Ophelia raised her eyebrows. She would never have imagined that this old thing, which buttoned her up from ankle to chin, would one day make her seem like a bad girl.
“The sartorial details vary depending on age, profession, and civil status,” Ambrose continued, while rummaging in his closets. “Citizens don’t wear the same colors as noncitizens, for example.”
“Noncitizens,” Ophelia repeated, recalling reading a passage about that in her geographical guide. “They’re the ones who live on Babel, but don’t descend from Pollux?”
“That’s not entirely accurate,” Ambrose said, smiling indulgently. “The Sons of Pollux are, indeed, automatically citizens. They can vote, elect, and be elected. But it’s also possible to become a citizen through merit, like my father. That’s been the case since Babel entered into commercial alliances with the other arks. You must have noticed in the street, there are plenty of different families living here: Florins, Totemists, Cyclopeans, Alchemists, Heliopolitans! And those without power,” he added, this time half-heartedly. “We are the ‘Godsons of Helen.’ Madame Helen, being unable to have descendants, became the official godmother of all those who aren’t Sons of Pollux. She will be yours, too, for as long as you remain on Babel.”
Ophelia really hoped not. The last time she’d been the ward of a family spirit, it had almost cost her her life.
“Returning to our clothes,” said Ambrose, diving back into his closet, “you have to understand that every adornment, every jewel, every accessory adds very specific layers of significance. It’s a language in its own right! If your stay on Babel must be extended, I advise you to get completely to grips with it in order to avoid misunderstandings. And beware, the dress police carry out regular checks.”
Having always thrown on the first garment that came to hand, Ophelia would now have to make a concerted effort if she wanted to melt into the background on Babel. “And what happens if one dresses other than the code allows?”
“One has to pay a fine to the city. The greater the offense, the heavier the fine.”
She knocked over the pile of the clothes that Ambrose had heaped into her arms. It was galling to note that, even without having hands the wrong way around, she was the clumsier of the two of them.
“Stay here overnight,” suggested the whaxi driver, noticing the light fading through the casements. “We’ll start the search for your bag first thing tomorrow morning.”
“And the Memorial? Wouldn’t it be possible to go there today?”
Ambrose’s eyes widened, the whites standing out against the dark surface of his skin. “It would be closed by the time we got there. The place seems to mean a lot to you. What are you seeking, exactly?”
“It’s personal.” Ophelia regretted her snappiness when she saw Ambrose’s smile disappear.
“Forgive my indiscretion. Please follow me, mademoiselle, you must feel like freshening up and resting. Are you hungry? Would you care to share my table?”
Ophelia picked up the clothes scattered on the floor, and then turned her glasses to the chair that was already moving toward the door with a mechanical purring sound. “Ambrose?”
“Mademoiselle?”
“Why are you helping me?”
The chair’s wheels came to an abrupt halt, screeching on the checkered marble, but Ambrose didn’t turn around. From where she stood, Ophelia could see his inverted hands tightening on the armrests.
“Because you’re not an automaton.”
THE MEMORY
Ophelia wasn’t sleeping. She was opening and closing Thorn’s watch without looking at it, just to hear the familiar clicking of the cover.
Click click. Click click. Click click.
Curled up, she had thrown off all the bedsheets, and was staring myopically at the splashes of light shining between the gap in the mosquito net, unable to determine where the stars began and the lamps ended. The breeze swept through the open window, wafting the fresh scent of eucalyptus around the room. The crickets’ chirring rippled the surface of night.
Click click. Click click. Click click.
Ophelia was shivering. The sun had burnt the skin of her face, and yet she was freezing cold. Tonight, the void deep inside her had taken on breathtaking proportions, as though it weren’t just Thorn who had disappeared from her life, but also a part of herself. She felt the night air on her nape, where, before, there had been her long, unruly hair, her lazy old scarf, and sometimes, on rare occasions, Aunt Rosaline’s rather rough caress.
Click click. Click click. Click click.
And what if Ophelia had got the wrong ark? If there was no connection between the Memorial’s decapitated statue and the headless soldier of her vision? If her only lead was a dead end?
Click click. Click click. Click click.
She still wasn’t sleeping when dawn made the sky blanch and the foliage hum, but the daylight restored her determination. “I’m going to get my scarf back, research at the Memorial, and find a small job,” she declared to the mirror in her room. She ran her fingers through her curls, which had doubled in volume overnight, forming a wild halo around her face. Babel’s sun had turned her cheeks crimson.
Putting on her new clothes demanded great perseverance, despite the assistance of a mechanical servant. She had to fold and wind a long toga over her tunic in such a way as to pass a panel between the legs and leave one shoulder uncovered. A clasp, waistband, and belt held the whole thing in place, but Ophelia had the feeling that, with one false move, the whole arrangement would come apart, and the fabric fall around her feet.
She felt more awkward than usual when she met up with Ambrose under the entrance portico. Relaxing against the back of his chair, he had closed his eyes as if to savor the morning air rising from the lily pools. The wind made the voile of his turban flutter. His golden profile, with its long lashes, was so refined, it made one forget the strange deformity of his body. He didn’t open his eyes immediately as Ophelia approached, but his lips turned into a smile.
“I like hearing your footsteps in the house, Mademoiselle Eulalia.”
That was all Ophelia needed to feel ashamed. Of having felt alone while close to someone far more alone than she was. Of asking him questions without ever answering his. Of having given him neither her real name nor her true story. Of having no intention to remedy this.
Ambrose peered at Ophelia through the half-light of the portico, and nodded approvingly. “Congratulations, you’ve now become a true Babelian. I have a surprise for you. Jasper?”
A mechanical butler stepped forward from the mannequins lined up before the front door. Ophelia rushed over to him as soon as she saw what was hanging from his articulated arm.