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Already in the garden the birds and the stars exalt
the awaited return of the ancient norms
of dream and shadow.
— jorge luis borges
“It’s there, down the street.” Astraeus said solemnly, returning to her shoulder after his short scouting ahead of the towpath.
Dorothea hummed in response, acknowledging his remarks, but her mind was elsewhere as of now. She adjusted the scarf around her head, holding her sun hat while a strong breeze nearly knocked it off; she had been trying to avoid the searing sunlight on her cheeks to very little avail. She had become used to hot weather by now, but the East was a fairly different sort of heat than that of the tropicals.
Her travels had lasted for a couple of weeks now. The hardest part had been leaving High Brasil and its big, paradisiac, isolated mass of land in South America. In reality, leaving there wasn’t difficult at all; there were many ways out of the country, legally and otherwise, by sea, by land or by air. She had only to choose her means, really.
It was the idea of leaving that terrified her. Dorothea hadn’t realised how cautious and fearful she had become in the past half decade, especially when the past turned present so promptly, news flashing by in the very sporadic Brytish papers she came across every now and then.
Unrest in the Levant! Young aristocrat dies in a terrible car crash! Brytish Parliament under Swiss Scrutiny! Magisterium Conference to happen in Geneva in December! Burned gardens in Seleukia!
Walking around the dusty coastal streets of Antalya, she still couldn’t wrap her head around the many letters she had received before making a decision. She had always been bad with decisions, but she had been decisive in making them nonetheless or, at least, that was before Marcel had come into her life anyway.
“What do you expect to do here?” Astraeus asked and was ignored for the third time since they had embarked on this journey, which had been fueled by a telegram sent a day before she set off for the East.
There are things we need to discuss. That Belacqua girl is missing, the world keeps spinning, you can’t hide forever. Come back, Dorothea. Love, Gigi.
Her pondering took a few hours, while Astraeus spoke ceaselessly around her head, a migraine burning her eyes as she seethed with doubt and fear. Dorothea had lived a life of thrills and danger, of morality and passions; there was a plethora of adjectives to describe her and her many qualities and flaws. Cowardice was unbefitting of her, yet Astraeus had spat that word without a shred of doubt or remorse. His coldness was hysterical, unnecessary, vengeful even; he was a creature of pleasures and feelings, sensations all around, whereas his human counterpart had learned to swallow every little thing she had ever dared to feel.
Love scorned could be an evil thing, she had often thought.
Her mind, as of late, had been plagued by memories of Edward Coulter and his deranged, helpless last act. Dorothea couldn’t get rid of the little voice in her head telling her, repeatedly, that had she shot Marcel, things would be very different right now. Her daemon’s voice rang much louder and realer, missing, reminiscing, hurting and longing for the memory of him, that intricate lie she conceived for her own peace of mind.
Marcel’s name hadn’t been mentioned in the telegram, even the newspapers — Brytish and Brazilian alike — kept his name as a footnote. No photograms, no high profile articles, just little mentions of a man who was moving the inner workings of civilization’s greatest ruler and no one seemed to have noticed. That was why she knew all those letters — all that fuss, really! — from her friends at Oakley Street had to do with him. Lyra had always meant little to the agency; Godwin was baiting her into returning to England and that she refused to do, at least outright.
She burned that telegram and packed a lot of things quickly. Zeppelin travelling would have been faster, but more exposing, so she boarded a ship headed East as early as she could. Most of the time she stayed stranded from news; when she left, the Congress had just begun, but by the time she arrived in Antalya, the High Council had been elected and the Patriarch of the Sublime Porte had become leader of the Magisterium and then immediately died a few days later.
“Good afternoon!” Her voice echoed, in Anatolian, as she approached the entrance of a house engulfed by rose bushes, filled with luscious red roses. She saw a man tending to the roses, bending to trim the bottom, his face obscured by his Panama hat.
Everything about Antalya was luscious-looking; opposite the house, Dorothea could see the bright blue sea glistening against the afternoon light, the waves so crystal clear the ocean nearly seemed stagnant. Everything gleamed; greens and reds so vibrant she felt as if she had been stuck in a dream, as if the sea called out to her, inviting her to drown in its exuberance. The world around had that misty quality when one wakes from deep slumber, coming from a place only the hidden powers of the world entered freely.
The man she had addressed stopped his meddling and straightened his body to see this newcomer.
He was an elderly gentleman, dark grey hair, blue eyes that seemed to echo the mediterranean sea opposite his home. He was tall, strongly built but slightly weathered by old age, tanned from spending years under the sun, and Dorothea had expected to recognise something but when he smiled, kindness seemed to seep out of him and it confused her. She expected many different traits but not kindness.
