“That was the good news,” Elizabeth said, watching her drink and cough all at once. “The bad news is that you’ve incurred a reprimand for having mislaid a mattress and a uniform. You will get twice the chores of the others to repay your debt.”
“They were mislaid for me.”
Elizabeth merely blinked slowly. “It’s tradition. You’ll have to be more vigilant. By the way, I have a telegram for you.”
Ophelia’s heart missed a beat. She impatiently unfolded the little blue paper Elizabeth had just handed to her.
CONGRATULATIONS. AMBROSE.
She turned the telegram over. That was it. The voluble, inexhaustible Ambrose had no other message for her. Ophelia felt something tighten inside her. Had she just lost the only friend she’d made on Babel?
“I seem to be going from blunder to blunder.” Her avowal had slipped out almost despite herself, while she was putting the stool back in its place. For a moment, she feared it would lead to a lot of indiscreet questions, but Elizabeth asked not one. She had already got her notebook out again to scribble code in it.
“The only real mistake is that which one doesn’t remedy.”
As Elizabeth concentrated on her notebook, Ophelia studied her waxen face at length. As a character, she was hard to figure out, but what she had just said to her was the most reassuring thing she had heard all day.
“Elizabeth?”
“Hmm?”
“What happened at the Memorial today?”
“Oh, that?” Elizabeth said, crossing out another lot of code. “Mademoiselle Silence died.”
Ophelia’s eyebrows shot up. Mademoiselle Silence? That name rang a bell . . . Wasn’t it that of the Memorialist with the sensitive ears? That tyrannical woman who wanted to search her bag?
“Her body was found this morning in the Memorial,” continued Elizabeth.”When I arrived there, like every morning, to work on my database, I was immediately asked to return to the conservatoire. They told me that it was an unfortunate accident, and that poor Mademoiselle Silence had fallen from a library ladder.”
“Fallen from a ladder,” repeated Ophelia, who had expected something a little more scandalous. “That’s really unlucky.”
Elizabeth concurred, distractedly, chewing the end of her pencil. “Yes, that’s what Mademoiselle Silence must have thought just before dying. I barely had time to see her body. Her face, mainly. I didn’t think a fall could leave you with an expression like that.”
“What expression?” murmured Ophelia.
Elizabeth lifted her lampshade eyelids, revealing eyes as inscrutable as the codes in her notebook. “An expression of abject terror.”
Until that moment, Ophelia had convinced herself that nothing she would experience here would remind her of the Pole. It was now clear to her that she had underestimated Babel.
JOURNEY
Mommy had put her to bed even earlier than usual. Like every evening, she had taken her temperature, twice; given her a drink after first tasting the water; combed her long, white hair; and tucked her in, checking that she wasn’t cold. Like every evening, she had observed her for a long time from the bedroom door, hesitant yet smiling, before resolving to pull the door to and withdraw, with a rustle of dress.
And now, Victoria was staring up at the ceiling.
Mommy hadn’t closed the door—she never closed the door, regularly peeping into the bedroom to reassure herself that all was well—and distant voices were rising from the drawing room. The house was often filled with silence, sometimes with music, almost never with voices.
Victoria had no desire to sleep at all; she wanted to be with the voices. Her sheets were tucked so tight, she could barely wriggle her toes. If she were an ordinary little girl, she would have struggled crossly, she would have called her mother, screaming and crying, but Victoria wasn’t ordinary.
Victoria didn’t speak. Ever.
Victoria didn’t walk. Ever.
That is to say, the Other-Victoria. The true Victoria got out of bed, put her feet on the ground, and went over to the almost-closed door.
She hesitated and, as Mommy had done earlier, she looked back toward the bed. A little girl was lying in it, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Her face, lips, and hair were as white as the pillowcase. Victoria knew that it was her in the bed, and out of it. She felt neither fear nor surprise at that. Rather, she felt at fault, a bit like when she tried to get down from her chair on her own, and Mommy darted toward her looking terrified.
Victoria didn’t hesitate for long; the call of the journey was always strongest.
She slipped into the corridor. She felt so light, so much lighter than the Other-Victoria! As light as in the warm bathwater. And just as when she ducked her head under the water, prompting panicked cries from Mommy, she saw objects differently: their forms had become blurred, their colors smudged. Victoria could neither grab them nor move them. She looked at a large wall mirror that didn’t return her reflection; its surface resembled a whirlpool, just like when Mommy pulled the plug to empty the bath.
Victoria bounced on each step of the big staircase, like a soap bubble, drawn by the voices in the drawing room. Just as she was crossing the hall, she heard someone else behind the front door, which was still open.
She took a quick look outside.
At first she saw only the autumnal trees, stirred by the wind. It was raining. It rained nearly every day, and even though that rain didn’t wet you, Victoria still preferred the sun. Her eyes followed the flight of a bird in the sky, but she knew it wasn’t a real one. Nothing was really real outside the house. Mommy had told her so. Victoria wondered what real rain, real trees, and real birds might look like. Godfather hadn’t taken her to see them, and she’d never dared leave the house during her journeys.
Victoria suddenly saw a hole. An enormous hole right in the middle of the garden. Here, there was neither grass nor tree nor rain. There was nothing but a dusty, old wooden floor. Right opposite, a couple were sitting on the steps. The Funny-Eyed-Lady and the Big-Ginger-Fellow. Godfather’s friends.
Neither of them noticed Victoria as she approached. They were talking, but even when she got as close as possible, their voices remained distant and distorted.
“He’s taking his time, that slowcoach!” moaned the Funny-Eyed-Lady. “LandmArk won’t find itself, and I can’t stand this manor. It’s swarming with illusions—I don’t know where to look anymore.” She spat out in the direction of the big hole.
Victoria stepped back. Once, she had walked in front of the Funny-Eyed-Lady during a journey; doing so had instantly returned her to the position of the Other-Victoria, in bed. Although the Funny-Eyed-Lady couldn’t see her, she was very peculiar.