Christelle Dabos

It wasn’t the simple need to gather information; it was returning to one’s roots. Her distant ancestors had witnessed the breaking up of their world. But had they just lain down and died, for all that? No, they had invented a different life for themselves.

Ophelia tucked the locks of hair flopping over her forehead behind her ears, to uncover her face. The glasses on her nose grew clearer, shedding the grayness that had been building up for hours. She was experiencing her very own Rupture. She still felt sick with fear, but she knew now what she still had to do. She had to take up the challenge.

“Well?” she asked, as Agatha was savoring her little moment.

“Mr. Thorn!”

Ophelia shuddered behind the coils of her scarf. Thorn? She was already allergic to the name. It rang hard on the tongue. Rough. Almost aggressive. A hunter’s name.

“Charm is the strongest weapon given to women, you must use it without scruples. A mere trifle is enough, a timely wink, a radiant smile, to have a man at one’s feet. Look at Charles, putty in my hands.”