Ophelia observed him doing it without batting an eyelid. That was the limit. He wanted to entertain the crowd? Well, they’d soon be laughing.
She led them up some mezzanine stairs, then past some glass shelves. She popped her key into the lock of a display cabinet, slid back the glass panel, and, with a handkerchief, picked up a tiny lead ball, which she handed to Bowler Hat. “An excellent starting point towards a better understanding of the wars of the old world,” she stated flatly. He burst out laughing as he snatched the ball with his bare hand. “What’s this you’re offering me? An automaton’s dropping?”
His smile gradually faded as, with the tips of his fingers, he went back into the object’s past. He became pale and still, as though time had frozen around him. Seeing the look on his face, his beaming companions started poking him in the ribs, but became concerned when he didn’t react. “You’ve given him something horrid!” said one of them in a panicky voice.
“It’s an item highly prized by historians,” countered Ophelia in a professional tone.
From pallid, Bowler Hat turned gray. “It’s not . . . what I . . . was asking for,” he struggled to get out.
With her handkerchief, Ophelia retrieved the lead ball and replaced it on its little red cushion. “You wanted a weapon, didn’t you? I gave you the projectile from a cartridge that, in its time, punctured the stomach of a soldier. That’s what war was about,” she concluded, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “Men who killed and men who were killed.”
Since Bowler Hat was clutching his stomach and looking queasy, she softened a little. It was a tough lesson, she was aware of that. This boy had come here with his head full of heroic epics, and reading a weapon was like looking his own death in the face. “It will pass,” she told him. “I’d advise you to go outside and get some air.”
The whole group left, but not before shooting a few dirty looks at her over the shoulder. One of them called her “scarecrow” and another “four-eyed sack of spuds.” Ophelia hoped that, later on, her fiancé would think the same of her.
Armed with a spatula, she attacked the chewing gum Bowler Hat had stuck on the glider. “I definitely owed you a small revenge,” she whispered, affectionately stroking the side of the aircraft as she would that of an old horse.
“My darling! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Ophelia turned around. With skirts hitched up and parasol tucked under arm, a splendid young woman was trotting towards her, clicking her white boots on the flagstones. It was Agatha, her elder sister, who was as red-haired, well-dressed, and stunning as her little sister was brown-haired, scruffy, and withdrawn. Day and night.
“But what are you still doing here?”
Ophelia tried to dispose of Bowler Hat’s chewing gum, but it was stuck to her gloves. “I’ll remind you that I work at the museum until 6 o’clock.”
Agatha theatrically squeezed both of Ophelia’s hands in her own. She immediately grimaced: she’d just squashed the gum onto her pretty glove. “Not any longer, stupid,” she said, annoyed, while flapping her hand. “Mom said you must think only of your preparations. Oh, little sister!” she cried, throwing herself onto Ophelia. “You must be so excited!”
“Er . . . ” was all Ophelia managed to get out.
Agatha instantly pulled away to look her up and down. “Holy hot water bottle! Have you looked at yourself in a mirror? You can’t possibly, with any decency, show yourself to your betrothed in that state. What will he think of us?”
“That’s the least of my worries,” Ophelia declared, going over to her counter.
“Well, that’s not the case for your kin, you little egoist! We’re going to remedy this at once!”
With a sigh, Ophelia got out her old shopping bag and put her belongings into it. If her sister was convinced she had a sacred mission, she’d never let her work in peace. There was nothing she could do but close the museum. While Ophelia took her time gathering her things with a heavy heart, Agatha was stamping her feet with impatience. She perched up on the counter, her white boots swinging under her lace bloomers.
“I’ve got some gossip for you, and it’s juicy! Your mysterious suitor has finally got a name!”
For that, Ophelia lifted her head from her bag. A few hours before they were to be introduced, it was about time! Her future in-laws must have insisted on the utmost discretion. The Doyennes had maintained a deathly silence throughout autumn, divulging not a single piece of information about her fiancé, to an extent that had become ludicrous. Ophelia’s mother, furious not to have been taken into their confidence, had been fuming for two months. “Well?” she asked, as Agatha was savoring her little moment.
“Mr. Thorn!”
Ophelia shuddered behind the coils of her scarf. Thorn? She was already allergic to the name. It rang hard on the tongue. Rough. Almost aggressive. A hunter’s name.
“I also know that this dear man won’t be much older than you, sis. No old codger incapable of fulfilling his conjugal duties for you! And I’ve kept the best for last,” Agatha continued without drawing breath. “You’re not going to end up in the middle of nowhere, believe me—the Doyennes have really treated us right. Mr. Thorn has apparently got an aunt who’s as beautiful as she’s powerful, who ensures that he has an excellent position at the Pole’s court. You’ll be living the life of a princess!”
Agatha, eyes shining, was triumphant. As for Ophelia, she was devastated. Thorn, a court gentleman? She would have preferred even a hunter. The more she learnt about her future husband, the more he made her feel like fleeing.
“And what are your sources?”
Agatha adjusted her hat, from which quivering little red curls were escaping. Her cherry mouth puckered into a smug smile. “Rock solid! My brother-in-law Gerard got this information from his great-grandmother, who herself got it from a close cousin who is the actual twin sister of a Doyenne!”
Like a little girl, she clapped her hands and leapt to her booted feet. “You’ve got yourself a serious ring on your finger, my dear. For a man with such a position and of such a rank to ask for your hand in marriage, it’s unhoped for! Come on, get a move on sorting out your mess, we don’t have much time before Mr. Thorn’s arrival. We’ve got to make you presentable!”
“Go on ahead,” muttered Ophelia, fastening her bag. “There’s one last thing I must do.”
With a few dainty steps, her sister was off. “I’ll save a carriage for us!”
Ophelia stood stock-still behind her counter for a long while. The abrupt silence that had returned to the place once Agatha had left almost hurt her ears. She reopened her forebear’s journal at random and scanned the fine, lively handwriting, nearly a century old, with which she was now so familiar.