Hildegarde Serle

Ophelia didn’t hear her. She’d just noticed the presence of another man on the rostrum who was absorbing all her attention. He stood in the background, so dark and still that he might almost have gone unnoticed had he not suddenly snapped his watch cover shut. At the sight of him, Ophelia felt a burning flash surge up from deep within her until even her ears were red-hot.
Thorn.
His black uniform, with its mandarin collar and heavy epaulettes, wasn’t suited to the stifling heat—an illusion, certainly, but a very realistic one—beneath the glass canopy. Stiff as a poker, starchy from head to toe, silent as a shadow, he seemed out of place in the flamboyant world of the court.

With not a word, not a curtsey, Berenilde went forward to stroke his cheek with the tenderness of a real wife. This time, Farouk seemed to recognize her immediately. He gazed at her, uttering not a word himself, but Ophelia sensed there was much more in their silence than in all the conversations in the world.

Ophelia was aware that they were acting together on a theatrical stage, before an audience waiting for just one slip to boo them. Every word, every inflection, every movement mattered. But on this stage, Thorn remained her greatest adversary. Because of him, the only image retained of her would be that of a woman cowering in her husband’s shadow.
Sullenly, Farouk reread the terms of the contract Thorn had given him, and then put the Book away inside his coat and straightened up, muscle after muscle, joint after joint, until standing fully upright. Thorn was big; Farouk was gigantic.
“If all she’s good for is reading, and I can’t ask her to read,” he said, slowly, “what am I going to use her for? I only accept, within my entourage, people who can entertain me.”
It was now or never. Ophelia stepped out of Thorn’s shadow, obliging him to let go of her arm, and then raised her eyes up to Farouk to look squarely at him, and never mind the pain involved.
“I’m not entertaining, but I can make myself useful. I ran a museum on Anima; I could open one up here. A museum, it’s like a memory,” she stressed, choosing her words carefully. “It’s like your memorandum.”
Ophelia couldn’t see Thorn’s expression, as he was behind her, but she could see that of Berenilde, who was smiling no more. This was definitely not what she’d had in mind when asking her to make a good impression. Ophelia tried to ignore the shocked murmurs rising from the audience surrounding the rostrum. With this request, she’d probably broken half the rules of etiquette.

“Oh, don’t thank me. The more I give you advice, the more your debt to me increases. One day, I’ll ask you to settle the bill.”
“What debt, what bill?” asked Ophelia, astonished. “You offered me your friendship.”
“Exactly. Bad debts make bad friends. Don’t worry, you’ll find it so enjoyable that you’ll hasten to get into debt again.”

Ophelia turned around so impulsively that the pain caused by her cracked rib winded her. Two heads higher, there was Thorn, right behind her. He loomed like a monolith in the middle of the lawn, with a typed document in his hand. Ophelia had never seen him looking at ease anywhere, on any seat, at any table, in any gathering, but she had to admit that he looked particularly ill at ease in this exotic garden. The harsh light made the two scars on his face stand out, and sweat was pouring from his pale hair. He must have been truly baking in that official uniform. Far from that softening him, he seemed, on the contrary, tense from head to foot.
Thorn handed his piece of paper to Ophelia, paying as much attention to Archibald as he would to a rug.

Ophelia looked up at him with what composure she had left. “Fine. Is that all you had to say to me?”
“No.”
Thorn’s steely look had hardened, now they were alone. Ophelia had expected as much. After the way she’d sought to thwart him publicly, right under Farouk’s nose, she couldn’t hope to avoid what was coming.
“Just tell me what you’re really thinking,” Ophelia said, impatiently. “Let’s get it over and done with.”
“What you did, earlier, on that rostrum,” said Thorn, his voice leaden. “It was brave.”
He tucked his fob watch into his uniform pocket and, in turn, left without a backward glance.

“It’s my godfather,” she said, with an irrepressible smile. “One word from me and he’ll be on the first airship heading for the Pole.”

“A final word of advice, madam?” Ophelia asked, turning to Berenilde. For the first time, the smile the beautiful widow gave her didn’t seem like one of those made-to-measure expressions she produced with the ease of an actress. It was a somewhat fragile smile, quivering at the corners of the mouth. The smile of a concerned mother.
“Be impressive.” Berenilde laid her velvet-gloved hand on Ophelia’s cheek. “I don’t say that to make you anxious. I say it because you are capable of it, as I have witnessed more than once.”

As the gas lamps slowly came back on, Ophelia no longer saw Farouk, limply closing his notebook; or Berenilde, coming towards her in a graceful rippling of dress; or Aunt Rosaline, gesticulating wildly at her with her parasol.
She saw only Thorn in his big, black uniform, at the very back of the auditorium, well hidden from view. He was not applauding.

“I warn you,” said Berenilde, calmly looking at her over the top of her newspaper, “if you break what serves as a heart to my nephew, I’ll cut you to ribbons.”