The Storm of Echoes. The Mirror Visitor Book 4 by Christelle Dabos

Author:Christelle Dabos
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Europa Editions
Published: 2021-08-04T00:00:00+00:00

THE LOOP

EXPIATION. CRYSTALLIZATION. REDEMPTION. Ophelia sensed the metal of the letters inlaid in the flagging under her feet, and the heady perfume from the censers all around her. She was moving between the nave’s towering pillars with a feeling of extreme heaviness, rather like the hail that had almost knocked her out as a cortege of observers escorted her here. Hail that had no effect on this place. The silent stained-glass windows presented a stark contrast to the commotion outside.

This second protocol, where was it really located? Ophelia had been led here along a different route to that she had taken the first time. She had been led through an underground passage, before going back up a particularly narrow stairway. From then on, it was an endless succession of the same pillars, the same stained-glass windows, the same stoups, the same chapels.

She felt as if she were stuck in the microgroove of a record.

Since she no longer had her glasses to rely on, she prioritized her ears. The observers’ clothing, drenched in rain, made a continuous drip-dripping sound that combined with the slap-slapping of their sandals. They formed a moving wall, all around her, pushing her relentlessly forward without touching her or speaking to her. There were many of them—too many for her to use her claws on them.

Ophelia had got herself into another fine mess. She wondered whether she would be taking Mediana’s place on the kneeling stool, but she couldn’t see her anywhere. Had the Seer been transferred to the third protocol? Would her fake funerary urn soon be joining all those lining the columbarium?

Ophelia should have been scared. The trap she had been so determined to avoid had just closed on her, and Thorn probably had no idea.

The cortege of observers stopped. All together, they formed an unavoidable yellow corridor leading to the door of one of the chapels. Their faces, alert behind their pince-nez, remained inscrutable; their arms, in their long leather gloves, made not the slightest movement. Ophelia had only a door handle to turn, but she had a lengthy struggle between right and left hand before managing to do so. No sooner had she gone through the door than it was closed behind her and locked with a key. That was it. No one had told her what was expected of her, just like for the first protocol.

Ophelia blinked repeatedly, trying to clear away the flood of colors catching in her lashes. Lit through the stained glass of an oculus, the chapel’s cupola was composed entirely of reflectors that changed position every second, with a discreet mechanical hum. Ophelia immediately looked away from it. It was the same principle as the kaleidoscopic tunnel and the screenings: looking at it would mean further distorting her family power. Or even worse. She tensed her shoulders, hoping to prevent the split in her shadow predicted by Second’s pencil. She hated the idea that the future could be told in advance, just as she hated the bloodied reflection that had imposed itself on her twice already, like a promise of imminent death.

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