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July 3 - July 4, 2024
“Be impressive.” Berenilde laid her velvet-gloved hand on Ophelia’s cheek. “I don’t say that to make you anxious. I say it because you are capable of it, as I have witnessed more than once.”
“You still want my opinions and my advice, miss? Here’s my opinion: you’re in urgent need of advice. And here’s my advice: always listen to my opinion.”
“You wanted me to be honest with you. You will thus learn that you are not just a pair of hands to me. And I don’t give a damn whether people find me suspect, as long as I am not so in your eyes. You will return this to me when I have kept all my promises,” he grumbled, holding his watch out to Ophelia without noticing her stunned expression. “And if you still doubt me in the future, just read it. I will phone you soon about your consultancy,” he added casually, by way of farewell.
“Would you prefer to hear me say that I would like to be your reason for staying? I doubt it.”
She would have liked to find the right words, there and then, to mend that break quickly and give Aunt Rosaline back all her solidity, but Ophelia didn’t know what to say to her. It was always the same with her: the heavier her heart, the emptier her head.
“You want to solve every problem on your own,” she continued in a choked voice, “even if it means using people like chess pieces, even if it means making yourself hated by the whole world.” “And you, do you still hate me?” “I don’t think so. Not anymore.” “Good,” Thorn grunted between his teeth. “Because I’ve never made such an effort not to be hated by someone.”
“My great-uncle can heal any object,” she said, ineptly. “All things considered, you should leave it with me a little longer.” Thorn leant over, in a sustained vertebral extension, but he didn’t return the watch to her. Instead, he placed his mouth on hers. Ophelia stared wide-eyed, her breath taken away. It was a totally unexpected kiss that left her in a state of stupor.
“Listen,” she stammered, after an embarrassed silence. “I didn’t want . . . You shouldn’t have . . .” “I had my doubts,” Thorn interrupted her, still looking away. “You have dispelled them.”
“I believe neither in luck nor in destiny,” he declared. “I trust only the science of probabilities. I have studied mathematical statistics, combinatorial analysis, mass function, and random variables, and they have never held any surprises for me. You don’t seem fully to grasp the destabilizing effect that someone like you can have on someone like me.”
Ophelia neared the foyer mirror until she was reflected in it. She looked straight at her determined face, beyond its scratches and bruises, finally ready to face that truth that she hadn’t wanted to see. It wasn’t Thorn who needed her. It was she who needed Thorn. Ophelia plunged, body and soul, into the mirror.
“This Book is an extension of your body. Its skin is your skin, its story is your story. It describes, down to the smallest details, what you are, and what you will be led to become.”
“Try your dears.” After a moment’s hesitation, Ophelia turned back to the liftboy. It was the same man who had brought them up to the seventh floor, Aunt Rosaline and her, and yet he was barely recognizable. He was holding his lever in an unlikely position that bent his arm backwards, and his lips were twisted into a strange smile, as if he’d lost all his professionalism. “Excuse me?” “Try your dears,” the liftboy repeated. “I mean, dry your tears. What’s done is done and what must be done will be done.”
“I’m pleased you’re here,” Ophelia declared, with such spontaneity that Archibald raised his eyebrows. “But . . . the ceremony of the Gift? Will you be able to do it?” Archibald’s smile broadened and, conversely, his eyes seemed even blanker. He replied to himself: ‘My link with the Web is severed, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my family power; you and Thorn will soon be united by more interesting bonds than those of marriage.’
“Every man should have the right to play his life with a throw of the dice. They produce random results that transcend all predermination. That ceases to makes any sense if the dice are loaded. The entire court cheats. It’s inevitable since our family spirit, the mold itself of our society, is a cheat. Farouk hands out favor and disgrace according to his moods, not to ensure that the rules are respected. What this world-breaker is up to is even worse,” Thorn hissed between his teeth. “He stole humanity’s dice without ever—absolutely never—emerging from the shadows.”
“The first time I saw you, I formed a very poor opinion of you. I thought you had no common sense and no character, and wouldn’t make it to the marriage. That will forever remain the biggest mistake of my life.”
“Don’t go falling down any more stairs, avoid sharp objects, and above all, above all, keep away from disreputable people, alright?” A tear rolled down Ophelia’s cheek. Thorn’s words were carving out an abysmal void inside her. She knew with absolute certainty that from the moment they separated, she would never know warmth again. Thorn swallowed against her shoulder. “Oh, and by the way, I love you.”
“I’ve followed vecent erents . . . recent events with a certain curiosity,” he said in a completely different voice, this time inflected with the Northern accent. “You two, in particular. I’ve been intrigued by you for some time.”
“Ordinarily, I avoid getting involved in my children’s affairs, but Odin has been causing me problems since his punctuation . . . his conception. He never shared his brothers’ and sisters’ obedience. I think today’s lesson won’t have been wasted: from now on, he will do all that I will write to him to do.”
“who is this Other, and what was he doing in my bedroom mirror?” Milliface appeared to be thinking hard. Being sized up so sternly by her own face made Ophelia feel most uncomfortable. “The Other will cause the collapse king of the arts . . . collapsing of the arks. It’s already started, and it’s only going to get worse. The longer the Other remains free, the more the world will keep falling apart.”
but she stood firm and God’s words emerged from her body, as if they had, inexplicably, always been there, lurking in a corner of her being, waiting for their time to come: “Your Book is but the start of your story, Odin. It’s up to you alone to write the ending.”
“I must also stay for Thorn. I don’t know where he is, as we speak, but don’t worry—that boy is pathologically punctual. When the time comes, he will return to us. In the meantime, please, don’t forget him.”
