Flowers of Darkness by Tatiana Rosnay (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

the fact that her own brother had married a Frenchwoman. Solange, Clarissa and Arthur’s mother, had apparently found it difficult to find her way into her husband’s family. Clarissa thought she had ultimately managed to do so. Perhaps not, in the long run.

That day on the train, Clarissa decided she wouldn’t be speaking to her brother and nieces again. It was common, after all, to bicker in the aftermath of wills. What was less common, she felt, was the sudden and intimate overlap of every aspect of her life: the breakdown of her marriage, the rough patch with her brother, and the hurried arrival in a new home she still didn’t feel at ease in.

When they left, Jordan told her mother to look after herself, to get a good night’s sleep, to rest. Andy hugged her with all her might. Clarissa waved good-bye to them as the transparent glass elevator whooshed them down. Jordan’s lovely face was turned up to her, and she could read all the anguish there. She knew Jordan was going to speak to her husband, Ivan, tonight, and she already knew what her daughter was going to say: that Clarissa looked old, frail, and sad, that she was worried, that she couldn’t understand what had happened. She could hear Jordan’s voice: Yes, the flat was lovely, and it was wonderful that Clarissa lived there, but the move had tired her. How was she going to face all this, alone, at her age, in her state? Jordan would undoubtedly bring up the long depression Clarissa had endured after the death of her first child. Jordan remembered that endless tunnel; she was only a little girl at the time, but she had grown up with that despondency. She’d say she feared Clarissa might plunge into a similar gloom. Clarissa could now hear Ivan’s voice. Jordan’s husband was a tall, thin man in his early forties, with soft blue eyes. He rarely lost his temper and spoke gently but firmly. She could hear him say Clarissa was a tough cookie. She’d pulled herself out of depression a long time ago. Clarissa knew what she wanted. And if Clarissa wanted to be alone, then that was fine. Jordan just had to stop worrying.

Clarissa closed the door of the apartment. She turned her back to it, leaning against the wooden surface, looking out toward the living room. It did look nice, she admitted. The lovely gleaming surfaces. The light. The view. Her precious books, the ones she read with such delight, were missing. They were still at François’s. She was going to take the time to make sure they were all placed properly on the shelves. Romain Gary. Virginia Woolf. Her favorite writers. Books never let you down. They were always there for you.

The cat pranced along, and she watched him go toward the main window. Chablis had spent most of the lunch on Jordan’s knees, purring. He had eaten well, had played with Adriana. Perhaps he was getting over his apprehension. She was happy about that. She still wasn’t quite sure how to deal with a cat. As Clarissa observed him, Chablis suddenly seemed to stiffen. Surely she was imagining things. No, he arched his back, and his ears were flattened, golden eyes deepening to black. The cat crouched now, tail slowly twitching, staring at the middle of the room as if someone were standing there. Mystified, Clarissa remained motionless. He then slunk under the sofa, and the only thing she could see now was the tip of his tail.

Clarissa strode to the center of the room, unnerved, glancing around her. Everything seemed in place, perfectly normal. But she, too, had sensed a presence. And she realized now, with a prick of horror, that ever since she had moved here, she had never felt completely alone; it was as if someone, or something, was watching her.

“Mrs. Dalloway?” She was surprised to hear her voice was quavering. She sounded like a very old lady.

“Yes, Clarissa?” came the rounded, cordial tone.

“Am I alone here?”

“Yes, Clarissa. Apart from the cat, you are completely alone.”

“Why was the cat afraid just now?”

“I have no idea, Clarissa.”

“Who can see me?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. Can you rephrase that, Clarissa?”

“Can anyone see what I am doing in my apartment?”’ Now her voice was angry. No more quavering old-lady stuff.

“No, Clarissa. No one can see what you do in your home.”

“What about you, Mrs. Dalloway? Can you see what I’m doing?”’

“Yes, Clarissa. I see everything you do. I was programmed to do that.”

“So you do watch me, Mrs. Dalloway.”

“Yes, Clarissa. All the time.”

“And so I was right. There is someone spying on me. You.”

“You’re right, Clarissa. But remember, I’m no one. I don’t exist.”

Clarissa often thought back to the day she’d spent at the C.A.S.A. headquarters in order to set up her virtual assistant and to meet Dr. Dewinter. She had been shown to a different part of the building, deep down, below ground level. The space here was white and brilliant, almost too white, she thought. The staff wore black as well, the same sleek style as Clémence Dutilleul’s suit. The man who took her in charge was in his early twenties. He had the round pink face of a choirboy. His name was Quentin. He was respectful and pleasant. He started by taking an imprint of her fingertips and a scan of her retina with a small device. It took only a couple of minutes. He then told her the setup process was going to take a while, because they needed to get it just right. Even if the questions seemed repetitive and weird, she had to stick to it. The virtual assistant had to get used to her voice, because Clarissa’s voice was the only one it was going to obey. It wouldn’t respond to anyone else. He also said that Clarissa could take a break whenever she wanted. She could get up, stretch her legs, have a glass of water.

Quentin ushered her