The Third Uncle

Chapter Twenty: Mirror Mirror

Chapter Twenty: Mirror Mirror

Not having had the pleasure of meeting the Admiral in his cabin, she had no reason to be as shocked as everyone else around her seemed to be. Francesca, Dominique and Villeneuve had all been pulled back onto the safety of the ship amidst the deafening cheers of the sailors. Cheers that sung out from the tiniest ships in the bay below, all the way up to the deck beneath their feet. Then, after a quick conference between Villeneuve and his officers, she had been pushed, and prodded out in front of them, and through the door of his cabin. 'I don't suppose there is a chance of that Turkish coffee?' She asked over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes.

The party came to a sudden halt as soon as they crossed the cabin's threshold. The stunned silence was not hers, nor were the surprised and shocked gasps. The air, you might say, was so thick with stupor you could have cut it with a sabre. Villeneuve opened his mouth, and then closed it again, sucking at his lips in obvious consternation. He pushed Francesca aside, and carefully stepped into his cabin, a cabin that had been transformed into ... into ... what? He pushed against the floor with the toe of his boot and slid over to the large desk in the corner of the room, and, grabbing at its edge, he turned himself round.

The entire cabin, from the top of the beams that ran along the ceiling, down to the wide planks that made up the floor, and all the furniture that sat in between, had been covered over in a thick, silvery, layer of ice.

Villeneuve turned noticeably red despite the chill in the air. 'Daemon!' He suddenly shouted, a swirling cloud of frozen air chased after the exclamation. 'Daemon, where are ...' 'Over here Admiral.' Came the reply. Clotilde lazily stretched out her thin frame, her eyes closed as if she had just woken up from a nap. She was lying across a glittering divan that reflected the yellow sunlight from the cabin's many portholes. A small, porcelain cup of tea curled thin tendrils of steam beneath her nose. Clotilde slowly cracked open a long, lashed eye, and, finding Francesca in the room, she smiled sweetly. 'Hello sister,' she purred. 'Why not come sit next to me here?' She held out a palm, and patted the divan at her side. Francesca froze, looking wildly at the sailors all around her. Surely they didn't expect her to ..? Didn't they know that ... but the Amiral did call her a Daemon ... so he wouldn't ... would he?

Apparently he would.

Villeneuve, looked at Francesca as if he suddenly remembered she was there, and then, turning back to Clotilde he thought, how strange. Clotilde and Francesca really were alike. I don't know why I should feel surprised when I meet twins, but I do ... and the doppelgänger? There was still something different there. Her manner, her speech ...' His thoughts trailed off as he looked at the two girls in the silent cabin, and then he saw it. Their eyes were different. Where Francesca had irises of obsidian, Clotilde's eyes were two clear sapphires that shone with a deep, violet malevolence. Funny that, he mused. Had they not always been alike? What was the daemon playing at? At that moment Francesca brushed passed him, those dark eyes flashing angrily at him as she did so. What was that about? He wondered.

Disgusted that these so called men, these sailors, these officers, were refusing to raise their swords to defend a lady so obviously in distress as herself infuriated Francesca (possibly more than the fact that none of the men seemed taken with her) and so, she defiantly swished her hair, and, without any real plan, stepped toward the grinning Clotilde.

She carefully sat herself down next to her doppelgänger, mindful not to let even the hem of Clotilde's dress touch her skin. It was eerie being so close to her. It was like looking at a painting, or a wax doll. Sitting this close she notice a soft aura, a glow that hung over Clotilde's skin, like a fog that clung to a riverbank in the early morning. Cool, thin wisps of smoke curled out from her pores, circling around her skin, and over her clothes. Clotilde suddenly raised her hand, dangling a finger in front of Francesca's nose. 'You,' she whispered. 'Have been a hard girl to catch.' 'Grazie,' answered Francesca nervously. 'I try.'