Ophelia fixed her eyes on those in her reflection, chocolate-flavored eyes. Without glasses she couldn’t see herself clearly, but she could make out the glum oval of her face, the paleness of her cheeks, her white neck throbbing under the collar, the shadow of a characterless nose and those too-thin lips that disliked speaking. She attempted a timid smile, but it looked so false that she dropped it instantly. Was she attractive? How can one tell? From the gaze of a man? Would that be the gaze Thorn would direct at her, this evening?
The idea seemed so grotesque to her that she would have laughed out loud if her situation weren’t so pitifully dire. “Have you finished torturing me?” she asked her sister, who was ruthlessly tugging at her hair.
“Nearly.” Agatha turned to the manageress of the salon to request some hairpins. That moment of inattention was all Ophelia needed. She quickly put her glasses back on, grabbed her bag, and dived headlong into the mirror of the dressing table, which was barely wide enough for her. Her head and shoulders emerged through the wall mirror in her room, a few districts away, but she could move no further. On the other side of the mirror, Agatha had grabbed her by the ankles to pull her back to Goldsmiths’ Street. Ophelia let go of her bag and used the papered wall for support, struggling with all her might against her sister’s grip.
Without warning, she tumbled right into the room, knocking over a stool and the potted plant on it as she did so. Somewhat dazed, she stared blankly at the bare foot sticking out from under her dress; a boot from her new pair had remained with Agatha in Goldsmiths’ Street. Her sister couldn’t pass through mirrors, so she finally had some respite.
Ophelia picked her bag up from the carpet, limped over to a solid wooden chest at the foot of the bunk beds, and sat down. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and surveyed the little room, which was cluttered with trunks and hatboxes. This particular mess wasn’t her usual mess. This room that had witnessed her growing up already smacked of departure.
She carefully got out the journal of her forebear Adelaide and pensively leafed through its pages again.
Sunday July 18th. Still no news from the ambassadress. The women here are charming and I don’t think any of my Anima cousins are their equals in grace and beauty, but I sometimes feel uncomfortable. I get the impression that they are forever casting aspersions on my clothes, my manners, and my way of speaking. Or maybe I’m just working myself into a state?
“Why are you home so early?”
Ophelia looked up towards the top bunk. She hadn’t noticed the two patent-leather shoes sticking out beyond the mattress; this scrawny pair of legs belonged to Hector, the little brother with whom she shared the room.
She closed the journal. “I’m escaping from Agatha.”
“Why?”
“Little female problems. Does Mr. Say-Why want details?”
“Not remotely.”
Ophelia half-smiled; she had a soft spot for her brother. The patent shoes disappeared from the top bunk. They were soon replaced by lips smeared with compote, a turned-up nose, a pudding-basin haircut, and two placid eyes. Hector had the same look as Ophelia, but without the glasses: unperturbed in all circumstances. He was holding a slice of bread and apricot jam, which was dripping all over his fingers.
“We said no snacks in this room,” Ophelia reminded him.
Hector shrugged his shoulders and pointed with his slice of bread towards the travel journal on her lap. “Why are you still going over that notebook? You know it by heart.”
That was Hector. He always asked questions and all his questions began with “why.”
“To reassure myself, I suppose,” muttered Ophelia.
In fact, Adelaide had become familiar to her over the weeks, almost close. And yet Ophelia felt disappointed each time she ended up on the last page.
Monday August 2nd. I’m so relieved! The ambassadress has returned from her travels. Rudolf has finally signed his contract with one of Lord Farouk’s solicitors. I am not allowed to write anything more—it is a professional secret—but we will meet their family spirit tomorrow. If my brother puts on a good show, we will become rich.
The journal finished with these words. Adelaide had felt it necessary neither to enter into details nor to give an account of what had happened next. What contract had she and her brother signed with Farouk, the family spirit? Had they returned rich from the Pole? Most probably not, it would have been common knowledge . . .
“Why don’t you read it with your hands?” Hector asked next, grinding his bread and jam between his teeth while also languidly chewing it. “If I could, that’s what I’d do, myself.”
“I’m not allowed to, as you know.”
In truth, Ophelia had been tempted to remove her gloves to uncover the little secrets of her ancestor, but she was too professional to contaminate this document with her own anxiety. Her great-uncle would have been very disappointed if she had succumbed to such an urge.
Beneath her feet, a shrill voice rose through the floor from downstairs: “This guest room, it’s a total disaster! It was supposed to be fit for a court gentleman, it needed much more pomp, more decorum! How low is Mr. Thorn’s opinion of us going to be? We’ll make amends with the meal this evening. Rosaline, dash to the restaurateur’s to get news of my fattened chickens—I entrust the directing of operations to you! And you, my poor dear, try to set a bit of an example. It’s not every day that one marries one’s daughter!”
“Mom,” said Hector, placidly.
“Mom,” confirmed Ophelia with the same tone.
It certainly didn’t make her feel like going downstairs. As she drew the floral curtain at the window, the setting sun gilded her cheeks, nose, and glasses. In the dusk, through a corridor of crimson-turning clouds, the moon already stood out, like a china plate, against the mauve backcloth of the sky.
For a long time, Ophelia contemplated the side of the valley, turned golden by autumn, which loomed over their house, and the carriages going by in the street, and her little sisters playing with a hoop in their courtyard, surrounded by dead leaves. They were singing nursery rhymes, daring each other, pulling each other by the plait, going from laughter to tears and tears to laughter with disconcerting ease. They brought to mind Agatha at that age, with their winning smiles, noisy chatter, and beautiful light-auburn hair, shimmering in the gloaming.
Ophelia was suddenly overcome by a burst of nostalgia. Her eyes widened, her lips thinned, her impassive mask cracked. She would have liked to gambol after her sisters, shamelessly hitch up her skirts and chuck stones into Aunt Rosaline’s garden. How long ago those days seemed to her this evening . . .
“Why do you have to go? It’s going to be tedious being left alone with all those brats.”
Ophelia turned towards Hector. Busy licking his fingers, he hadn’t budged from the top bunk, but he had followed her gaze through the window. Despite his phlegmatic demeanor, the tone was accusatory.