“Salut, mademoiselle.” He approached the garden gates, half-walled so he could see her waist upwards, his maned wolf daemon elegantly trotting beside him. He rested his hand on the wall, observing Dorothea with mild uncertainty. “If you’re looking for the resort, I’m afraid you still have a few miles to walk.”
His French was flawless, which spook her much more than the fact he had immediately chosen a language she could speak. They had never seen each other before.
She removed her sunglasses and her hat, the scarf moving with the breeze, dark curls everywhere, clinging to her sweaty face. Her knee hurt, the one that had once been shattered by the CCD thugs, and she regretted leaving her cane behind.
“You mean the resort down there?” She gestured downhill, where a bundle of steel, wood and palm trees gathered close to the sea. The man nodded. “Oh, I came from there.”
“Beautiful place, isn’t it?”
Their eyes met and for a brief moment there was a glitter in his eyes that made her shiver. It was a memory, many memories, some of which she had nearly erased from her psyche. She couldn’t help but smile back at him; his amusement was familiar, reassuring.
“The resort or your garden?”
“I mean, the garden is a gift, but nothing compares to that endless veil of blue chaos. They chose a good spot for the resort.” He opened the little gate and his daemon sat by the entrance. Astraeus hovered over her, and she sniffed him then nodded approvingly to the old man. He nodded back and he beckoned Dorothea forth. “How can I help you, mademoiselle?”
“ I’m looking for someone.”
“Doesn’t this seem like a strange place to look for someone? Nothing but bungalows here. People tending to gardens, all very unassuming.”
She shrugged, wiping the sweat off her forehead, aware that he was watching her movements closely. It wasn’t lust, she could tell that much; he was analysing her, trying to assess her. He had the same nonchalant look she had herself, when she tried to do the same thing with other people.
“Lots of people hide in paradises, monsieur.”
“And who are you looking for?”
Dorothea waited, if only for a moment. She could feel his tension, even with his daemon’s approval of Astraeus; she wondered if he was a fugitive or what manners of secrets he might have to be so cautious of mid-day visitors.
“Well, I believe I’m looking for you, monsieur.” She smirked, witty, trying her best to look harmless and non-confrontational.
“Oh?” He seemed genuinely surprised. She wondered if she had made a mistake; it would be funny if she had travelled all that way just to be at the wrong address.
“You are Monsieur Delamare, are you not?”
His expression changed from caution to understanding; Dorothea felt like she had given him the final piece he needed to finish his puzzle. She watched him, curious, trying to understand how not an ounce of him reminded her of Marcel, or even Marisa; yet there had been that slight twinkle in his eyes, that urge of amusement he had displayed towards her, and she felt as if Marcel had been across her, mocking her, her mind suddenly haunted by the memory of his impassive face.
“You’re not at all what I expected.” The old man said, after a few minutes of silence, the wind rustling around them as the summer afternoon raged on with full heat. Fate might have been unforgiving, but Mother Nature was ruthless. “Do come in, please. Pardon my manners, I wasn’t expecting you.”
She hesitated for a moment, but then followed him inside the house, which contrasted with the garden’s ostentatious beauty. The furniture was good but modest, it was a fairly small construction but sturdy; everything was cream-colored; a gramophone was playing in the drawing room, mellow melody invading the ambience of a summer dream.
“I’m here on behalf of Tom Nugent. He mentioned once you wanted to meet me, monsieur , but you said you weren’t expecting me.” Her inquisitive glance followed him as he began to prepare tea in the kitchen; he pulled a chair for her at the small dinner table, made of light-colored wood and she sat to wait for him. Astraeus perched on a chair's rest and he began a quiet conversation with Monsieur Delamare's daemon.
"Oh, yes, but that was a year, maybe two years ago. When you never replied nor showed up, I felt that perhaps you weren't interested in meeting me."
She didn't know what to say and she allowed silence to take place there, replaced momentarily by mundane noises: the kettle on the stove, the cabinets being opened and closed as he looked for teabags, sugar, milk, cups. Nugent had written to her a little more than a year before, which had taken her by surprise. Since her retirement, he hadn't approached her in any way; she felt insulted and grateful at the same time.
She had read his letter with dread, knowing — though she only suspected of course — that if she ever addressed it, things would escalate and she would be drawn back to Oakley Street and its conflicts. Dorothea wanted nothing but peace of mind, and Nugent had respected her wishes, except for that letter. She ignored it for as long as she could, but ignoring things rarely produced any desirable effects.
“Well, I’ve always been known for being late.” She jested, though her chest was heavy, the music from the other room drowning her in sorrow as the old man prepared their drinks. He still spoke to her in French and she understood now that he had been preparing for her arrival. He chuckled at her words.
