. But that truth was something Ophelia would never experience herself. The more she watched them both, the more convinced she became. She could make an effort to be more tolerant of Thorn, but it would never be love. Was he aware of that, too?
If she hadn’t forgotten her oar, Ophelia would probably have dropped it in surprise. She’d only just noticed the sharp look Thorn was giving her from the box of honor. Seen from another part of the set, no one would have noticed the slight difference in the angle of his look, or doubted, therefore, that it was directed entirely at his aunt. However, from where Ophelia was standing, at the end of her gondola, she could clearly see that it was Mime he was staring at like that, without the slightest embarrassment.
No, Ophelia thought then, with a wrench to her stomach. He has no idea. He’s expecting something from me that I’m incapable of giving him.
As the act was drawing to a close, a new incident brought her back to the immediate reality. Aunt Rosaline, who was supposed to bring the love potion to Isolde, never appeared onstage. An awkward silence fell among the singers, and Berenilde herself remained dumbstruck for a long while. It was another performer who helped her out by handing her a goblet instead of the phial.
From then on, Ophelia thought no more of Thorn, or of Farouk, or of the opera, or of the hunt, or of her rib. She wanted to know if her aunt was all right—nothing else was more important in her eyes. When the curtains fell for the interval, in the midst of all the applause and the bravos, she got down from the gondola without even glancing at Berenilde. In any case, she wasn’t needed for Act II.
Ophelia was relieved to find Aunt Rosaline in the dressing room, exactly where she’d left her. Sitting on her chair, very straight, phial in hands, she seemed quite simply unaware that time had passed. Ophelia gently shook her by the shoulder. “We won’t succeed if we keep moving,” Aunt Rosaline declared, stiffly, her eyes staring into space. “For a good photograph, you have to hold the pose.”
Was she delirious? Ophelia pressed a hand to her forehead, but it seemed a normal temperature. That just worried her even more. Already, earlier on, Aunt Rosaline was behaving strangely. Quite clearly, something wasn’t right. First checking that they were alone in the dressing room, Ophelia warily spoke out loud: “You don’t feel well?”
Aunt Rosaline flapped her hand as if a fly were buzzing around her, but didn’t reply. She seemed totally lost in her thoughts.
“Aunt?” Ophelia called out to her, increasingly anxious.
“You know full well what I think of your aunt, my poor George,” mumbled Rosaline. “She’s an illiterate who uses books as kindling. I refuse to have anything to do with someone with so little respect for paper.”
Ophelia stared at her with wide-open, baffled eyes. Uncle George had died about twenty years ago. Aunt Rosaline wasn’t lost in her thoughts; she was lost in her memories. “Godmother,” Ophelia implored her in a whisper. “Do you at least recognize me?”
Her aunt didn’t even look at her, as though Ophelia were made of glass. She was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable feeling of guilt. She di
dn’t know why or how, but she had the vague impression that what was happening to Aunt Rosaline was her fault. She was afraid. Perhaps it was nothing, just a temporary aberration, but a little voice within her was whispering that it was much more serious than that. They were going to need Berenilde.
Very carefully, Ophelia removed the phial from her aunt’s clenched hands, and then remained sitting beside her for the entire duration of Acts II and III. It was an extremely long wait, which Aunt Rosaline punctuated with nonsensical sentences, never wanting to resurface. It was unbearable seeing her sitting on this chair, with that faraway look, at once close and unreachable.
“I’m coming back,” whispered Ophelia when the applause made the dressing room’s ceiling vibrate. “I’m going to get Berenilde; she’ll know what to do.”
“You just need to open your umbrella,” replied Aunt Rosaline.
Ophelia went back up the stairs that led to the wings as quickly as her rib allowed her to. As she kept moving, the pain almost stopped her from breathing. She slipped between the performers crowded onstage to take their bows. The thundering applause made the ground shake beneath her feet. Bouquets of roses were thrown by the dozen onto the boards.
