Ophelia and the Marvellous Boy

by Karen Foxlee

  “Interesting.” He definitely hissed this time.

  “It’s just …,” said Ophelia.

  But she didn’t finish. Mr. Pushkinova leaned suddenly forward so that his face was inches from hers. Ophelia looked at his small, angry mouth and his ancient, stained teeth, which, when she was up close like that, looked a little too pointy. She looked into his terrible, cloudy eyes.

  “I will warn you only once: do not meddle in magic, little girl,” whispered Mr. Pushkinova. “There is nothing that you can do which will help the Marvellous Boy.”

  He took a deep breath. What was he going to do? Ophelia had a terrible sense that it wasn’t something very nice. Then he did the not very nice thing.

  He bared his teeth.

  A vile, low growl rumbled from within him.

  Ophelia turned and ran. She ran as fast as she could. She ran across the sea monster mosaic, down the gloomy gallery of painted girls, into a small, hushed circular library. She crouched beneath a spiral staircase. She hugged her arms around herself, shaking. She shook so violently that she thought her teeth were going to break apart. Then when she stopped shaking, she put her head in her hands and began to cry.

  She sobbed until her sleeves were wet, because she had forgotten her handkerchief. She cried because she had no handkerchief. She cried because she didn’t know what to do. If her mother had been there, she would have known what to do. And she would have had a handkerchief. She cried because Mr. Pushkinova was a horrible man. There was nothing good about him. How could the boy say there was anything good about him? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she had been scratched by a snow leopard and pushed by ghosts and nearly eaten by a misery bird and growled at by a horrible man. She wasn’t used to that sort of thing. And now she was going to be late again, and Alice would look at her missing coat pockets and raise her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

  Then in the middle of feeling sad, she started to feel angry.

  What did Mr. Pushkinova know?

  How did he know she couldn’t help the boy?

  She wiped her eyes. He didn’t know anything. He didn’t know anything at all. If she wanted to rescue the boy and find the sword and save the world, then she could. And she would.

  That’s my girl, her mother whispered in her ear.

  Ophelia pulled down on her braids hard until she felt better, and then she stood up and ran to meet Alice in the foyer.

  8

  In which dinner is eaten in a revolving restaurant and Ophelia falls asleep at a crucial moment

  Ophelia stared at her reflection in the darkened hotel window. Alice had braided her hair so tight that Ophelia felt her brain wouldn’t work. Her sister hadn’t noticed her missing pockets at all. Alice’s eyes were bright as diamonds. Humming a tuneless song, she stared right through Ophelia. Ophelia looked down at her stupid red dress with its stupid puffy sleeves and her stupid shiny black shoes.

  If her mother had been alive, she would have said, “Stop worrying; you look lovely.” She would have taken Ophelia’s glasses and cleaned the smudges off them with the hem of her skirt. Ophelia would have looked at her, all blurred at the edges, and it would have been a very soothing thing.

  Even when her mother became sick, she kept writing. Each morning when Ophelia was still in bed, she heard her mother’s footsteps on the stairs, the study door opening, the sound of the computer turning on.

  “You should be resting,” she heard her father say one morning.

  “But I have this idea,” her mother replied.

  “There is all the time in the world for ideas,” her father said.

  “Malcolm,” her mother replied, so softly Ophelia barely heard it. “There isn’t.”

  They were to meet Miss Kaminski on the highest floor of the hotel, in the revolving restaurant. Alice had spent over an hour applying makeup. Mr. Whittard was in a state. He had lacquered down his hair and dressed in his best black suit.

  “Now, O,” he said, smoothing down his tie. “You must be on your best behavior, and no nonsense about finding a magical sword.”

  “But I do have to find a magical sword,” said Ophelia. “And I don’t have very much time.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” said her father.

  He wanted to impress Miss Kaminski. Ophelia knew it in her bones. He had no idea how horrible Miss Kaminski was. He had no idea of how she looked so perfect but really was nothing but nasty.

  “Ophelia can’t be normal,” said Alice, examining herself in her powder puff mirror. “It’s impossible.”