“Not that I am complaining that you are here. It's good you came. How are things in that part of the world?" He set the table, delicate china teacups, the lemon slices, the sugar. Dorothea nearly felt as if she was about to have an afternoon tea in the Summer Court of fairies.
“If you mean in High Brasil, then things are well, thank you.” She watched him pour her tea, then his own; he then sat at the table and sipped his drink, patiently waiting for the words to come to her. “It's a warm country, not as warm as this one though.”
“Turkish summers can be brutalising, that is true. It took me years to acclimatise and I am still unsure if I truly have.” Monsieur Delamare observed her, not with judgement like Marisa often had, nor analytical thinking like Marcel, but with genuine warm interest. “But you are not here to hear me ramble about the weather. You have come with a deep purpose, it is in your lovely eyes.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, your eyes are lovely."
Dorothea snickered.
“I meant, why do you say I have a purpose?” She tried again, knowing well he was avoiding her question.
He paused for a moment, sipping his tea, enjoying the music and the breeze that came through the window.
“Because you have hesitated a long time before coming here, and that means you have found a good reason to leave behind the calm of your tropical paradise in exchange for the growing unrest in these parts of the world.” He smiled when she sighed, a deep sound. “Tell me, did you come by sea or by air?”
“Sea. Slower but more discrete.”
“Indeed, indeed.” He hummed with understanding. “You are hiding then.” His interest was piqued, she could tell.
“Not really, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious of the authorities. Any Zeppelin flights will be under Magisterium protection,” She put a hard emphasis on that word, which amused him immensely. “And I'd rather not become involved in any Magisterium business, preferably.”
“Because of Marcel, no doubt.” Her expression must have been sour, because he quickly added: “I don't mean to say you have done anything to deserve any kind of Church persecution or that your life is centred around my son, but it's obvious this is a far more personal decision.”
“He might be watching me. He never accepted that I left Oakley Street for good, I'm always wary of spies nearby.” She sighed and accepted the biscuit he offered. “He is persistent, I will give him that. He spied on me often in the past."
“He knows about your friends, then.”
"Yes, he does. Ten years ago I made a decision that no doubt will have long-standing and troubling consequences. I told him the truth about myself and the job I used to do for King and country.” Their eyes met, and he was unfamiliar to her, yet there was this thin layer of remembrance, Dorothea felt a heavy grip around her heart. He was still good-looking, but she had the impression he had been extremely handsome once. She wondered if he had ever looked anything like Marcel, because his magnetism was similar to Marisa’s own. Charming, well-spoken, gentle-looking but so had she been, yet there was a lot of cruelty hiding underneath her sweet and loving nature. Dorothea had known that rather personally and that was why she was not very keen to trust the elderly gentleman in front of her so quickly. “I don't sleep very well anymore.”
“It's not your fault, my dear.”
“Isn't it? I feel responsible for all the bad things he will do and has done.”
“Why? None of it is your doing. You couldn't foresee any of his actions; everything he does is his own doing, at worst you could blame me for it.” He calmly sipped his tea. “He is fortunate to have you in his life.”
She didn't know how to reply to that, instead she took her time with her tea. He respected her hesitation.
“With all due respect, you don't know me at all to say that so convincingly.”
“I can guess just by looking at you. I know my son too.” She could nearly see the heavy weight upon his shoulders. “His coldness comes from his mother, Marisa's entitlement came from her mother too, their greed also came from her. She did nothing but spoil and ruin them; they've never wanted for nothing, yet they were greed personified. They wanted more and more, to the point where Marisa has gotten herself killed and Marcel now plays with fire, knowing too well that he will get burned.”
“He seems to think he can handle the Magisterium.”
Monsieur Delamare scoffed, loudly; his eyebrows contracted just like Marcel's used to do when she would say something absurd to irritate him. He noticed her expression changing, though reading it would be difficult. It was a mixture of recognition and heart-break.
“You see him in me, don't you? You've been making faces for a while.” He smiled with kindness that did not belong in his eyes. Dorothea nodded slowly.
“You're very much like them, it's uncanny, really, yet sometimes you feel very much misplaced, like in a dream. It's hard to describe this feeling.”
“But you felt it before, non?”
She sighed, nodding slowly.
“I have, with my own mother. She died when I was very, very young, the only memories I have of her were built from people's perceptions of her." She tapped her fingers on the table, unsure. She never spoke of her mother, it was even rarer than speaking about her father, and she thought it was even stranger she was sharing such personal insights with a complete stranger. “Most people say we look like each other but when you compare any photogram of us closely, there's very little in common. She was fair, blonde, hazel eyes— It's quite the opposite of me, to be honest.”
