The Betrayals(108)
‘Well, yes, that,’ he says, ‘obviously. But not only that.’
‘So what else do you want?’
‘Everything.’ He pauses, and looks back at her with a smile that’s somehow deadly serious. ‘Anything. What will you give me?’
She wipes her face, taking more time than she needs to. The salt is sticky on her palms. She shouldn’t believe him, but she does. Her heart feels swollen and thin-membraned, like a bubble: the lightest touch and it might pop, but for now it’s quivering, iridescent, drifting. She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to bring herself back to earth. He loves her. He wants everything, anything, whatever she’s prepared to give. With a jolt she realises she wants the same from him. ‘You may have noticed,’ she says, fighting to keep her voice cool, ‘that Magisters have to take a vow of celibacy.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘And a vow of lifelong service. I’ll be here for ever.’
‘Well, yes, I wasn’t—’ He stops, and glances away, as if there’s an answer he doesn’t want to give her. ‘But what if …’ he says, ‘what if—’
‘I’ll always be Magister Ludi.’ She says it loudly, announcing it to the whole of the Biblioteca Ludi, to all the books with their backs turned, all the ghosts of former Magisters. She may have walked out of her own Midsummer Game, but she is still Magister Ludi. A Magister is Magister for life: there is no what if.
‘All right,’ he says, although he’s still avoiding her eyes. ‘I mean … of course. But that doesn’t mean we can’t find a way.’
‘To break my vows? You’re assuming I want to find a way. What makes you think that I would do that?’
He cuts her off. ‘You loved me.’ A tiny pause. ‘Didn’t you? You said you did.’
‘More than ten years ago.’
‘Was it true?’
She exhales. What difference does it make now? ‘Yes,’ she says.
He leans forward. She catches the scent of cologne, and underneath it the salty male note of his skin. ‘Imagine the games we could play,’ he says. ‘I’ll never be as good as you, but I can give you a run for your money. Right? Remember when we got seventy for the Danse Macabre?’ He gives her a flickering smile. ‘I know it sounds crazy. But we could make it work. Please …’
‘It’s too late.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s a second chance.’ He rubs the desk with his thumb, back and forth, as if he’s erasing a stain. ‘Wouldn’t you go back, if you could?’
She looks past him, out of the window. The quivery tears-or-laughter feeling surges again, and she focuses on the breeze swaying the pines, the shadows sweeping back and forth over the flower-studded grass. Would she go back? Of course. She was happier as Aimé than she has ever been since. If she could, she would … But what’s more, she can imagine the life she might have with Léo: long days spent arguing and joking and studying – that joyous ongoing duel that left them both breathless – and nights that fanned the flame … She’s missed that, more than anything. No one has ever been her equal, the way he was. She turns back to him, and perhaps he can see what she’s thinking, because his eyes search her face as if he’s going to kiss her.
But he doesn’t. He stays very still, waiting. As if something has changed, and it’s her responsibility, not his, to make the first move. For the first time in years she remembers what it’s like to be a man, and it goes straight to her heart like a drug. She pauses for as long as she can bear to, savouring the rush of power in her veins.
‘You’re alive,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it. You’re alive.’
34
Dear Léo,
You’ll hear that I’m dead, but I’m not. Aimé Carfax de Courcy is – but he’s not who you think he is. I’m not who you think I am.
Today it was my brother Aimé’s funeral. It was this afternoon. He was buried in the de Courcy vault with our parents. It was hot, the air was like glass, the clouds were building up over the hills. There weren’t many people there, only the family lawyer and the mayor and a few others from the village. My aunt is on her way to collect me, because young women shouldn’t be left on their own after a bereavement, but the boat-train was cancelled because of strikes and she telegraphed to say that she wouldn’t arrive till tomorrow. I stood there in my black dress and high-heeled shoes and veiled hat and I felt them looking at me, pitying me. No one mentioned my hair; perhaps they thought I’d hacked at it myself as a sign of grief. I didn’t feel grief-stricken. I felt unreal, and furious. Not with Aimé, because he’d been ill, and he wasn’t to blame. With you. I was waiting to see you come through the gate of the cemetery – late, sweating – and hurry over to us, interrupting the service. I wanted to see your swollen eyes and two-day beard, and the creases in your suit from the train. I wanted to see you stumble to a stop, and stare at the entrance to the vault, and wilt. I wanted to see you cry.
And then, when the service was over, and the mayor had shaken my hand and wandered away, I knew you would approach me. You’d introduce yourself. I’d hesitate before I said my name, but then – in spite of hating you, right then – I’d insist that you came back to the chateau to drink to my brother. I wouldn’t let you refuse. And you’d be too addled by the journey and the heat to do anything but follow me, lugging your overnight case, and we’d take the short cut through the olive trees, climbing the unkempt terraces up to the back of the garden. There’d be bread and saucisson and salad, left out for me by the old woman who comes in to cook, and I’d go down to the cellar and bring up some of the oldest, dustiest wine. Nothing but the best for Aimé. I would pour you a glass and propose a toast, and as you raised your glass you’d meet my eyes for the first time. And suddenly you would realise who I was. You’d blink in disbelief, and blink again as your eyes filled, and then you’d put down your glass, overcome, and I’d watch you cry, despising you a little because after all my brother would still be dead.