  “Now, now, Alice, I haven’t heard you say a single kind word to your sister since we arrived here,” said Mr. Whittard. “All I’m saying is there will be important things to discuss tonight, and I want you both on your best behavior.”

  Miss Kaminski was fashionably late. She wore a silver dress beaded with crystals, and the skin of her arms was snow-white. She had let her hair out, and it shone in the candlelight. Miss Kaminski had the kind of beauty that stayed pressed against your eyes, like the halo you see after you look directly into the sun. Even when she stopped looking at Miss Kaminski and turned away, Ophelia felt her bright, nuclear glow. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

  Mr. Whittard sat opposite Miss Kaminski, a vacant expression in his eyes, as though he had witnessed a miracle. It made Ophelia feel sad when she saw that. Not a crying sort of sad but a deep, aching sad that made her bones feel heavy. She felt cold. There was something wrong with the heating in the restaurant. She hugged herself, saw the gooseflesh on Alice’s bare arms.

  The restaurant rotated slowly. Ophelia felt its rumbling through her feet on the floor. The window showed the expanse of gray towers reaching out to the wharf, the frozen sea. All the gray streets, filled with people with their pale, exhausted faces. The old city came into view: the square; the skating rink almost empty of skaters; the huge, tinkling, sparkling Christmas tree.

  The museum came next, sliding into view, its dark silhouette against the gray sky, the outlines of all the buttresses and gargoyles and stone men and stone lions. She thought of the boy there, all alone, waiting for her. She opened the little black purse Alice had made her take and looked at the three keys.

  Miss Kaminski talked elegantly and charmingly about the exhibition. “The world has never seen such an exhibition,” she said. “And tomorrow the greatest sword of them all will arrive from the city vaults.”

  “I can’t wait to see this sword,” said Mr. Whittard. “You must tell me more of its strange history.”

  “Patience,” said Miss Kaminski. She smiled conspiratorially at Mr. Whittard. “First I would like to ask Delia a question.”

  “Ophelia,” said Ophelia.

  “Yes,” said Miss Kaminski, as though her name were an inconsequential matter. “Tell me, how did you find the exhibition of dolls this morning?”

  “It was nice, but my favorite will always be the dinosaurs,” said Ophelia. She needed to change the subject; she didn’t want her father to find out she hadn’t been with Miss Kaminski and Alice in the afternoon.

  “But yes,” said Miss Kaminski. “I’ve heard you are especially fond of the dinosaur hall. What other things have you found which amuse you?”

  “You quite liked the history of Vikings, didn’t you?” said Alice quickly.

  “And you liked the static display of telephones,” said Mr. Whittard.

  “And the big room of fossils,” said Alice. “You said you quite liked that.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Ophelia. “What I’m really interested in is finding a—”

  “What about that big clock?” said Alice. “You are always hanging around that room.”

  “It is a very important clock,” said Miss Kaminski.

  “It’s counting down to the end of the world,” said Ophelia.

  The smile froze on Miss Kaminski’s face. Ophelia had never noticed how white Miss Kaminski’s teeth were. They shone.

  Mr. Whittard brayed with la
ughter.

  “Where do you get your ideas, child?” asked Miss Kaminski.

  “Ophelia’s mother was a famous horror writer,” explained Mr. Whittard.

  The curator’s face unfroze. She flicked her white napkin out onto her lap and smiled so beautifully, Mr. Whittard fell back into his chair. “She has quite a remarkable imagination,” she said, and she looked at Ophelia in a way that burnt.

  For the rest of the dinner Miss Kaminski spoke of swords and the history of the museum.

  “We have timed this exhibition, the greatest exhibition in the world, to coincide with the chiming of the Wintertide Clock,” she said. “It will be such a wonderful night. People will be arriving from all four corners of the world. They will fill the galleries and fill the hallways and fill the city streets. And, Alice, I have a special task for you. I should like you to wear a special gown on Christmas Eve, a gown so special it is not on display. If you would like, you could hold the shears to cut the ribbon to open the evening.”