“Yet, there is something linking you, non?”
“Yes. A haunting feeling, lying quietly in the smallest details, like you and your children. Sometimes it shows more deeply, and it affects those that can see it for what it is.” She glanced at Astraeus, who was talking comfortably with the maned wolf daemon; their conversation was deep and undisturbed by any emotions Dorothea was feeling. She felt deeply envious of their calm. “It's what happens with you too. Sometimes, it's like I'm watching a version of Marcel I am not familiar with.”
“You are not sure if you can trust me, let me assure you–” He began to say, but she shook her head, raising her palm to interrupt him.
“Respectfully, I trust nobody, Oakley Street or otherwise. No words you can find will ever reassure me, monsieur. You asked to meet me, so here I am.” Her eyes darted around as she looked for signs of deception on his face but nothing was shining through. "You said I am not what you expected; what did you expect?"
"Well, you're very scholarly. When I heard Marcel had been involved with someone, I… I expected a socialite, some ravishing shallow creature from Geneva’s upper class.”
“I am upper class and a socialite.” Dorothea’s smirk flustered him a bit. “Well, in theory.”
“Oh, but you are more, aren’t you? You’re an actual scholar.” He spread his hand, good-humoredly, and laughed. “A proper experimental theologian. A scientist , as they call them now or so I’ve heard.”
“So I am. Is that really such a surprise?”
“Not normally, no, but like I said, I expected Marcel to engage himself with a woman that could be a proper trophy. He wouldn’t want a woman for any other reason than personal gain in the game of influence he plays. You are quite beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but—”
“I think what you mean to say is that I am a spy. An anti-Magisterium spy at that. It makes no sense, under the perspective he would only be involved with someone that could give him more than what he already has, right?” She sighed, her fingers slowly turning the teacup on the table. “Trust me, I’ve thought about that a lot as well. It makes as much sense as one would expect.”
For a while they stayed in their place, looking at each other in silence. Monsieur Delamare was rather pleased with himself, and she could not really tell why, but she expected he was an elderly man who spent most of his time alone, so her presence there was something to be thrilled about. Also, he was surprisingly sane, full of a jovial nature; she had expected to find a half senile man who could give her nothing useful but childhood memories.
Dorothea was slowly realising she had been dreadfully wrong. She had often been wrong when it came to the Delamares.
“Come.” He stood up, beckoning her up, and he did not wait for her to follow.
She stayed on her feet, mesmerised for a few seconds, before moving after him. He had walked into his drawing room, where the gramophone was playing, and he gestured to Dorothea to sit at the veranda. The house was much more refreshing at the veranda, and she couldn’t see anything other than the sky and the rose bushes in the garden; she was so caught up in the beauty of it all she didn’t notice when Monsieur Delamare returned and sat across her, a newspaper neatly folded in his hand.
“Where do you go next, mademoiselle?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t made any plans so far, my only goal was to come here and talk. Talk to you, I mean.” She brushed her skirt, looking at the landscape around her. Astraeus and the man’s daemon had followed them outside and they laid in the grass, chatting quietly. “I didn’t know what awaited me here, I still don’t.”
“Then I think you should see this.” He handed her the newspaper and she took it hesitatingly.
It was in Anatolian, and she took her time examining every inch of the paper, her fingers flexing for a moment. It bore a photogram, quite large, a few people were in it; most of them she didn’t recognise, but they all posed for the photogram, four men and a woman. The headlines nearly gave Dorothea an immediate headache. MARCEL DELAMARE TO LEAD THE NEW HIGH COUNCIL!
“Lord have mercy.” She whispered, but Monsieur Delamare heard her, and he chuckled. She met his eyes and found herself looking at a mirror of her own emotions. Sadness, confusion, slight anger. Apprehension, most of all. “He finally did it, then. I should have known. I expected this to be fair. No way he would have settled for shadow work.”
She placed the newspaper on the coffee table between them as if it was hot and it risked burning her fingertips. Her arms involuntarily clasped around herself. Astraeus sensed her anxiety and he chirped loudly; she shook her head.
“This will blow up in his face, doesn’t he realise that, for God’s sake?” She blew the air out of her lungs.
“That is what concerns you? That he will get himself into trouble?” His tone meant no offence, but she took offence all the same.
“He is already in trouble. He’s been in trouble since he started this goddamned congress. That’s not all that concerns me, though.” She pressed between her eyes, trying to get rid of that bad omen feeling running through her body now. “This High Council presents an unprecedented menace to the work of Oakley Street and the likes of it. You could say it’s bad for business.”