Ophelia understood the cause of all this adulation better when she saw Berenilde receiving a kiss on the hand from Farouk. The family spirit had come onstage in person to express his admiration publicly. Berenilde was in a state of grace: radiant, exhausted, splendid, and victorious. This evening, thanks to her performance, she had just recovered her title of favorite among favorites.
Heart thumping, Ophelia couldn’t take her eyes off Farouk. Close up, this magnificent white giant was much more impressive. It wasn’t surprising that he was considered a living god. The look he was giving Berenilde, who was aquiver with emotion, shone with a possessive glint. Ophelia could read his lips for the single word he uttered: “Come.”
He wrapped his huge fingers around the delicate curve of her shoulder, and slowly, slowly, they descended the steps of the stage. The crowd of nobles surged around them as they passed, like a breaking wave.
Ophelia knew that she couldn’t count on Berenilde that evening. She had to find Thorn.
The Station
Ophelia let herself be swept along by the surge of spectators heading for the auditorium’s exits. As she followed them down the grand staircase, her feet were trodden on at least five times. All spectators had been invited to a large reception in the Sun Salon. There were buffets laid on, and servants in yellow livery carried their trays from one noble to another, serving sweet drinks.
An idle valet would attract attention. Ophelia took a glass of champagne and went through the crowd with small, hurried steps, like a servant eager to quench his master’s thirst. All around her, Berenilde’s performance was being commented on: her too-broad mezzo, her too-tight sharps, her breathlessness as the show ended. Now that Farouk was gone, the criticism was more scathing. The diamond-covered favorites, now neglected, had gathered around the pastries. When Ophelia passed by them, musical critique had already given way to talk of bad makeup, weight gain, and ageing beauty. That was the price to be paid for being loved by Farouk.
Ophelia feared for a moment that Thorn had already taken refuge in his Treasury, but she finally spotted him. Which wasn’t hard: his sullen, scarred face, stuck on his great beanpole body, loomed over the whole crowd. Being taciturn, he clearly wanted to be left alone, but he was all anyone saw: men in frock coats were endlessly flocking over to him.
“That tax on doors and windows is a piece of nonsense!”
“Fourteen letters I’ve sent you, Mr. Treasurer, and not a reply to this day!”
“Larders are starting to empty. Ministers tightening their belts, what is the world coming to?”
“It’s your duty to keep us from famine. That big hunt had better be good, or you’ll be hearing about it at the next Council meeting!”
Ophelia made her way through all these portly civil servants to get to Thorn. He couldn’t help raising his eyebrows in surprise when she hoisted her glass of champagne up to him. She tried to fix an insistent expression onto Mime’s face. Would he understand that she was seeking his help?
“Make an appointment with my secretary,” Thorn declared, dismissively, to all the gentlemen. Glass of champagne in hand, he turned his back on them. He gave not a sign, not a look to Ophelia, but she followed close on his heels with total confidence. He would lead her to a safe place, she would tell him about Aunt Rosaline, they would find a solution.
Her relief was short-lived. A strapping fellow gave Thorn a resounding slap on the back, making him spill his champagne on the tiled floor. “Dear little brother!”
It was Godfrey, Berenilde’s other nephew. To Ophelia’s great dismay, he wasn’t alone: Freya was on his arm. Beneath her pretty fur hat, her eyes were dissecting Thorn as if he were some freak of nature. He, however, merely pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the champagne from his uniform. He didn’t seem particularly overjoyed to see his family.
There was an oppressive silence, underlined by the buzz of conversation and the chamber music. Godfrey shattered it with a masterful laugh. “For goodness’ sake, you’re not still sulking! It’s been five years now since we three last saw each other!”
“Fifteen,” said Freya, icily.
“Sixteen,” corrected Thorn with his usual stiffness.
“Well, time’s most definitely passing!” sighed Godfrey, without dropping his smile.