  “Really?” said Alice, holding her hand over her heart.

  “And tomorrow we will hang your portrait,” said Miss Kaminski, “if your father agrees. I know just the place.”

  Mr. Whittard beamed. The restaurant revolved. The museum came into view and disappeared again. Miss Kaminski looked at Alice and Mr. Whittard, but Ophelia sensed, more than anything, she was watching her. It was a terrible feeling. It made her unable to eat her pasta with sardines. She was shivering with the cold, and all the shivering was making her very tired.

  “Your little one needs her bed,” said Miss Kaminski.

  It was a motherly type of thing to say. Mr. Whittard patted Ophelia on the head.

  “Sleepy, sleepy little one,” said Miss Kaminski, and just the way she sang that made Ophelia yawn and her eyes close. Miss Kaminski leaned forward and blew out the candle on the table, and the charm on her necklace became visible.

  “That’s gorgeous,” said Alice. “Does it open something special?”

  “That’s my secret,” said Miss Kaminski mysteriously.

  Ophelia did not see or hear. Her father had scooped her up in his arms and was carrying her toward the elevator. She had fallen into the deepest of sleeps.

  9

  In which Ophelia visits the museum at night

  Ophelia was rushing through the museum. She was racing through the long, empty corridors in the dark, and something was close behind her. The thing close behind her was bad, very bad, and she ran as fast as she could. Her chest constricted, her legs ached. She willed herself not to turn, to see the thing following her. When she finally made it to the boy’s room, she dropped to her knees and scrambled to the keyhole.

  “Are you there?” she whispered.

  There was no reply. She looked inside, but the room was empty. She was filled with such grief that it hurt her to breathe.

  Then fear.

  Fear freezing her.

  She knew she must turn, because the thing was now in the room behind her. It was coming closer and closer and closer. She felt the hairs on her neck rise.

  She moved upward out of her dream, surfacing, and found herself awake, taking gulps of midnight air. She stared at her watch. Only a few hours had passed since the restaurant. She stared at the dial, calculating: it was exactly three months, nine days, and half an hour since her mother had died.

  “Daddy,” she said, slipping out of bed. He was in the lounge working over a pile of spreadsheets.

  “Hello, darling,” he replied. “What are you doing awake again?”

  “Can I sit with you?”

  “You can for a minute,” said Mr. Whittard, “but I’m actually heading back to the museum. I’ve got to tweak some things with the gladiators and prepare for the centerpiece sword that is arriving in the morning.”

  “Can I come with you?” She went over to him.

  “No, of course you can’t. You’re exhausted. Look at you.”

  “I promise I’ll just lie in that big throne,” said Ophelia, “and sleep.”

  “I’ll be in and out of the workroom all night. I’m afraid it’s impossible,” said Mr. Whittard. “I’m just too busy.”

  Ophelia took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She let her bottom lip tremble ever so slightly. If there was one thing she knew her father couldn’t deal with, it was her crying.

  “I don’t feel like being alone,” she said.

  “Your sister’s here,” said her father, exasperated. Then he looked at Ophelia. “Oh goodness, now don’t cry. Okay, then. But you’ll have to bring a pillow and a blanket. And put on some warm clothes. There’s absolutely no heating there at night.”

  Ophelia dressed quickly in her jeans and velvet coat, and pulled a beanie down over her ears. She stuffed the three keys inside her denim pockets. She followed her father back to the museum, carrying a pillow and a blanket through the snow. Her ears burnt and her nose went numb. She was very glad when they made it to the museum and her father ran his key card over the side entrance door. The museum foyer was dim and cavernous and filled with the echoes of their footsteps. The wedding mosaic floor glimmered and sparkled in places in the half-light. Ophelia looked at the King, with his luxuriant dark hair, and the Queen, with the white locks spilling over her shoulders like a fountain.

  When she looked up, she saw her father waiting for her, shaking his head.

  “My girl, the dreamer,” he said. “And the dawdler. Whatever happened to your pocket? It’s hanging by a thread.”

