The Betrayals(11)

There’s a silence. She looks down. Her hands are so tightly interlaced that the veins in her wrists are standing out. She says, hardly loud enough to be heard, ‘It will be a distraction for the scholars.’

‘You will have to make sure they weather it.’

She nods, once.

‘I’m glad you’ve seen reason.’ He sits down and fumbles with his pen. ‘I think it would be useful for you to speak to Mr Martin as soon as possible. He has been given a room under the clock tower. He should be there now … He will be interested in meeting you, I’m sure. And during his stay, from time to time, you should offer him guidance and help with the grand jeu, if he wants it. Tactfully.’

‘Yes.’ She ignores the cold lurch of her insides.

‘Thank you.’ He sighs and runs his hands over his forehead. The movement pushes his cap up over one eyebrow, so that it sits at a jaunty, incongruous angle. A tuft of white hair escapes and sticks out sideways. ‘I know you will be able to put your feelings aside in the service of the school.’

She gets to her feet. ‘Thank you, Magister.’

He smiles at her with a vague benevolence that tells her his mind has already gone back to his work. At least, she thinks so until she reaches the door; then he says, unexpectedly, ‘Magister?’

‘Yes?’

‘You may not like him, or what he represents. But please remember that there are always voices that speak against an outsider. There were many, for example, who spoke against you.’

There are no mirrors at Montverre. That is, not officially: although among the third-years ‘scab-face’ means a new, na?ve scholar who hasn’t got the nerve to break the rules, and the Magister Cartae had perfectly smooth cheeks from the day he arrived, without the nicks and grazes you’d expect as he grew used to shaving by touch. It must be the only rule that affects Magister Dryden less than the men; she can still remember her first day as Magister Ludi, and the way the Magister Domus’ expression turned from sympathy to surprise when she said, ‘I’m a woman, for God’s sake, I don’t need a mirror.’ She almost laughed. But now it’s different; now she bends over a basin of water, suddenly desperate to scry her own face. The room is too dim for her to make out more than shadowy eyes and mouth. A swirl of soap scum marbles the surface. She leans closer to her reflection, imagining how she might look to someone else; then, with a hiss of frustration, she crosses to the window and empties the basin on to the grass below. She turns back into the room, catches her wrist on the casement, and drops the basin with a clang. She stares at it as it rolls to a halt against the wall. In the bare room – bed, chair, closet, washstand – the stranded basin draws the eye: already the tidy austerity of her life is disrupted, ruined. She shuts her eyes and tries to summon the silence of the grand jeu, that empty waiting that wipes out everything but the present moment. She fails.

The clock chimes three. It brings to mind the Minister for Culture – former Minister for Culture – in his rooms beneath the clock tower. Her skin crawls at the thought that he’s so close, within the call of the bell; but he’ll be here for a long time, so she’d better get used to it. She gnaws at her lower lip. She doesn’t have any choice. Sooner or later she’ll have to talk to him. Better to get it over now, before she has too much time to think.

She picks up the basin and puts it back on the washstand. Then she goes down the little wooden staircase into her study and collects the books she’ll need for her tutorial with Grappier at half past three, and the dusty reading glasses she only uses for Artemonian notation. When she puts them on the world looms up in front of her, so close she takes an involuntary step backwards. Never mind. If she goes now she can be brisk, on her way to the top classroom to see Grappier, polite but unable to linger. She pulls her cap down over her forehead until her hairpins dig into her scalp. Blinking at the over-magnified world – willing away the incipient headache – she hurries out into the corridor and turns left, towards the clock tower.

The door is open. He is standing at the window, his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that dances just out of reach, mocking her with its familiarity. She pauses, unsure whether to go in: is this his territory, or hers? Some remnant of good manners takes over, and she knocks lightly on the doorframe. He looks round, his lips pursed. ‘Come in.’

She is suddenly breathless. It’s ridiculous not to have planned what to say; even more ridiculous that the idea that she’s going to have to speak comes as a shock. She steps forward, but no words come.

‘I’m not sure this room will be suitable,’ he says, over his shoulder. ‘Does that bloody clock strike all night?’

‘I—’ She stares at him. This is not what she was expecting; even if her face means nothing to him, surely he should be suave, smiling, the politician she has always imagined him to be. ‘Yes. Every hour.’

‘Well, then, it won’t be—’ He stops, checks himself. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought …’

She doesn’t understand; then she does. He took her for a servant. He read the subtle shape of her body before he noticed the white gown, and drew his own conclusions. There was no need for the glasses, after all; he’s not even observant enough to realise she’s a Magister as well as a woman. ‘I’m Magister Dryden,’ she says. ‘Welcome to Montverre.’