“I know you’re all worrying about me,” she finally declared, “but it’s my life that this is about. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, not even to Artemis, and I don’t give a damn what the Doyennes think.”
“Much good that will do you, dear girl!”
Ophelia stiffened on seeing a middle-aged woman stealthily approaching the stand. She wore no watch, walked no clock, but sported an extraordinary hat, on top of which a weather vane in the form of a stork was spinning at full speed. Her gold-rimmed spectacles further enlarged two protruding eyes, which watched every move of the Animists in general, and Ophelia in particular. If the Doyennes were the accomplices of God, the Rapporteur was that of the Doyennes.
“Your daughter is a freethinker, my dear Sophie,” she said, smiling benevolently at Ophelia’s mother. “Every family has to have one! She doesn’t want to return to her work at the museum? Let’s respect her choice. She doesn’t want to work in lace? Let’s not force her hand. Let her fly with her own wings . . . Maybe she needs a change of scenery?”
In one movement, the Rapporteur’s eyes and weather vane turned to Ophelia. She had to struggle to stop herself from checking that her great-uncle’s postcard wasn’t poking out from her apron pocket.
“You’re encouraging me to leave Anima?” she asked, warily.
“Oh, we’re not encouraging you to do anything at all!” the Rapporteur hastily countered, cutting off Ophelia’s mother, whose mouth was already wide open. “You’re a big girl, now. You’re a free agent.”
This woman definitely lacked subtlety; that was why she’d never be a Doyenne herself.
Ophelia knew only too well that the second she’d board an airship, they would have her followed and keep a close eye on her. She wanted to find Thorn, yes, but she had no intention of leading God to him. At such times, more than ever, she regretted not being able to use mirrors to leave Anima: her power, unfortunately, had its limits.
“Thank you,” she said, once she’d finished distributing the waffles to the children. “I think I’d still rather stay in my room. Merry Tickers, madame.”
The Rapporteur’s smile became strained. “Our dearest mothers are doing you an immense honor—an immense honor, do you hear?—in concerning themselves with a small person like you. So stop with all your little secrets and confide in them. They could help you, and much more than you think.”
“Merry Tickers,” Ophelia repeated, drily. Suddenly, the Rapporteur jerked backwards, as if she had received an electric shock. She stared at Ophelia first with stupefaction, then with indignation, before turning on her heels. She rejoined a phalanx of old ladies in the midst of the procession of clocks. Doyennes. They merely nodded their heads as they listened to the Rapporteur, but the look they directed at Ophelia from a distance was frosty.
“You did it!” Ophelia’s mother exclaimed, furiously. “You used that ghastly power! On the Rapporteur herself!”
“Not deliberately. If the Doyennes hadn’t forced me to leave the Pole, Berenilde could have taught me how to control my claws.” Ophelia had muttered these words while giving an annoyed wipe to the stand. She couldn’t get used to this new power. She’d injured no one up to now—she’d cut no nose, sliced no finger—but if someone caused her to dislike them too much, it was always the same: something within her was triggered to push them away. And that definitely wasn’t the best way to resolve a disagreement.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors like this,” hissed Ophelia’s mother, while pointing a red nail at her. “I’ve had it up to my hat with seeing you lounging in your bed and defying our dearest mothers. Tomorrow morning you will go to your sister’s factory, and that’s the end of it!”
Ophelia waited until her mother had left with the children before leaning with both hands on the waffle stand and taking a deep breath. The hole she could feel inside her stomach had just got bigger.
“Your mother can say what she likes,” muttered her great-uncle, “you can come and work at the archives.”
“Or at the restoration studio with me,” Aunt Rosaline added, encouragingly. “I know of nothing more gratifying than cleansing paper of its mites and mildew.”
Ophelia didn’t respond to them. She had no desire to go either to the lace factory or to the family archives or to the restoration studio. What she did desire from the depths of her being was to escape the Doyennes’ vigilance in order to get to the place depicted on the postcard.
Where maybe Thorn was to be found at this very moment.
“First mezzanine.”
