“Turn her over.”
Acting as one, the Seers flipped her on to her stomach. It was done without brutality, without insult, without obscenity, and yet, with her head plunged forcibly into the pillow, Ophelia had rarely experienced something so violent. Much as she struggled, she couldn’t put up any resistance to these arms that were doing with her as they pleased. Why weren’t her claws coming out to repel them?
“Calm down,” breathed a whisper against her ear. “I won’t take long.”
Anxiety turned into panic in Ophelia’s stomach. Mediana had often teased her with her family power, but it had always remained merely words. Just as readers had no right to touch objects without the permission of their owners, Seers couldn’t delve into the past and future of someone without their consent. It was much more than a rule of etiquette; it was a family taboo, the sort one wouldn’t break lightly.
It was with an exasperating sense of powerlessness that Ophelia felt a hand sliding under her collar and stroking her nape. An icy chill tore down her back, where the spinal cord branched out. Once, in the past, a Chronicler had subjected her to a memory search; Ophelia had felt like a boring book whose pages one skims through.
What Mediana made her endure was not comparable. Ophelia was invaded from within by an intrusive presence, burning with curiosity, keen to absorb her most private self. Her life immediately began to scroll backwards, in the form of kaleidoscopic images, as though a slide projector had started up inside her head. Octavio’s red eyes. Elizabeth pinning the wings to her boots. Ambrose’s wheelchair stuck between the cobbles. The cutting of the hair in the garden shed. Archibald handing her the false identity papers. The spectacular escape from the public restrooms.
It wasn’t only images. It was every thought she’d had, every emotion she’d felt. Ophelia bit into the pillow, resisting this invasion of her memory with all her might, but she couldn’t prevent the inevitable. Thorn finally sprang up in the course of a memory. He appeared to her as clearly as if it were yesterday, in the middle of his prison cell, constricted in his too-short shirt, struggling to stay upright due to his broken leg.
Facing God.
Ophelia returned to the present moment as soon as Mediana let go of her nape. She tried, with difficulty, to catch her breath against the pillow. Her glasses were digging into her skin. Her shirt was soaked in sweat.
“Bene, bene, bene! I knew you were a secretive little one, but then that! That!” Mediana’s voice was weaker, as if this trip in time had physically tested her, but she was exultant. “Don’t worry, signorina. Your secret . . . All your secrets will remain mine as long as you are a nice, obedient girl. No one, not even my cousins, will know what brought you to Babel and who you really are. You just have a few words to say.”
Ophelia swallowed. She felt nauseous. She would have liked to spend the rest of her days buried in this pillow, but the Seers turned her back toward Mediana as soon as the latter snapped her fingers.
“I’m listening.”
Ophelia heard herself reply in a tiny voice, as though she were listening to another person: “I will do all that you ask of me.”
Mediana smiled at her and planted a kiss on her forehead.
“Grazie. Welcome to the Good Family.”
SURPRISE
“Popping a pie in the oven, come on, it’s hardly a big deal!”
“Take a good look at these hands, my dear. Are they, in your opinion, the attributes of a commoner?”
“Don’t put on your grand airs. I’ve lived with you long enough to know that you’re built the same as ordinary mortals, top to bottom, in front and behind.”
“I would ask you not to be vulgar in front of my daughter.”
“Your daughter’s hungry.”
“I received the education of a court lady. I serve one of the finest teas in all of Citaceleste.”
“Well, if it’s with tea you think you’ll meet her needs, she’s not about to walk normally soon. In pepperpot’s name, Berenilde! I’m your friend, not your maid. I’m not going to run this manor myself, at sleeve’s length!”
Squeezed into the baby high chair, now too small for her age, Victoria’s eyes followed Mommy and Great-Godmother as they ran from window to window to get rid of the smoke. On the dining-room table, a dish covered with a black crust was giving off a very unpleasant smell.
The house had changed since the arrival of Great-Godmother. Looking stern, she cut open the crust of the dish to examine what lay beneath. “Burnt to a cinder. And our larder’s growing bare. You should write to Mr. Farouk.”
Victoria coughed, bothered by the smoke. Mommy immediately rushed over to her to flap her fan in front of her face.
“I write to him every day, Madame Rosaline, but I do so to support him, not to importune him. Never will I stoop so low as to beg.”
“Who said anything about begging for our food?”
Great-Godmother put her fists on her hips. She always looked angry, Great-Godmother, but she never really lost her temper. Victoria no longer found her at all intimidating. Father, on the other hand, terrified her, and even though she didn’t really understand the conversation, she hoped there was no question of getting him to come to the house.
Father didn’t love her.
“What I’m talking to you about is deserving our food,” continued Great-Godmother. “Let’s get out of here, offer our services, show them what we’re made of!”
Between two flutters of the fan, Victoria saw a dimple appear in Mommy’s porcelain skin, just at the corners of her lips. It was a different smile from the ones before. A smile that had appeared from one day to the next, just when Great-Godmother had. A smile that made Victoria want to smile, too.
It wasn’t the house that had changed; it was Mommy.
“Well, there’s a brilliant idea, Madame Rosaline! I’m sure all the nobles will be ready to cover you in diamonds so you repair their bits of paper.”
Great-Godmother frowned, but a bell rang in the house as soon as she unclenched her teeth. “Were you expecting a visit?”
“No. Let’s go and see who it is.”
Victoria wasn’t displeased when Mommy snatched her from that too-narrow chair and took her in her arms. The dimples were still there, at the corners of her lips, but she was trembling like the pearls of her earring.
They went to the music room and Great-Godmother made straight for a cupboard that Victoria knew was the front door to the house. There was another one, right at the back of the fake garden, but no one used it apart from Godfather.
“It’s Madam Cunegond,” said Great-Godmother, as she clamped her eye on the spyhole in the cupboard. “By Jove, she’s really aged!”