Thorn glanced at his watch and, since its hands were all pointing at him, turned to the numerous clocks in the room, as if wanting to time how long they spoke. “It’s a long story. You should at least know this: I came to Babel due to the pointers you gave me in prison, and I became Sir Henry thanks to the Genealogists.”
“The Genealogists?” Ophelia asked, surprised. “You spoke of them last time, with Lady Septima, and didn’t particularly want to have dealings with them.”
A quiver shot across Thorn’s jaw. It was the first sign of emotion he’d shown since the start of their conversation. It was a sign Ophelia knew how to interpret. She had noticed it so often in the past, whenever Thorn was trying to protect her from his own secrets, that she was relieved to see it once again. This man would return to being the gruff bear she’d come to know. He would order her to return to Anima, to stop meddling in his affairs, to leave him to confront the danger alone.
As for her, she firmly intended to impose herself on him. “Thorn, I will remain in Babel, whether you want me to or not. Whatever Lady Septima says, there are some things going on here . . . really disturbing things. I don’t yet understand what you’re up to, but before you oppose my decision, know that I have . . . ”
“I won’t oppose it.”
The response had been so swift, Ophelia mis-swallowed, and her fine speech degenerated into a coughing fit.
“I agree with you,” Thorn went further. “There are things going on here. I need some eyes outside the Secretarium, and you need some eyes inside. We will both gain from collaboration. Does that suit you?”
Ophelia nodded her head stiffly. She should have been delighted, but Thorn’s detachment, his way of ridding their conversation of all sentimentality, made her feel increasingly hollow inside.
On the Coordinator console, the radio headphones emitted a murmur, indicating that someone was trying to reestablish communication. The voice was Lady Septima’s.
“The microphone is switched off,” Thorn said, seeing Ophelia draw back. “She can’t hear us.”
“Does she know who you really are?”
“No one knows that, apart from the Genealogists. I don’t know whether Lady Septima knows of God’s actual existence, but she is convinced that she’s serving a noble and worthy cause. Only the Genealogists are aware of the whole truth. They are the most powerful Lords of Lux. So powerful, indeed, that they can no longer bear the thought of having to explain themselves to God. That’s the only common denominator I share with them,” he added, with a distaste he couldn’t conceal, “but it enabled me to join their ranks. They created a new identity for me, from scratch, making me a respectable citizen of Babel, and then put me in charge of the Secretarium. God is, of course, unaware of my presence here. We must be vigilant, you and I, and never betray our past in front of the others. Including the Genealogists. They are my allies only because I can be useful to them. They wouldn’t take kindly to you interfering in their little affairs.”
“But why did they entrust the Secretarium to you?” Ophelia insisted. “What have the catalogue database and the reading groups got to do with their ‘little affairs’?”
“They have everything to do with them. The Genealogists have asked me to find a very particular document.”
“The manuscript Mediana was translating?”
“That will be for you to confirm to me. I will say no more to you so I don’t distort your judgment. I need a fresh approach.”
Lady Septima’s voice became louder through the headphones, insistently repeating “hello!” Thorn returned to his stool with mechanical rigidity, but didn’t switch the microphone on yet. He opened a drawer, and out of it unfurled a stream of punched tape, which cascaded down to the floor. “Let’s not waste any more time,” he said, handing it energetically to Ophelia. “Here is a list of bibliographical references. I suggest you consult all these books, without exception, as soon as possible. They will prove useful for your evaluation.”
Then, ignoring how Ophelia’s face had fallen, Thorn returned to sorting out the Coordinator’s tangle of cables with obsessive care. He might seem uneasy on his legs, but his hands had the precision of arrows.
“You should go to the cold room without further delay,” he advised. “The manuscript awaits you and Lady Septima would deem it unacceptable if you hadn’t already started your work. Be prepared for her to be on your back. We will consider meeting alone when her vigilance has abated. Then, and only then, I will give you further information.”
Thorn had spoken with the speed of a typewriter, not noticing the effect his words had on Ophelia. On her glasses, in particular. They had turned completely yellow.
“The thing is . . . I was considering leaving the Good Family.”
Thorn now swiveled his stool slowly around to her. Nothing in his countenance expressed disapproval, and yet Ophelia suddenly felt chilled to the bone.
“It will be easier for me to assist you that way,” she assured, twisting the punched tape. “The conservatoire is very restrictive and allows me little freedom of movement. It was mainly a pretext for accessing the Secretarium, but since you are here, you can . . . get me in secretly. No?”
Thorn’s eyes, steady and piercing as an eagle’s, made Ophelia lose any remaining composure.
“No. There’s much more to be gained from your position within the company of the Forerunners. And that will be even more the case when you become an aspiring virtuoso.”
Ophelia was flabbergasted. He spoke of this as if it were a mere formality! For a moment, she was tempted to mention the threats, the blackmail, and the shards of glass, but she abandoned the idea. She didn’t want to appear weak in front of Thorn. For a reason she didn’t yet understand, a gulf had opened up between them, and she wouldn’t allow it to widen.
“That’s fine,” she said, putting the tape into her uniform pocket. “I’ll continue with my apprenticeship at the conservatoire, and I will evaluate that manuscript.”
Much to Ophelia’s annoyance, Thorn betrayed no sign of satisfaction. “You will submit a written report of your progress to me, just as Apprentice Mediana used to before you. Don’t forget to pick up all this before you go.”
He indicated the translation notes that had remained scattered on the floor, and returned to his connecting and disconnecting of cables, as if the conversation was over.
“Is that it?” Ophelia murmured. “You have nothing more to say to me?”
“I have, actually,” Thorn muttered, not stopping all his connecting. “From now on, until we find out what really happened to Mademoiselle Silence and Apprentice Mediana, avoid isolating yourself. Always stay close to your fellow students; their company will be your best protection.”