Ophelia was aware that they were acting together on a theatrical stage, before an audience waiting for just one slip to boo them. Every word, every inflection, every movement mattered. But on this stage, Thorn remained her greatest adversary. Because of him, the only image retained of her would be that of a woman cowering in her husband’s shadow.
Sullenly, Farouk reread the terms of the contract Thorn had given him, and then put the Book away inside his coat and straightened up, muscle after muscle, joint after joint, until standing fully upright. Thorn was big; Farouk was gigantic.
“If all she’s good for is reading, and I can’t ask her to read,” he said, slowly, “what am I going to use her for? I only accept, within my entourage, people who can entertain me.”
It was now or never. Ophelia stepped out of Thorn’s shadow, obliging him to let go of her arm, and then raised her eyes up to Farouk to look squarely at him, and never mind the pain involved.
“I’m not entertaining, but I can make myself useful. I ran a museum on Anima; I could open one up here. A museum, it’s like a memory,” she stressed, choosing her words carefully. “It’s like your memorandum.”
Ophelia couldn’t see Thorn’s expression, as he was behind her, but she could see that of Berenilde, who was smiling no more. This was definitely not what she’d had in mind when asking her to make a good impression. Ophelia tried to ignore the shocked murmurs rising from the audience surrounding the rostrum. With this request, she’d probably broken half the rules of etiquette.