Standing back a little, Ophelia struggled to resist staring at the handsome hunter. With his strong jaw and long, golden locks, Godfrey was very arresting. When he spoke, the Northern accent took on a cheery ring. He seemed as comfortable in his supple, muscular skin as Thorn was cramped in his big, bony body.
“Wasn’t Aunt Berenilde extraordinary this evening? She was a credit to our family!”
“We’ll see about that, Godfrey,” jeered Freya. “Our aunt should preserve her energy rather than exhausting herself with warbling. An accident can easily happen when hunting.”
Thorn darted his hawk’s eyes at his sister. He said not a word, but Ophelia wouldn’t have fancied facing him right then. Freya smiled fiercely at him, seeming to defy him with her thornlike nose.
“None of that concerns you. You don’t have the right to join us, despite being Treasurer. Isn’t that wonderfully ironic?” She left her brother’s arm and lifted her fur dress to avoid the puddle of champagne. “I vow never to see you again,” she said, by way of farewell.
Thorn clenched his jaw, but made no comment. Ophelia was so struck by the harshness of these words that she didn’t immediately realize that she was in Freya’s way. She stepped aside, but wasn’t forgiven for this little contretemps. A valet had made Freya wait, and Freya didn’t do waiting. She looked down at Mime with the disgust one would normally save for creepy-crawlies.
Ophelia brought her hand swiftly to her cheek. A searing pain had just shot through her skin, as if an invisible cat had scratched her right in the face. If Thorn had noticed the incident, he didn’t show it.
Freya disappeared into the crowd, leaving a chill behind her that even Godfrey himself couldn’t dispel. “She wasn’t as unpleasant when we were little,” he said, shaking his head. “Being a mother doesn’t really suit her. Since our arrival on Citaceleste, she hasn’t stopped jeering at us, my wife and me. No doubt you already know, but Irina suffered another miscarriage.”
“I really couldn’t care less.” Thorn’s tone wasn’t particularly hostile, but he didn’t mince his words. Godfrey didn’t seem in the least offended.
“Of course, you must be thinking about your own marriage now!” he exclaimed, landing another slap on his back. “I pity the woman who’ll see your sinister face every morning.”
“A sinister face that you decorated in your own way,” Thorn reminded him, in a flat voice.
Beam
ing, Godfrey slid a finger across his own eyebrow, as though redrawing Thorn’s scar on his own face. “I gave it some character, you should be thanking me. After all, you did keep your eye.”
Massaging her burning cheek, Ophelia had just lost her remaining illusions. The jovial, warm Godfrey was just a cynical brute. As she watched him move away, laughing his head off, she hoped never to encounter another Dragon for the rest of her life. These in-laws were horrible, she’d seen quite enough of them.
“The Opera foyer,” said Thorn, simply, turning on his heel and walking off.
In the grand hall, the atmosphere was more bearable, but there were still too many people around for Ophelia to be able to speak out loud. She was thinking of Aunt Rosaline, all alone in the dressing room. She followed Thorn, who was striding ahead of her, hoping that he wouldn’t lead her too far away. He passed behind the ticket office and went into the cloakrooms. There, not a soul. Ophelia thought the place ideal, so was disconcerted to see Thorn not stopping, for all that. He advanced between the rows of cupboards, heading straight for the one marked “Treasurer.” Did he want to collect his coat? He pulled out a bunch of keys from his uniform and inserted one of them, all golden, into the lock of the cupboard.
When he opened the door, Ophelia saw neither hangers nor coats, but a small room. With a movement of his chin, Thorn invited her to go in, and then locked the door behind them. The room was circular, barely heated, devoid of furniture. It did, however, have doors painted in many colors. A Compass Rose. No doubt they could have spoken there, but it was cramped and Thorn had already put his key into a new lock.
“I mustn’t go too far away,” Ophelia muttered.
“It’s just a matter of a few doors,” responded Thorn in a formal tone.
A Winter's Promise Page 33
