The Betrayals(26)

The Magister Scholarium sighs. ‘We must be practical,’ he says. ‘It might be expedient to concede certain … measures to the government. Temporarily.’ He stares into the middle distance, and for a second she imagines what he’s seeing: hundreds of young men slaving over their essays, their exam revision, their submission games, all hoping for a place at Montverre next year. How many of them are Christian? How many of them are like – what is his name? Her Christian first-year, who seems promising: not brilliant, yet, but promising. Stephen? No, Simon.

‘No Christians,’ the Magister Corporeum says. ‘Is that what we’re talking about?’ He glances around, like a scholar who has ventured a risky answer and wishes he hadn’t. No one responds.

She should fight. But she can feel the decision in the room, as blank and solid as a brick wall. Nothing she can throw at it will make a mark. She says, ‘And what of our current scholars?’

The Magister Scholarium catches her eye. There’s a flash of relief in his look, gratitude for her capitulation, and she swallows a faint taste of bile. ‘It goes without saying,’ he says, ‘that we will never ask an existing scholar to leave the school purely on the basis of their background.’

‘Well then,’ the Magister Cartae says, ‘that’s settled. I will draft a memo.’

She sits back. She still feels sick. Cramp settles deeper in her abdomen and drags downwards. The blood roars in her ears. Someone says something about the next item on the agenda. She lets their voices blur. None of it is important. It is all she can do to stay where she is, as the nausea comes and goes.

After what seems an age the clock strikes and there is a mutter of cracking joints and creaking wood as the men lean back in their chairs. The Magister Scholarium says, ‘Well, thank you, gentlemen.’

The Magister Cartae is the first to stand up. He nods to the Magister Scholarium, pats his papers into a pile and drifts towards the door. The others get up and follow him, breaking into knots and couples, murmuring to one other. Slowly she levers herself to her feet. She is light-headed. She can smell the others’ claggy lungs, their windpipes, their tongues.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, and pushes past, to the door. Voices come down the stairs behind her. She swerves right, past a row of identical doors, heading for the little walled cloister below the clock tower. It’s out of bounds for the scholars, which makes it a good place to be alone; and at this time of year it catches a few brief hours of sunlight and some precious warmth. She pushes open the door; after the dark passage, the white arches and green knots of hedge are like a painting, too bright to be real. A gust of cool air wraps her gown around her legs. A wisp of hair tickles her cheek. The sky above the clock tower is a limpid autumnal blue.

But she’s not alone. Léo Martin is sitting on the bench, a cigarette between his fingers. He’s rattling a matchbox in his other hand. It makes a scratchy, ragged tattoo in the sheltered quietness. Next to him, the pages of a discarded newspaper flutter gently in the breeze. She catches sight of the headline: Bible Bonfire Engulfs Church. The picture is stark, a blaze of white and grey against black, a cross in flames. Below it, a smaller headline announces: Overwhelming Enthusiasm for Social Purity.

He turns his head and sees her. He smiles politely, welcoming her, as if she’s the one who’s intruding. For a few seconds she is frozen, not quite believing that he is here, with his tobacco smoke and his despicable newspaper.

‘Put that out!’

He blinks. ‘What?’

She points at the cigarette. The muscles in her arm are as tight as wires. ‘You’re not allowed to smoke here. Put it out.’

‘I—’ He hesitates. ‘Why?’

‘It’s against the rules.’

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but why? I’m outside. What harm is one cigarette going to do? There aren’t any scholars here to see me.’ He blows smoke into the blue sky, as if he’s inviting her to watch it evanesce. ‘Unless you’re afraid I’ll corrupt you,’ he adds, laughing. Of course, laughing.

‘There are priceless books here,’ she says. Her voice grates in her ears. ‘There is a library which – if someone were careless with a naked flame, a spark—’

‘On the other side of the school,’ he says. ‘Not in this cloister.’

She draws in her breath. There are flickering lights at the edge of her mind’s eye, the image of thousands of matches scattered across a stone floor. ‘Don’t you have a healthy fear of being burnt to death in your bed? You of all people—’ She wants to shame him, to throw his endless, merciless jokes back in his face; but that would mean admitting to having read his diary.

His eyes narrow. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Mr Martin. Put out your cigarette. Now.’

He holds her gaze. Something hardens in his face. He says, ‘Perhaps if you said please.’

She grabs his arm and before he has time to react she has reached across his body and plucked the cigarette from between his fingers. She dashes it to the ground and grinds it out with the toe of her shoe, and then they are staring at each other. She is so angry it’s difficult to breathe. Even though she has let go of him, she can feel the warmth of his body, the sturdy flesh-and-bone of his arm; the sensation is so strong that she wipes her hand on her gown. She is shaking.