“I thought you weren’t Oakley Street anymore.”
“Technically yes, but does one ever truly leave that life behind?” Her eyes closed for a moment, and Monsieur Delamare watched her face, expressive yet devoid of any feelings at the moment, as if she was reaching into a deeper state of mind. A bird sang far away, the rustle of the leaves brushed by wind echoing around them; Dorothea seemed at peace, yet he recognised the semblance of a person at war with themselves. “How much has Nugent told you, about me, that is?
“Well, he spoke conventionally but he told me much. Your… relationship with my son lasted over a decade, intermittently, and it was done secretly, per your request or so Nugent implied.” He hummed when Dorothea nodded, her eyes glistening with tears she refused to drop.
“I was embarrassed of him.”
“Because of his affiliations, no doubt.” Her glance was quick and accusatory, he would have flinched if he hadn’t dealt with worse women in his life. “We’ve all been there, child. It’s always painful when we wake up to a world with shades of grey, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be easier for you, had he been a dashing hero? A roguish spy, brutish, but loyal to the cause you served so faithfully?”
She scoffed, her eyes staring away into the blue sea, seeking the sea out there, hidden behind the rose bushes. Her daemon flew close now, perching on her chair, her finger reaching for his little orange chest. Delamare’s daemon approached them as well, lying lazily by his feet now, watching that strange creature in front of them.
“Half my life was hampered by my father’s allegiance to the Church, only for me to be involved with a man that represents every tiny, disgusting thing I despise. Ironic, don’t you think? Marcel often thought so.” Her finger ran through her hair, messy dark curls, and her daemon landed on her knee, watching Monsieur Delamare with pleading eyes. He could tell they were out of sync here: Dorothea’s anger didn’t match her daemon’s longing. He loved Marcel unquestioningly, whereas she was drowning in doubt. “He never said it out loud, but I knew he thought so.”
“Marcel never says much.”
“He also never means what he says.”
“He took after his mother in that regard, hiding behind flourished words and empty gestures. Infuriating for her, I suppose, having someone with my face and her attitude around her.” Delamare snickered and that broke Dorothea’s sorrowful spell for a brief moment. She smirked and a beautiful smirk that was, he pondered. He had come to realise only a creature like her could have ever breached Marcel’s defences, running deep to protect himself from everything that he found useless in life. Her warmth burning brightly against his cold nature; only heat could really breach through his children, like he had once burned against their mother, yet if he had ever learned anything from it, it was that bonfires only lasted so long out there in the snow. They all, eventually, burned out. “That is why you left Oakley Street, then? Marcel shamed you into hiding, did he?”
She raised her eyebrows, unfazed by his jest. He had a feeling she had been through this routine of questioning before.
“You sound like Tom Nugent. He believed I was a coward running from a lover, he didn’t realise I was just exhausted. The work we do is tiresome and there’s very little reward in it, sometimes it feels downright pointless. By the time I left, it took its toll on me. I gave everything I could to Oakley Street, and more, and in return they treated me as a traitor. All because of a silly fling with a Magisterium office clerk.”
“He did climb the ladder, though. He is no longer just a Magisterium office clerk, is he?”
“No, he isn’t.” She straightened herself in her chair, assuming a much more assertive pose, arms spread on the chair’s armrest, legs crossed. Her words came out prepared, and if he weren't aware she had had no idea about Marcel's new job, he would have thought she had prepared her answers carefully. How many times had she been accused of knowing Marcel’s plans, he wondered, how much had he stained her reputation? “I have nothing to do with it. I haven’t spoken to him in years. His rising in the ranks is just as unfortunate to me as it is to Oakley Street.”
“You have traded letters with him, though, haven’t you?”
“He sent letters, I ignored them. Marcel was just as bad as the agents when I left.” Dorothea spat, a frown on her face now. “He was under the impression I was lying about my retirement. He made my life hell with all the spies he sent after me, watching my every move for no fucking good reason.”
“You ignored his letters, except for one, didn’t you?”
She stood silent, her eyes scanning his face, seeking anything that could show her his true intentions. He was an astute man, she realised; Marisa and Marcel had taken after him, after all.
“How can you know that?”
“I have my ways.” He offered her a smirk.
“That’s not very reassuring. I don't appreciate being spied on. Why do you care if I replied to a letter from him?” Dorothea’s voice had a slight oscillation, as if she was trying hard not to tremble. “We used to be lovers, why is that such a terrible thing?”
