The Betrayals(42)

‘Get out!’ he says.

‘I was only looking—’

‘That’s none of your business.’ He spreads his arm over the papers, with a gesture that would be childish if it weren’t for his expression. She rights herself. Her breath is jumping in her throat, refusing to touch the bottom of her lungs.

‘I’m the Magister Ludi, I have every—’

‘Not to look at—’ He seems to catch himself. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he says, more calmly, ‘but this is very personal. I’d be grateful if you didn’t pry.’

She turns her head, focusing on the bookshelves and the windows, the ordered familiarity of the archive. She forces herself to breathe out, very slowly, until the last shudder of air leaves her. She imagines her anger as a candle flame. By the end of the exhalation it’s guttered and gone. Or, at least, it’s an infinitesimal globe of blue, clinging to life but easy to ignore. ‘You weren’t here,’ she says, finally bringing her gaze back to his face, ‘and your notes were lying around. I wasn’t prying.’

He bites his lip; but not as if he’s sorry, more as if he still wants to shout at her. A line of his handwriting flashes into her mind’s eye: Am I a thug and a bully? Yes. Yes, he is. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘you’ve seen them now. So …’ He gestures at the door, as if this long room were his own private office. His voice is too loud. ‘I’d like to get back to work.’

The ache in her hip intensifies, overflowing suddenly into her thigh as if the pain was in her pocket and the seams have burst. She reaches out for the back of the chair, because her knees have started to shake. Her body is catching up; it’s always slower to react than her mind. He’ll think she’s emotional. She says, with as much disdain as she can, ‘Of course, Mr Martin. I’ll leave you to your … work.’ She tries to turn away without limping. ‘The Danse Macabre, though,’ she adds, making it sound like an afterthought. ‘You really want to spend your time here recreating a game from your second year? Can’t you think of anything better to do?’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ he says, ‘will you stop …’ Then he blinks. ‘Wait. You recognised it.’ A pause. ‘How …?’

She doesn’t answer. That was foolish; she shouldn’t have indulged the impulse to make him feel small.

‘You looked at my file. Didn’t you? You looked me up. Wait, was it you that took the Danse Macabre out of the library? Both copies? Why both?’ He gives a single, incredulous gulp of laughter. ‘Honestly, I’m flattered, but—’ And he is. There’s a new note in his voice, ease, a relieved warmth, he thinks he knows what’s going on, he’s looking at her as if, for the first time, she’s a woman.

She can’t bear it. ‘That’s absurd,’ she says. ‘Don’t be so vain.’

‘But you recognised it, didn’t you? How?’

She digs one fingernail into the edge of her thumb. Careful. Whatever happens, she mustn’t let slip anything else, that she’s got his diary in her private collection – or that she knows him better than he realises, all his dirty secrets—

She cuts off the thought, stupidly afraid that he’ll read it in her face. ‘If files are missing, that’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. It rang a bell, that’s all.’ She wants to turn away, but her body is betraying her, has left her stranded in front of him.

‘How could you possibly have known what it was called?’ Good God, he’s almost teasing her now. ‘It’s all right,’ he adds, ‘I can understand why you’d want to do your research on me before I arrived.’

‘I had – I have no interest in you whatsoever,’ she says. It’s a lie, of course, and it sounds like a lie; she feels a wave of sweat prickle over her scalp. ‘I happened to recognise the title – the Danse Macabre must have been mentioned in Magister Holt’s notes. Or perhaps …’ Her voice is sliding upwards. He’s watching her with ironic eyes. ‘Oh, please,’ she says, ‘I have every right to look at old games, I teach the scholars – and if I did happen to glance at your file it wasn’t on your account. I certainly wouldn’t dream of removing anything—’

‘Oh, of course not,’ he says. ‘A mere accidental glance, I’m sure. And a complete coincidence that the copies have disappeared.’

‘It was a joint game! It’s not all about you, Martin.’

‘Really?’ He smirks.

She has never known anyone who could make her this angry. Reading his diary has always made her seethe – but this is worse, the way he’s looking at her, the absolute arrogance … ‘Yes, really. As it happens I was much more interested in Aimé’s contribution.’

He blinks, once. It’s only a split second of surprise before he covers it up. But she can see he’s irked. ‘Oh come on,’ he says. ‘I was a Gold Medallist, you know. Not a second-year dropout. Carfax was clever, but I find it hard to believe that you happened to—’

Bile burns her throat. Martin should never have won the Gold Medal. ‘Don’t talk about him like that.’

‘What? Clever? I’m only pointing out that he’s not exactly a credible subject for study.’