The Betrayals(121)

He catches his breath. ‘I didn’t—’

‘All this time you were spying on me. Writing to Emile about me, about my politics, stupid things I said that weren’t meant to be repeated.’

‘Yes, I wrote him letters, but they weren’t – I didn’t mean—’

‘And then you interrupt my Midsummer Game. Oh, you weren’t trying to sabotage it. The way you submitted the Red game – that wasn’t sabotage either. Right? And then—’ Her voice wobbles, threatening to let her down. ‘Then you sleep with me. Then I find out that I’m not Magister Ludi any more – the only thing I’ve ever done, ever wanted.’ She stops, closing her mouth before she says something she can’t call back. Or starts to cry again. She’s had enough of that.

‘I only heard yesterday – after you did. I promise.’

‘Don’t,’ she says, and something in her voice shuts him up. ‘Don’t promise. Please.’ There’s a silence. Is he beginning to understand? At least he’s paying attention.

He’s staring at his hands. Without looking up, he says, ‘The Red game was brilliant. I submitted it because it was better than anything I’d ever seen. I was sure you’d win the Gold Medal.’

‘Really?’ She waits for him to meet her eyes, but he doesn’t. He looks like a scholar, with hunched shoulders and bowed head. Not a Magister; not even a grown-up. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘now you can award the Gold Medal to whomever you please. I expect the Capitulum will listen to you.’

His chin jerks up. ‘What?’

‘I overheard, yesterday. I came to find you, after they’d told me … But Emile was there. I heard him, Léo. You’re the next Magister Ludi. My replacement. Finally. You don’t have to pretend. You’ve beaten me. Again. Congratulations.’

‘You heard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then …’ He frowns.

‘There’s nothing left to say, Léo. I’m going. You’re staying. I never want to see you again.’ She slings her rucksack on to one shoulder. Then she realises she’s still wearing her gown. She dumps the rucksack and pulls the heavy white cloth over her head. When she drops it in a heap at her feet she feels lighter, colder, naked. She picks up her bag again. It’s time to say goodbye, but the word won’t come.

‘I said no.’ Léo reaches out, although he doesn’t touch her. It isn’t a grand jeu gesture, and yet it could be: an urgent transition, deliberately awkward, his fingers splayed. ‘I said no, Claire. I told Emile I wasn’t doing it. I’m not going to be Magister Ludi. Didn’t you hear that part?’

She looks at his fingers, stretching towards her, and the space between his skin and hers feels heavy, like before a storm.

‘Did you hear what I said? I’m not replacing you. I turned him down. I told him he could find someone else.’ He follows her gaze and drops his hand. ‘He wasn’t too happy. Suffice to say, I think I’ve ruined my chances of getting an Order of the Empire in the next year’s Honours.’

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t believe him. Yes, she does.

‘I swear to you. Claire, I said no.’

Silence. She can hear him breathing.

At last she says, ‘Why? Don’t you want to be Magister Ludi?’

She sees him wonder whether to lie. Then he takes a deep breath. ‘Of course I do,’ he says. ‘Of course. I’ve wanted it all my life. But there are other things I want more.’

She nods, slowly. ‘And now,’ she says, ‘you expect me to be grateful.’

‘No, that isn’t … I never said that.’

‘It doesn’t change anything. They sacked me because they could. And they could because of your letters. Emile threatened me, too. With evidence that you’d given him.’

‘I was na?ve – I never meant for those letters to be used like that. At all. I wasn’t thinking when I wrote them.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Léo. That’s what I’m saying.’ She leans against the wall, so weary suddenly that she isn’t sure her knees will hold her up. ‘You did one honourable thing, and you think that makes everything all right. Love conquers all. But it doesn’t. I’ve lost everything. Why should I care whether you’ve made a noble sacrifice?’

‘I thought …’ He has gone white. Whatever he says, he did think it would make everything all right; he thought that she would forgive him and they’d go off into the sunset, hand in hand. A quick, saccharine fermeture, a resolution on the major chord.

‘You turned down something you wanted. What do you expect, a medal?’

‘I did it for you.’

‘Then I’m sorry it was wasted.’

He mutters, ‘You’re very hard.’

‘I don’t have any reason to be kind to you, Léo. That’s what you think women should do, isn’t it? Make you feel better. Help you live with your mistakes. Drop a veil over the mirror. Well, too bad. I don’t have anything left to lose, so I can tell the truth.’

‘I thought the truth was that you loved me.’

‘The truth is that it’s too late.’ She wasn’t sure, before she said it, whether it was the truth; but the act of saying it seems to make it so. It sends a shiver of pain down her spine: dulled by fatigue, but unmistakable. It’s also true that she loves him.