“Because the only letter you replied to had no love connotations. It was scientific, it spoke of Dust and rose oil.” Monsieur Delamare rested his chin on his hands, watching her very carefully. Her body seemed tense now, almost as if she was preparing to run away. Her daemon waited, fluttering around her head like a moving crown. “I assure you, Dorothea, I haven’t spied on you, but I do keep tabs on Marcel. I have for some time now, ever since Marisa disappeared.”
Hearing her name gave her a goosebump. For a moment there, she felt regret ever coming to that place, but regret often ran much deeper than that; it usually began with small things, then it moved on to every past event she couldn’t possibly have controlled yet she still felt guilty about.
“Know anything about that?” She tried to send the feeling away by speaking of other things. “I mean, have you heard anything about her disappearing?”
“Everything I know comes from you , my dear. When I met Nugent a few years ago, I went there to ask him for information on Marisa. He told me all you had found, that’s when I learned about your connection to my boy.” He took a deep breath, and his daemon exchanged glances with him. “Boy. He is a man now, and not a very good one, I suppose.”
“If you’ve learned about my letter, then that means I am in considerable danger.” She brushed her skirt to distract her thoughts, to no avail. He could see she was pondering this new information, and it was distressing to her to a certain degree. “Everything I shared in that letter is dangerous enough to get me arrested.”
“Yet you replied to him, all the same, even with all the dangers around Dust. I find that extremely curious.”
“There is nothing special about that.” Dorothea sighed. “I have feelings and feelings make us unreasonable. He makes me unreasonable, illogical; I shouldn't have written, but he gave me a problem that was interesting enough to solve.”
Monsieur Delamare smiled at her and his sympathy stung, if only for a short moment.
“I left my retirement for a reason, you know. People wrote to me, lots of them. A friend from Oakley Street, some friends from the university, my uncle, even Marcel. Lots of letters arrived at my home and made me uncertain, as the world spins and shifts in its stead. What really made me set off on this journey was a telegram, a short one; it said a girl had been missing." Dorothea waited for a response, but while he was curious he seemed ignorant of anything she was saying. “Marisa's daughter. She disappeared a while ago, ran away or something. I'm going back to see what I can do.”
“Do you know where she is? The girl, I mean.” He frowned and she shook her head. “If she is missing, what can you do?”
"Not much, but not doing anything is just as bad as doing her harm. I can't sit back at my house in High Brasil, hoping something happens. I came here to seek insights, because I fear Marcel might have something to do with her disappearance.” She tapped her fingers on her knees and she saw his discomfort. Her words troubled him deeply.
“He wouldn’t hurt Marisa’s child.” He spoke adamantly, but his daemon turned her head to watch him.
“If only I were as sure as you, monsieur, but whilst you know your son quite well, I know my lover well too. He is a bitter man and he has been restless ever since Marisa disappeared, I do not trust he wouldn’t do Lyra any harm.” Dorothea sighed. “Like I said, I trust no one. Not even him.”
“Such a terrible way to live, isn’t it? Looking over your shoulder, expecting a knife from the shadows.”
She nodded, quietly, and he moved in his chair, unsure. There was aloofness around her now, she seemed unreachable.
“The sacrifices we make–” Dorothea didn’t have the strength to finish that sentence. Indeed, the sacrifices she made, she had nearly lost count of them. “At one point, I just stopped counting.” She said aloud, but Monsieur Delamare understood her very well, even if she had only spoken half her thoughts.
“That won’t stop you, I’m sure. You have an air of efficiency about you, you know.” He kept to himself the words he meant to say. You remind me of Marisa. He did not dare do this blow to the poor creature in front of him, so resilient, yet so fragile all the same. How could he remember Marisa, anyway? Last time he saw her, she barely acknowledged him. No, he was having fancies. “That telegram you mentioned. Did it send you here?”
“No. It summoned me elsewhere, back to Brytain, if you must know.” Dorothea scoffed. “Oakley Street’s new director must be in quite a spot now that Marcel took over the Church and unified them.”
“She asked you there, yet you came here.” He noticed her smile when he said she ; Dorothea was trying to confirm how much he knew about Oakley Street and knowing that Godwin was in charge, he must still have had connections with them; that, at least, was a good sign. Her daemon perched on her shoulder, tilting his little head at her, out of sync, thoughts marooning around each other as they never truly collided with their views. “Why would you come here, of all places?”
“I came here because my only concern is with the girl, Lyra. She was Lord Asriel’s child too and he was like family to me, I owe him her safety.” Dorothea leaned forward, her blue eyes shining pleadingly. “I seek your counsel, if you have any to spare me. Anything to give me an edge against Marcel and his ruthlessness.”
