The Missing of Clairdelune by Christelle Dabos

Author:Christelle Dabos
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Europa Editions
Published: 2019-04-02T16:00:00+00:00

VERTIGO

As she carefully sipped the water in her glass, Ophelia reflected that she should avoid making rash promises.

Family meals were normally very animated. Literally: the salt shakers hopped from one plate to the next; the carafe stoppers quivered with impatience; and there was nearly always a duel between spoons before dessert was done. If the staff had initially been rather shocked at the way the Animists inflicted their tricks on the objects in the hotel, now it no longer surprised them. They had even taken a shine to these guests who could instantly repair the establishment’s jammed locks and broken clocks.

Today, however, the diners and utensils were so quiet that Ophelia felt as if all she could hear, above the distant rumble of the sea, were the mosquitoes bouncing off the dining-room windows with an electrical crackling sound.

Ophelia cautiously considered her mother’s red form, on the other side of the crystal carafe; her silence didn’t bode well . . . no better, at any rate, than would a saucepan forgotten on the stove. Her little sisters nudged each other as soon as one of them stared, goggle-eyed, at Thorn for too long. Her great-uncle, in contrast, made no bones about looking hard and incessantly at him, while crumbling his flatbread, piece after piece, as though it were a body he were metaphorically dismembering. Cousins, uncles, and aunts exchanged meaningful looks among themselves, as they downed their lemming stew as discreetly as possible. Even the Rapporteur kept mum under her lampshade hat, but her weather vane kept pointing its stork’s beak in the direction of the Treasurer.

Ophelia also turned her eyes in the direction of Thorn, sitting at the end of the table. Sitting? Contorted would have been the right word. The chair was far too small for him, and he was struggling to handle his cutlery without his elbows poking his closest neighbors’ eyes out. He chewed every morsel with barely concealed disgust, as if the very act of eating was an ordeal. At regular intervals, he took a handkerchief out from his uniform, dabbed the corner of his mouth, wiped the handles of his fork and knife, repositioned his cutlery, aiming for perfect symmetry, refolded his handkerchief neatly, and put it back in its place. At no point did it enter his mind to use a hotel napkin.

Ophelia stifled a sigh. Thorn had a very personal conception of what it was to produce a good impression. Having made his presence long desired, he would have done well to offer his apologies to his future in-laws, and to address at least a few friendly words to them. One had to know him to understand that the simple act of sitting here, at this table, was the best demonstration of respect he was capable of.

“The circus was fun,” Ophelia stammered, turning to Hector. “Have you shown your photographs?”

Her little brother raised his eyebrows under his bowl-cut hair, his mouth full. “Why’d I chow them? They’re all chpoilt becauch of the echos.”

The conversation collapsed like a soufflé.

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