The Betrayals(113)

Emile sighs. ‘No. To resign.’

She waits for the world to become real again. Outside the window there are birds singing and the whisper of a breeze. Sunshine glints off the cap of the Magister’s fountain pen, off Emile’s rings, Dettler’s tie-pin. Her robe hangs heavy on her; a drop of sweat trickles between her breasts. She was expecting to be chastised – humiliated, even – but not this. This is impossible.

‘Claire, this is terribly difficult.’ The Magister Scholarium shifts in his seat, and then gets to his feet, wincing a little. ‘You know that I’ve always supported you. But you can’t deny that it hasn’t been easy for anyone. And now this … Perhaps it would be for the best.’

‘Magisters are elected for life,’ she says. She can’t get enough breath into her lungs. ‘I can’t resign.’

‘You’re right, that was the wrong word,’ Emile says. ‘But there were irregularities with your appointment, I believe. Outside interference. Under the circumstances, the Capitulum will agree that it should be annulled.’

‘I’m Magister Ludi.’ For the first time in her life, she hears the foreignness of the words.

‘I’m afraid not. As it turns out, you won’t ever have been.’

She opens her mouth, but her throat has tightened so that she can’t answer.

‘I’m sorry, Claire.’ The Magister Scholarium’s hand twitches, as though he wants to reach out to her. ‘I have no choice. For the good of Montverre – for the scholars – the game—’ She stares at him. He has the grace to stammer, but he goes on. ‘It’s desperately unfortunate – but if this is the sacrifice we must make.’

‘You’re sacrificing me,’ she says. ‘And in return you get …?’

The Magister rubs his forehead, leaving red traces on the papery skin. Then he takes a step closer to her, turning his back on the other two men. ‘Claire,’ he says, and his voice is soft, as though they’re alone. ‘You know they want to shut Montverre down. They’ve been trying for months, looking for an excuse. But they’re being reasonable. They’ve agreed that if you go, we can stay here. That we can retain our exemptions. Otherwise … it’s finished.’

Dettler coughs.

‘And why me?’ But the answers to that are easy: because she’s a woman, because it’s easy, because walking out of her Midsummer Game has made it even easier. Because the Party membership will rub its hands and gloat. And because they can replace her with another Magister Ludi, one that the government will choose. It’ll still be the end of Montverre; but a slower death. She says, ‘And what if I refuse?’

‘You can’t refuse,’ Dettler says, abruptly, as though he’s lost patience. ‘It’s not your decision. We’re not asking you, we’re telling you.’ He adds, to Emile, ‘I still think a completely fresh start in the capital—’

Emile raises a hand, and Dettler falls silent. ‘It will be to your advantage if you leave quietly,’ Emile says. ‘I want this done with the minimum of fuss. Please,’ he goes on, forestalling her, ‘this isn’t a fight you can win. Even without today’s display, we would have ample justification for your removal.’

‘What?’

‘Seditious comments, professed hostility to our democratically elected government, evidence that you tried to corrupt the scholars under your care …’

‘Corrupt them? What on earth?’

‘A moment.’ He reaches towards the desk and pulls the pile of papers towards him. ‘You think the Party is made up of “thugs and parasites”, is that correct? Not to mention suggesting that our esteemed Prime Minister is – ahem – a “bigoted, bitter old man”? And I believe that you have consistently insisted on teaching Christian values. For example, did you – where was it? oh yes – ask your class to assess the influence of Palestrina on the development of the grand jeu?’ He gives her a glintingly unsympathetic smile. ‘Men have faced imprisonment for less, you know.’

‘I have every right to—’

‘Not when you are charged with educating impressionable young men. Not since the Unity Bill. Didn’t you have a memorandum about that? And I won’t even ask about aiding an undesirable to evade the police, which is a capital crime.’ She only just has time to realise he’s talking about Simon Charpentier before he goes on. ‘Perhaps it would be best to bow out gracefully, my dear. Or things could become … complicated.’

‘You can’t. This isn’t—’ But she stops. Fair. Allowed. Right. None of those words is an argument, any longer. ‘How did you …? How dare you?’

Emile ruffles the papers, flicking each corner with his thumbnail. ‘Oh, well, you know,’ he says. ‘We have friends everywhere.’ He lowers his hands a little, tilting the pages so that she can see.

Léo’s handwriting. Dear Emile.

She reaches out to take the letters; but when she has them in her hand, the words blur. If she is shocked, she doesn’t feel it. It is inevitable, so obvious she should have known it all along. All these months Léo has been spying on her, in spite of his denials. This was only to be expected. He has always been a liar and an opportunist. She has always been a fool.