“Unfortunately, all I can tell you is that Marcel will never quit. He won’t allow himself to be defeated, whatever his plans might be. He suffers no failure and no fools, which is ironic, given he is a fool himself.” He paused, watching her lean back against her chair’s rest. Helplessness decorated her soft features, a crease between her eyebrows, her cheeks burned from the strong Turkish sun. “You can’t fight that sort of resolve, can you?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. He wore me down a long time ago, even if I would never tell him so.” She pressed her fingers against her eyes, waiting, pondering, hoping to wake up. Exhaustion seemed to be taking over now, part of her wishing to stay in this timeless paradise, yet duty rang on her mind. It was a hard dichotomy to fight against. “What must he be thinking, to defy centuries of tradition so suddenly?”
“Marisa would have a guess, I suppose. She knew him quite well, not as much as you, though.”
She opened her eyes with surprise, eyebrows arching, puzzled.
“I hardly doubt that, monsieur. They were close and I am nothing but a dalliance he has grown attached to over the years.” She scoffed at her own thoughts if anything. “He pursues me out of self-preservation, not affection.”
Monsieur Delamare hummed in understanding. He found himself in the same wavelength as Dorothea Eilhart and her good-natured, sad spirit, her colourful ways hiding that sombre gloom coming from within.
“Yes, self-preservation. He knows you saw there is weakness in him, and weakness means there could be either redemption or defeat and he will suffer none, not by your hand, not by anyone else.” He leaned back on his chair, assessing Dorothea one last time, her insecurity shining through an armour of resolve, but she could outgrow that, she could do more, she could be better. “Marisa would have seen his weakness and interpreted it as strength, as a resource to mine. You are like me, though. We see it as an opportunity.”
She stood silent, her eyes glued to his figure, the ghost of resemblance coming off as light from him, golden sunset setting a veil of etherealness over them.
“How cruel of us, isn’t it? Asking them to become more like we hoped they would be.” She sighed. “We cannot fight Nature, monsieur, trust me. I have, for a long time, and the only thing I accomplished was exile and heartbreak.”
He allowed her to sit quietly, watching the rose bushes, for as long as he deemed necessary. He went inside after a while and returned with a deck of cards, pictures drawn upon each of them.
“I’d like to offer you a piece of advice, Dorothea.” He said, suddenly snapping her out of her daydream. The lines of weariness had nearly disappeared, but as she turned to him, he could see the weight upon her shoulders. He asked his daemon, later, if he had ever looked anything like that, to which she nodded, silently. “There is something I would like to share. Have you ever seen any of these?”
She shook her head negatively, her daemon peering at the cards on his hands with curiosity. Monsieur Delamare sat across her again, this time right at the end of the chair, and he began to shuffle the cards.
“It’s called the Myriorama, each of these cards have been carefully sculpted to portray different images that connect with each other, no matter the order.”
“How exotic!”
“Isn’t it? A storytelling act, I suppose. Nothing like Tarot and fortune telling.” He took a card that portrayed a woman in the prairie, a summer dress highlighting the greens and reds in the landscape. He laid the card before Dorothea, who leaned over the coffee table, her eyebrows arched in scepticism. “As a Dust expert, you must know of many ways to interact with it, don’t you?”
“A few, of course, but none is really reliable.” She tilted her head when her daemon chirped, thinking. “Well, the Alethiometer is reliable, so to speak, but it requires immense hardwork and knowledge. Why do you ask?”
Another card on the table, now it portrayed only the sea as if seen by someone at the bow of a ship. It was blue, deep, vibrant, timeless.
“The Myriorama is more… finessed as a tool to do that. It tells any story you need, sometimes through metaphor, sometimes a little more on the nose, like now.” He drew another card, an urban landscape, buildings and streets intertwining. Dorothea eyed him, slightly suspicious of his sanity at the moment, but he didn’t judge her. “This is Geneva.”
“Well, that’s a city, monsieur.” Her sass made him smirk. “If it is Geneva, that is, well, supposition.”
“Indulge an old man, my dear.” He arranged the cards in the order they were drawn, and he drew another card. The urban landscape connected to another landscape, a more rural one, with a railroad in sight. He hummed and tapped the card. “I think you should head back to Brytain, to your people. Not just Oakley Street, but your family and friends. A storm is coming and you would be better off not caught up in the middle of it, you understand?”
“The cards said so?”
She couldn’t help herself, which was rather ignorant of her, but he looked at her and he was serious now. Her grin disappeared.
“I say so, Lady Eilhart, for your sake and my granddaughter’s. Without you, she is in terrible danger. You should take the next boat back to Europe, any potent ship will do. Do not go to Constantinople, go further, to Italy if you must. The Patriarch’s death stirred the Church in that region, it will be filled with guards.”