“Gentlemen’s bathroom”
“Don’t forget your scarf—you’re leaving.”
Ophelia stood up so abruptly, she knocked the bottle of maple syrup over on the stall. With cheeks burning, she searched among the kitchen clocks and pendulum clocks for the person who had whispered those three thoughts in her ear. He was already out of sight.
“What’s got into you?” asked Aunt Rosaline, surprised, as she saw Ophelia hastily throwing her coat on over her apron.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Are you unwell?”
“I’ve never felt so well,” Ophelia said, with a big smile. “Archibald has come for me.”
THE SHORTCUT
In truth, as Ophelia went discreetly up the stairs, along with her great-uncle, Aunt Rosaline, and her scarf, she hadn’t a clue how Archibald had turned up here, right in the middle of an Animist festival, or why he’d asked her to meet him in the bathroom. “You’re leaving,” he’d told her. If he intended to make her leave Anima, wouldn’t it have been better to meet up outside, as far away from the crowd and the Doyennes as possible?
“You should have watched over the stand,” muttered Ophelia. “As soon as they notice that no one’s doing waffles anymore, they’ll be looking for us.” She was talking to Aunt Rosaline, who was lugging, under both arms, all she’d been able to grab in the rush of leaving.
“You can’t be serious,” she said, indignantly. “If there’s the remotest chance of returning to the Pole, I’m coming too!”
“And your work at the studio? What you were telling me about mites and mildew?”
“It’s vipers and the depraved that Berenilde is confronting alone, since our departure. She’s worth far more in my eyes than a piece of paper.”
Ophelia felt her heart leap at the sight of Archibald, at the other end of the mezzanine. He was calmly waiting in front of the door to the restroom, wrapped in a patched-up old cape, his top hat askew. He wasn’t even attempting to hide, which would have been a sensible precaution—however, even dressed as a tramp, he was the kind of man who attracted attention, of ladies in particular.
“It’s not a trap, at least?” grumbled the great-uncle, holding Ophelia back by the shoulder. “That chap, over there, can he be trusted?”
Ophelia thought it best not to express her opinion on this. She trusted Archibald to a certain extent, but he certainly wasn’t the most virtuous man she knew. She continued along the mezzanine walkway, avoiding showing herself at the railings. From here, all she could see of the festivities was a roiling sea of hats and clock dials, with much telling of time, winding of watches, and wishing of “Merry Tickers!”
“I did warn you, Madam Thorn!” Archibald called out, by way of greeting. “If you don’t come to the Pole, the Pole will come to you.”
He opened the door to the bathroom as though it were that of a fine carriage, and, with a flourish, invited them all to come in.
“What’s going on here? Who is this individual?” Breathless from rushing up the stairs, her weather vane trained on them, the Rapporteur had just reached the mezzanine in a frenzy.
“Go in quickly,” said Archibald, pushing Ophelia inside. Aunt Rosaline and the great-uncle hurried after her and skidded on the tiled floor, searching for an emergency exit. There was nothing but urinals around
them. Ophelia would have liked to ask Archibald where they were supposed to escape; unfortunately, he was too busy preventing the Rapporteur from coming in, too. She’d been so quick, she’d managed to block the door with one of her boots.
“Dearest mothers!” she shrieked. “She’s trying to escape! Do something!”
These words triggered mayhem inside the bathroom. With an appalling rumbling noise, the urinals, toilet bowls, and basins started disgorging all their water. The Doyennes’ Animism was already at work. All public establishments obeyed their command, and the traditional covered market was no exception.
“We can’t stay here forever,” Ophelia shouted to Archibald over the din of all the water. “What’s your plan?”
“To close this door.” He had said this without dropping his smile, as if it were all just a minor hitch.
“And after that?” she insisted.
“After that, you will be free.”
Ophelia didn’t understand. She stared at the Rapporteur’s hand, which had just slipped between the gap in the door; she knew Archibald well enough to know that he would never break a lady’s fingers.
“Move over, sonny!” growled the great-uncle. “I’ll sort out this pest, you help the girl to get away.” With these words, he swept out of the bathroom, dragging the Rapporteur with him.
