The Betrayals(114)

She passes the pages back to Emile. Her hand is entirely steady. She says, ‘I see. Thank you.’ Then she turns and walks out, determined to be out of sight before she feels anything.





38: Léo


He can’t stay still. There’s too much blood in his veins, too much electricity in the connections of his brain. He hears the clock strike above him. Surely explaining herself to the Magister Scholarium can’t take this long; surely she’ll come soon? Unless she doesn’t want to see him. The possibility makes him cringe inside. If, after all, he said something wrong, if she’s having second thoughts … But he only has to close his eyes to see her face, dazed and radiant, as open as a clear sky: she loves him, she’s always loved him. It gives him a shiver of happiness and disbelief. He was so vain, ten years ago, to take it as his due, to think it was a game that he’d won. Now he feels incredulous. She loves him.

But where is she? He wants to go and look for her, but he’s afraid that they’ll miss each other. It’s absurd to agonise like this, he’ll see her soon, but he can’t wait. He paces from the window to the wall and back again.

Footsteps come up the stairs. He leaps towards the door and opens it. ‘At last,’ he says, ‘I’ve been waiting.’

It’s Emile. He smiles widely and steps inside. ‘Have you?’ he says, with a smoothness that doesn’t give anything away. ‘How clever of you.’

‘Emile.’ His heart sinks.

Emile shuts the door. ‘I hope you’re recovered,’ he says. ‘After your … what was it? A brainstorm? Bilious attack? The runs?’

‘It wasn’t serious.’

‘No,’ Emile says, ‘I didn’t imagine that it was.’ That smile is still on his face, as if they’re sharing a joke. He saunters over to Léo’s desk and leans against it, surveying the piles of books, cigarettes and chocolates. ‘I must congratulate you. I never considered such a direct form of sabotage.’

‘It wasn’t sabotage.’ He tries to summon the memory of that giddy moment when he found himself on his feet. Had he meant to stop her? Well, yes, but only because he thought she’d plagiarised Carfax’s game, not for any other reason. Certainly not to please Emile: and yet Emile is looking at him as if that’s exactly what he thinks. ‘Look,’ Léo says, ‘you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I felt ill, that’s all.’

Emile laughs. For once, it sounds as if he’s genuinely amused. ‘Really?’ he says. ‘Not sabotage? The way you substituted Carfax’s game by mistake, I suppose.’

He blinks. How does Emile know that? Did he piece it together from overheard snippets at the time, or from something Carfax said, or Léo himself? Or is it simply that these days it’s Emile’s business to know things? It doesn’t matter. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘that was a mistake, too,’ and there’s hardly a hitch in his voice. ‘I have every respect for the Magister Ludi. I would never try to undermine her. It was a … misunderstanding.’

Emile narrows his eyes, his smile fading. ‘I don’t follow,’ he says. ‘You must know it’s precisely what we needed.’

‘That’s not …’ He fumbles for a cigarette packet and pulls one out. Where is Claire? Why hasn’t she come? He doesn’t want to think about the moment when she turned away and left the Great Hall. Something in Emile’s expression makes him remember a row of men on the back bench, balancing programmes and notebooks, scribbling furiously; when he ran past them, they were craning to look, their eyes gleeful. ‘It’s nothing. She was taken ill. Or rather – it’s my fault.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Emile holds out his lighter but he doesn’t let go of it, so Léo has to twist it out of his grip.

He lights his cigarette, more deliberately than he needs to. He has to stop talking; nothing he can say will make a difference. He humiliated Claire, and it doesn’t matter why. Oh, if only he’d known, if only he hadn’t … ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘What do you want?’

‘I came to give you some good news.’

He doesn’t want to ask. For a second he thinks he hears footsteps – is it Claire? Surely this time – but as he turns his head to listen, Emile starts to speak again.

‘I know you’re sentimental about this place,’ Emile says. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that it’s staying as it is. Dettler had grand plans – a school in the capital, a whole new institution – but I always thought it was more trouble than it was worth. Far better to keep it here, with its august traditions and so on. There’ll be a few minor changes to the financial structures, perhaps. A bit more quid pro quo … But the Old Man doesn’t want to see Montverre dismantled.’

Léo stares at him. A school in the capital. Was that what Pirène was hinting at, at New Year? The thought makes him shudder. If he’d only known … At last he says, ‘You’re leaving us alone?’

Emile raises his eyebrows at the word ‘us’; but he only nods.

Léo turns away because he doesn’t want Emile to see his expression. Relief pools in his knees, his gut. He hadn’t realised the damage he might have done. Of course Montverre is strong enough to weather a storm. A tempest. It isn’t made of glass, after all. He forces himself to speak. ‘That is good news.’