She straightened herself, taking in his words now, her daemon protruding his little chest as he too paid attention to Monsieur Delamare’s every word. He realised he had a growing admiration for her, he wasn’t easily impressed, but he also saw in her something familiar, just as she had seen in him before. That twinkle of recognition; that they were much alike and that it would end up badly for her just as it did for him. He had not the heart to tell her so, though.
“In Europe, take a train. You must go through Geneva, it’s the best way to go undetected. The Congress is over, there is no reason to keep the city under heavy guard, at least, not until they start their moves on the East–”
“Marcel won’t be looking for me in Geneva, will he?” Dorothea grinned again and he nodded. “That’s a clever idea.”
“When you arrive back home, your first task is to seek a family member.” He showed a card of a family portrait, a man holding a baby in his arms, a woman posing next to him. An eerie feeling that the man resembled her uncle took over Dorothea for an instant, but Monsieur Delamare drew another card, and put it on top of that one, and she forgot all about it for that moment. “I don’t understand why, but you’re due family business, and then you’ll have to mend bridges with Oakley Street.”
“Well, I don’t see that name written there, do you?” Dorothea sassed him, and he shook his head. Her face darkened. “I shouldn’t be the one making amends with them. They acted like I was a traitor. Gave me the cold shoulder for something I didn’t do.”
“Didn’t you? Marcel knows about your friends, he knows about Oakley Street.” Dorothea looked away and her daemon chirped, offended, at the man. “I do not blame you–”
“That’s exactly what you are doing, monsieur, but I understand. I will deal with those consequences, but they still treated me like I am in cahoots with him. Everything I did, I did for the agency, for the cause.”
“You keep ignoring them, and all your efforts would have been in vain. They need to trust you again, you need balance to deal with what’s to come.” He placed another card, a garden of roses. “Without friends, you won’t be able to help Lyra.”
“I— I understand.” Dorothea said, reluctantly. “Do you trust the cards, monsieur?”
He placed the deck on the coffee table, face down, then drew another card and placed it on top of the last one. It showed a window, facing the coast, a bright blue sea in the horizon. He hummed, his daemon looking at him with uncertainty.
“It is a tool, and like most tools, it can be used for good and for evil. I trust it as much as I trust a weapon; in your hands I wouldn’t even flinch, you are no murderer, whatever you may have done in your past.” She shivered a little, but he made no attempt to point it out. Everyone was entitled to their own secrets, for better or for worse. “In Marcel’s hands, I would run for my life. My children resented me greatly, any tools in their hands would become weapons, any weapons would be drawn to violence. The cards are no different, they just require a different touch.”
“Do they lie, you think?”
He pondered for a while before answering.
“No, they don’t.” He mumbled, uncertain, but she understood where he was coming from. “They do tend to be misleading. They don’t often say what they mean nor mean what they say, not literally anyway.”
“Like Marcel.” Dorothea said, and she stood up, brushing down her skirt, a sense of renewed righteousness glowing in her eyes. “Like you.”
He smiled. It wasn’t hard to see why Marcel had been drawn to her. It isn’t hard to see he will be her downfall, his daemon thought. She was never bitter but she spoke in ill omen far too often for him to appreciate her commentary.
“Thank you for your time, monsieur. If I have any news about Lyra, I’ll send you a telegram.” She offered him her hand, standing up while he remained seated; she refused his offer to escort her out. “I am grateful for your insight. Let us hope I can make it to England before the East falls in disarray.”
“Indeed.”
She began to walk away, but stopped on the doorway arch. Her head turned, eyes scanning his beautiful garden and she raised her hand, as if looking for a necklace in her neck, but she was wearing none. Monsieur Delamare thought that was an eerily saintly image; he resisted temptation to make the sign of the cross, and he didn’t know, but so did she.
“A word of advice, monsieur, since you have been very good to me.” She swallowed hard, a crease between her strong eyebrows. “I would cut off the roses, if I were you. I understand it’s an act of rebellion, but it isn’t worth it at times like these. It will attract undesirable attention for you and they will burn down the entire villa just because you dared . ”
“ You mean the men from the mountains?”
She smirked, a sad grin, he could tell. It made him shiver; she was indeed a lot like Marisa. Beauty mixed with dread.
“Perhaps.”
He watched her walk away, like a mirage.
“Will she succeed?” His daemon asked, after a while. Night was already coming at this point, but Monsieur Delamare hadn’t moved since Dorothea had left.
He rested on his armchair, chin placed upon his fingertips, sunlight being slowly replaced by the moonlight that threw a mantle of blue and purple over Antalya and its unnatural beauty.
“I am not sure.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “But I do hope so.”