Archibald slammed the door, and silence descended with it. An eerie, baffling silence. All the water had stopped pouring out of the pipes. The cries of the Rapporteur could no longer be heard. All the tick-tocking of the festival had ceased. Ophelia began to wonder whether Archibald hadn’t stopped time itself. When they went back out, there was no more mezzanine, or great-uncle, or Rapporteur, or market. Instead, there was a deserted shop in which one could make out rows of empty shelves. Judging by the strong musty smell, this business had been closed for a long time.
“Mind the step,” warned Archibald.
Cautiously, Ophelia and Aunt Rosaline left the restrooms, stepping down onto the floor of the shop. They understood why when they glanced back: they had just come out of a wardrobe.
“How did you pull that trick off?”
“I called up a shortcut” said Archibald, as if it were obvious. “Don’t be too impressed—it’s only temporary. See for yourselves.” He closed and then reopened the door of the wardrobe. Old bric-a-brac had replaced the men’s restrooms. It made one wonder how three people could have emerged from such a confined piece of furniture.
“The market has gotten its restrooms back,” Archibald added, looking delighted. “Imagine the look on the face of that weather vane woman when she’ll find us no longer there.”
Ophelia wrung out her sodden scarf and slightly opened the curtains of the shopwindow. The glass had misted up, but she could make out a little cobbled street, partly covered in snow, and full of muffled-up passersby, all endeavoring not to slip. Further down, under a pallid sky, a barge edged slowly along the half-frozen water of a canal.
“I recognize this place,” Aunt Rosaline said, over her shoulder. “We’re not far from the Great Lakes.”
Ophelia was a bit disappointed. Their escape had been so phenomenal, she’d hoped for a moment to have left Anima.
“How did you pull that trick off?” she insisted.
Archibald was a very resourceful man, as capable of getting into people’s heads as into ladies’ hearts, but this, it really defied comprehension.
“It’s a long story,” he said, rummaging in the hole-riddled pockets of his cape. “It so happens that I’ve found myself some new opportunities, new ambitions, and new loves!”
He had declared that while triumphantly pulling out a bunch of keys. Ophelia studied him in the half-light of the shop. The last time she’d seen him, on the Citaceleste landing stage, he’d been but a shadow of himself. Today, a sun shone in the sky of his eyes, and that brightness was very different to the bittersweet arrogance that was typical of him in former times.
Ophelia tensed up in spite of herself. Was it truly Archibald whom she was following like this? She’d had no dealings with God since their confrontation in Thorn’s cell, but she didn’t forget that he could assume any face he liked.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I didn’t,” retorted Archibald. “I’ve just spent two hours in a freezing-cold ferry, and another hour asking my way in the streets of your little valley. When I finally located your parents’ house, you weren’t there. I can only summon a shortcut between two places I’ve already been to, so you made my life difficult! If you ladies would care to follow me,” he continued, heading for the back of the shop.
But Ophelia no longer really felt like hurrying. “Why bring us here?”
“Is Berenilde with you?” asked Aunt Rosaline, in turn.
“And Thorn?” Ophelia couldn’t help but add.
“Whoa, whoa!” Archibald said, laughing. “I brought you here because this is where I arrived. My calling up shortcuts has its limits. That dear Berenilde isn’t with me, no. She doesn’t even know I’m here . . . and she’ll dismember me if I don’t return to the Pole soon,” he said, checking the time. “As for the elusive Mr. Thorn, we’ve received no news from him since his escape.”
The hope that had risen in Ophelia at the appearance of Archibald collapsed like a soufflé. For one crazy moment, she’d thought that it was Thorn himself who had initiated the rescue. She glanced warily at the back of the shop, where Archibald was: it appeared to have been abandoned even longer than the front. “This is where you arrived? I don’t understand.”
Archibald tried several keys in the lock before producing a resounding click. “After you, ladies!”
Contrary to what Ophelia had imagined, the passageway didn’t lead to a cellar, but to a rotunda as vast as a station concourse. A diaphanous, almost unreal light came through the cupola’s high windows. The entire floor was a huge mosaic; it depicted a star, of which the eight corners pointed toward doors positioned like compass points. This place was as grandiose as the adjoining shop was grotty.
