“What were you talking about with your cousins? What happened at the Memorial?”
With overt familiarity, Mediana laid a finger on Ophelia’s mouth, inciting her to wait. Apprentices continued to flow around them, as carelessly as a river around a rock. When there was no one but them left on the stairs, she brought her face close to Ophelia’s, so close that the latter could see each illumination, despite her missing lens. Mediana had a rare beauty in which were combined, with infinite subtlety, curved lines and angular forms—an allure that could enchant both men and women.
“I’m going to try to help you gain precious time, little reader. Lady Helen should never have accepted your application. My power is worth at least ten times yours, and I have perfect mastery of the ancient languages. You are condemned to be a prisoner of my shadow, as are all the other Forerunners. Don’t think my cousins like me any more than you do. Friendship doesn’t exist at the Good Family, because only the best remain.”
“I—”
“Say nothing,” whispered Mediana, pressing her index finger to Ophelia’s lips. “Just listen, signorina. Violence, even in its most trivial form, is severely punished on Babel. You will suffer no physical mistreatment among us. But believe me,” she added, her hot breath brushing Ophelia’s skin, “there are all sorts of torment. Go home, forget the virtuosos and forget the Memorial. It’s my destiny, not yours.”
Ophelia was less shocked by these words than by the tone in which they were said. A sincere, deeply apologetic tone. Through her half-glasses, she watched Mediana walk down the stairs with a mixture of strength and grace, the illuminations on her skin glinting in the sunshine.
“I’ve been Berenilde’s valet, Farouk’s plaything, and Baron Melchior’s prey,” she repeated to herself, while returning her lens to its frame. An empty threat isn’t going to intimidate me.
With her lower back smarting from her tumble down the stairs, Ophelia followed the Forerunners at a respectable distance. Whether they wanted her or not, they were now members of the same company; she would impose her presence on them for as long as she needed to be one of them.
They all crossed the impressive bridge that linked the ark of Helen’s virtuosos to that of Pollux’s, and then continued to one of the conservatoire’s outbuildings. Two floors up, Ophelia discovered a laboratory that was the epitome of estheticism, all high ceilings, brass, and velvet. The room was bathed in the rainbow light of a rose window and the balmy breeze from the overhead fans. The precious-wood tables displayed the very latest in instruments for experiments.
When Ophelia, unsure, took a seat at the bench, she realized that the number of Forerunners around her had doubled. The division of Helen’s Godchildren had joined that of the Sons of Pollux in a swirl of uniforms and a surge of accents, which stopped the moment a woman closed the laboratory door.
“Knowledge serves peace,” she declared.
“Knowledge serves peace,” the apprentices all repeated in unison, holding fists on chests and banging winged heels of boots together.
The woman approved without a smile. Judging from her bronze skin, black hair, and blazing eyes, she was a true Babelian. The gold braiding on her uniform was as dazzling as the look she directed at Ophelia.
“Apprentice Eulalia, I am Lady Septima, and I will be your specialization teacher. The results of your assessment yesterday have been passed on to me. They are not brilliant. I prefer, however, to judge for myself whether you are worthy or not of becoming a Forerunner. To be worthy does not mean to succeed.” This time, Lady Septima’s eyes took in the entire laboratory, drawing into their blaze the face of each apprentice. “Today, there are many of you, but only two among you, one Son of Pollux and one Godchild of Helen, will ultimately be able to rise to the rank of aspiring virtuoso.”
Lady Septima’s eyes had lingered, possibly unconsciously, on an apprentice who resembled her too much not to be a member of her family. As for Ophelia, she better understood certain things. Only the best remain. This conservatoire had made rivalry its cornerstone.
“My work,” Lady Septima continued, returning to Ophelia, “consists of turning the crude mineral that is your family power into the purest of diamonds. And that is not all. The corporation of Forerunners, of which I am overall in charge, has been conferred the honor of revising the Memorial’s catalogue. Those who are worthy of joining the reading groups, and they only, belong at the conservatoire. You have three weeks, Apprentice Eulalia, to convince me that I am not wasting my time on you. Do you have any questions?”
Ophelia gritted her teeth hard to hold back all those that came to her. How could one gain the right to enter the Secretarium? Does it really have a strongroom? Does it harbor any vestiges of the old school? And what is it, this ultimate truth that your glorious Memorial refuses to divulge to the public?
It would have been unwise, not to say dangerous, to reveal the true object of her visit. “Why were the reading groups canceled today?” she simply asked.
This curiosity was legitimate. At least, Ophelia had thought so before realizing that everyone around her had frozen, as if the ceiling fans had suddenly flung an icy wind over the laboratory. Only Mediana was biting her lip so as not to burst out laughing.
As for Lady Septima, she remained unperturbed. She just toned down, with a mere flicker of the eyelids, her fiery gaze, directing it not at Ophelia in particular, but at each apprentice.
“I have no comment to make on the affair you all have in mind. Pay no attention to the rumor that’s going around. The Official Journal will tell you all you need to know tomorrow. Remember that for you, Forerunners, it must be your sole source of information. And now, I would like each of you to examine the sample before you, applying the regulatory procedure,” she added, in a tone that brooked no response. “You must have identified the object to which it belonged and written a full report by the end of the class. Apprentice Eulalia, you will touch nothing today; simply observe your classmates to see how they proceed.”
If Lady Septima had hoped to obtain Ophelia’s utmost concentration, it was a total failure. While all the apprentices carefully studied their samples with the laboratory instruments, she wasn’t remotely inclined to watch them doing so. All she could think of was that rumor. What had actually happened at the Memorial? Was there a chance, even the slightest one, that it was connected to Thorn? Had he been in trouble while she remained there, twiddling her thumbs?
Ophelia was drawn from her thoughts by the sense of eyes burning into her. At first she presumed it was Mediana still shamelessly staring at her, but the Seer was totally immersed in her work. No, this time it was another apprentice; the one Lady Septima had silently singled out during her talk. Sitting on the other side of the bench, he had already finished typing up his analysis report. His Visionary’s eyes were boring into her, so she felt caught in the beams of two incandescent lamps, as if she were a new sample to be analyzed. A golden chain linked the arch of his brow to his nostril. Ophelia hadn’t yet learnt all the subtleties of the Babel dress code, but Ambrose had spoken to her of this type of jewelry; this young man belonged to a family that was highly placed within Pollux’s lineage. There was no doubting it now—he was Lady Septima’s own son.