“Here,” said Professor Wolf, once downstairs, presenting her with some black gloves. “No point returning them to me, I won’t use them again.”
Ophelia pulled them on, avoiding looking him in the eye. She felt so shaken by her reading, so guilty for having betrayed her professional code, that she couldn’t stop her voice from wobbling: “Th-thank you.”
Professor Wolf jutted out his jaw, further elongating his chin, as his eyes, wary once again, darted around all four corners of the room. Ophelia had hoped that his neck brace would prevent him from seeing the ball of paper on the floor, but his eyes finally fell on it. His face instantly became a combination of astonishment, terror, and fury.
“I’m sorry,” Ophelia said, impulsively. “The letter had fallen. I just meant to pick it up. I shouldn’t have . . . ” She didn’t get to the end of her sentence. Professor Wolf had grabbed her arm to fling her against the wall mirror, which shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Filthy little spy!”
“No!” she cried, painfully straightening up while almost seeing stars. “I’m not your enemy, I sincerely want to understand what happened to you.”
Beside himself, the professor grabbed her by the frock-coat collar and hoisted her up off her feet. For someone who had a dislocated neck, he wasn’t lacking in strength.
“All of humanity is my enemy,” he hissed between his teeth. “Go and join Sir Henry’s reading groups, little snooper. I hope you enjoy it. Get out of my home!” he ordered, suddenly letting go of her.
Ophelia rushed into the hall. The door drew back its own bolts to let her through, and then slammed shut behind her, ejecting her from the place with the force of a catapult. Ophelia fell to her knees in the building’s courtyard, heart pounding against ribs. When she raised her glasses, still blue with fright, her eyes met those of the landlady, who was sweeping in the sun, her toucan on her shoulder.
“I did tell you, mademoiselle. An awkward customer, that lodger.”
THE UNLUCKY CHARM
One by one, Ophelia pulled at the tips of Professor Wolf’s gloves, which were too long for her fingers. She had visited that man in search of answers, and left him with even more questions—along with a fine collection of scratches. What could have persuaded him not to pursue his research at the Memorial? What was that sample he had evaluated? Why had the response of his colleague terrified him to that extent? Did that fear have anything to do with the fear that had gripped Mademoiselle Silence as she met her death?
A heavy downpour battered every window of the birdtrain. Ophelia closed her eyes, suppressing the emotion that was choking her. The image of the scarf, wandering the streets of Babel like an abandoned dog, obsessed her, day in, day out.
No. Don’t dwell on it. Forge ahead.
She reopened her eyes when she felt the birdtrain veering toward a belvedere. It was the fifth academy it served; soon it would be the conservatoire. Some students got off into the rain, pulling their hoods up; others got on, shaking their raincoats. As at every station, Ophelia checked there wasn’t a boy in a wheelchair among them. She was missing Ambrose. Missing his friendship, his kindness, his chattiness. She didn’t understand why he had suddenly become distant, barely replying to her telegrams, never visiting her, but it concerned her.
No. Don’t dwell on that either.
Through the sinuous trails of raindrops on the window, Ophelia looked at the Memorial tower in the distance. Somewhere between those walls there was the Secretarium. And within that Secretarium, a strongroom. And in that strongroom, the “ultimate truth.” What if it were that very truth to which Mademoiselle Silence and Professor Wolf had gotten too close? And what if Thorn had put himself in danger to uncover it? It was frustrating to know she’d have to get off at the next station, rather than continue the journey over there. Her three hours of leave were coming to an end. The gondolas’ slowness had made her lose precious time; indeed, she’d nearly missed her birdtrain. To be expelled from the Good Family over a missed connection, two days before the end of her probation period, would have been too ridiculous.
Ophelia returned to pulling at the floppy fabric of the gloves at the tips of her fingers. A sigh rose up from deep inside her, but it was her neighbor on the banquette who let it out it in her stead. She gave him a questioning look. He, too, was contemplating the window splattered with rain, but with a guilty expression, as if personally responsible for the bad weather. His profile, with its shaggy pepper-and-salt hair and long, pointed nose, recalled the snout of a hedgehog. He looked familiar to Ophelia, and she understood why on seeing the “assistant” badge pinned to his uniform. “The man with the trolley,” she murmured.
After a moment’s hesitation, the assistant tore his eyes from the window. “Pardon, mademoiselle? Are you speaking to me?”
Ophelia gave him a polite smile. This hadn’t really worked with Professor Wolf, but surely this assistant wouldn’t throw her out of a birdtrain in full flight, would he? “We’ve already met, sir. In the Memorial’s youth department. I had knocked over the books on your trolley, and you . . . well, you received a reprimand because of me.”
“Ah, those books!” stammered the assistant. “That seems so long ago to me.” With head sunk between shoulders, he showed a sudden, intense interest in his hands, clasped together on his knees, and said nothing more. He seemed desperately alone. As alone as Ambrose, surrounded by his father’s automatons. As alone as Professor Wolf, triple-locked into his apartment.
As alone as me, Ophelia couldn’t help but think.
“Eulalia,” she said, introducing herself.
“Quoi?” the assistant asked with surprise. “Oh, um . . . me, I’m Blaise.” He rubbed his nape uneasily, like someone unaccustomed to civilities. “I . . . Your uniform . . . Apprentice virtuoso?”
Ophelia felt a smile, a real one this time, come to her lips. It wasn’t every day she encountered someone even more awkward than her. “Forerunner.”
“I’m impressed.”
Blaise seemed sincere. His eyes, with their black, moist, hedgehog-like pupils, had widened, as if he’d just been told he was sitting beside a Lord of LUX.
Outside, the rain doubled in intensity against the windows, propelled by a westerly wind. The lightning tore through the silence, throwing a bright light across the students’ faces, but not one lifted their nose out of their textbook. Babel’s public transport was always excessively quiet, and for good reason: the conductor imposed a fine at the slightest disturbance.
Ophelia couldn’t help glancing anxiously up at the ceiling, with a thought for the chimeras towing the carriages through the thunderstorm.
“On probation,” she felt obliged to specify. “I’d love to work at the Memorial, like you.”