Several silver-plated signs reiterated the same message: WE WISH YOU A SMOOTH DOOR TRANSIT.
“A Compass Rose,” murmured Ophelia. And judging by its scale, this was an interfamilial one. It was the first time Ophelia had set foot inside one of these. Shame it had to be just after being drenched in the restrooms—she made a squelching sound with every step, which wasn’t the best look.
“I’d heard that there were some on Anima, but I only half-believed it.” Even though Ophelia wasn’t speaking loudly, the mosaic and the windows made the sound of her voice soar across the whole rotunda.
“There’s only one of them,” Archibald corrected, locking the door behind him. “And like every self-respecting Compass Rose, its location is confidential. It would have suited me if this one were a tad closer to your home.”
At the center of the rotunda stood a counter, on which Ophelia was astonished to discover a little girl. Lying on her belly, she was drawing with utmost concentration. She was so quiet as to be almost unnoticeable.
“Ladies, you have before your eyes my new opportunities and my new ambitions,” Archibald declared, gesturing proprietorially around the entire room. “As for my new loves, here they are!” He lifted the little girl from the counter and held her aloft like a trophy. “My dear Victoria, allow me to introduce you to your godmother and your godmother’s godmother.”
In her surprise, Aunt Rosaline dropped everything she’d brought along with her: umbrella, muff, shawl, and waffle spatula. “Prams alive, Berenilde’s little girl! And the spitting image of her, too.”
Moved, and somewhat daunted, Ophelia considered the little girl, who stared back at her with big, light eyes. Berenilde’s eyes. Otherwise, Victoria actually took more after her father. Her face was ethereally pale, and her hair, abnormally long for her age, appeared more white than blond. She also had tha
t strange way of parting her lips without uttering a sound, recalling Farouk’s interminable silences.
“She still doesn’t know how to talk or walk,” Archibald warned them, while shaking Victoria as if she were a talking doll whose mechanism was defective. “Her family power hasn’t got going, either. But don’t go thinking she’s stupid—she already understands more than all my ex-sisters put together.”
Aunt Rosaline frowned, suspiciously. “Does Berenilde at least know her child is here? You’re still as irresponsible as ever!” she said, exasperated, on seeing Archibald’s smile widen. “The child of a family spirit! Are you hoping for a diplomatic incident? Really, you’re worth not a bean as an ambassador.”
“I am no longer ambassador. It’s my ex-sister Patience who now performs that function. My clan has crossed me off the register of the living, since you-know-what.” Archibald mimed the cutting of scissors with his fingers. “Don’t judge me too harshly, Madame Rosaline. Victoria has inherited a mother who would like to keep her in the cradle, and a father who can never remember her name. It’s my role as godfather to offer her a stimulating life . . . And don’t listen to all the spiteful gossips calling you retarded, young lady!” Archibald then declared, making Victoria’s head disappear under his old top hat. “I personally predict for you that you will achieve great things.”
Ophelia was overtaken by sudden emotion. Those weren’t exactly the words her great-uncle had said to her about her engagement, but they were pretty similar. It suddenly struck her that had the Doyennes not meddled, she could have watched Victoria growing up, and also acted as a proper godmother herself. She might even have already found Thorn, by this time. In any case, she wouldn’t have spent two years cloistered in her room while the rest of the world kept moving on.
“How does this Compass Rose work, and how far can it take us? I’d like to put as much distance as possible between the Doyennes and—”
The “me” never left Ophelia’s lips. With a theatrical flourish, Archibald had just pulled back a curtain that had concealed a large round table behind the counter; leaning over it were Gail and Fox. They were busy taking notes and were both wearing, below their Russian fur hats, binocular magnifying glasses that made them barely recognizable. A large ginger cat, which Ophelia presumed to be Twit, was rubbing against their legs to get their attention, but they were each so focused that nothing seemed to exist for them beyond the table.
The Memory of Babel Page 2