  “It’s a long story,” said Ophelia.

  She’d like to tell him, but she knew she couldn’t. He probably wouldn’t listen anyway. Or he’d start to listen, and then she’d see his eyes glass over and look past her at something she couldn’t see.

  In the sword workroom her father made her sit on the throne. She pretended to leaf through Swords of the Ancient World, Volume XIX. Miss Kaminski had arranged for two men to be there to help her father with the lifting and carrying, and Ophelia didn’t have to wait long before her father left the room with them.

  When he was gone, Ophelia put the pillow and the blanket on the throne in such a way that it looked like she was curled up sleeping. She placed her beanie, stuffed with tissue paper, at the top, then took her shoes and stuck the soles out at the very bottom. She was almost certain it would work. Her father would be engrossed in his preparations. He wouldn’t exactly forget Ophelia, but he wouldn’t exactly remember her either.

  Sometimes, between her father and mother, she was surprised that she and Alice had survived at all. Her father was always thinking of fabulous swords and her mother had always been thinking about monsters and heroines.

  She ran up the stairs into the dark museum. How different it was at night! And so cold. Shadows loomed and fell away as she passed. There were many strange noises: a curtain flapping, an elevator humming, the clink clank of work in the sword exhibition hall a long way off. Each noise she heard she imagined was Mr. Pushkinova, about to leap out of the shadows.

  Ah! said her mother in her ear. See how it feels to do dangerous things! I knew you’d come back. I knew you’d be brave.

  Ophelia smiled as she ran in her stocking feet. She ran through the Gallery of Time, filled with clocks, where the Wintertide Clock was tick, tick, ticking in the shadows. She peered into the gloom at the little gilt window and saw there was no longer a 2 but a 1. It gave her a falling feeling. It was just like the feeling she got when Lucy Coutts chose the medicine-ball teams and left Ophelia until the very end. Yes, that feeling, only one hundred times worse.

  She ran through the room filled with teaspoons, the room filled with telephones, the room filled with mirrors. Her many reflections flickered beside her. She passed down the long hallway of painted girls in party dresses, pausing briefly in front of Kyra Marinova, who seemed to smile at her in the darkness. Up the stairs and down again, across the sea monster mosaic, through the gallery of broken angels, and into the boy’s room.

  “Are you there?” she
whispered through the keyhole.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m so glad you’ve come. I thought …”

  She saw the glint of his bright eye, knew he too was filled with relief.

  “I nearly got eaten by a misery bird,” she said. “But it liked the sardines I had instead, and then Mr. Pushkinova caught me and growled at me and told me that I couldn’t help you.”

  “Yes, he has been checking me more frequently,” said the boy. “He wouldn’t have meant to scare you so. Even though he is bad, he is really very good inside.”

  Ophelia didn’t agree, but she didn’t say so. She took the large golden key from her jeans pocket and held it in her palm. She placed it in the golden keyhole and opened the little door hidden in the turquoise sea.

  10

  In which the boy is released from his prison after many years

  They were bashful at first. The rescued and the rescuer. The boy stepped out of the room and looked out the window. He was not much taller than Ophelia. His bangs hung in his eyes. He brushed them away and smiled at her shyly. He wore very old-fashioned clothes: stockings and knickerbockers and shiny slippers. His fabulous coat was embroidered in gold, but it was very worn and tatty, and threads were unraveling at the sleeves. He plucked at one of these. Ophelia turned the key over and over in her hand.

  “I didn’t know if you would,” said the boy.

  “I didn’t know either,” said Ophelia.

  “You’re very brave,” said the boy.

  “I probably shouldn’t do it again,” she replied. “I have very bad asthma.”

  “We should begin to search for the sword.”

  “And then find you a hiding place,” said Ophelia. “Maybe we could just run away. I mean, out the front door. I could hide you in our hotel suite. There’s this little dressing room. I could make you a bed in there until we work out what to do. If I told my father, he would listen eventually, if I told him enough.”

  “I’ve tried before,” said the boy. “She always finds me. There are many spies in the city.”