The Betrayals(52)

He wanted to please her. Why did he want to please her? To prove a point? Because she’s so resistant to his charm? Because every smile won from her is a point scored, a concession made? Because he can’t abide the thought that she might win?

No, it isn’t that. Not only that. He sees himself setting down the little wooden box of marrons glacés on her desk, waiting for her thanks. It’s not about pleasing her, or not really. It’s an offering. As if the power of life and death is in her hands. As if he might – as if – if he does everything right – if he can somehow alight on the exactly right move in the game – as if, yes, then she might look at him and not be herself any more but be Carfax – as if he could turn back time—

He wants forgiveness. The realisation brings a taste of bile into his mouth, a surge of self-disgust. Stupid. Pathetic. Even if he deserved it, there’s no way back.

He turns down the corridor, hurrying, but it’s not fast enough to leave himself behind. He speeds up, until sweat starts out on his forehead; then he breaks into a clumsy run, not caring if anyone sees him.





15


First day of winter vacation

I’m at the station, writing this in the tea room. I’ve got almost an hour before my train comes. To sit here I had to order some tea, but it’s bright orange and it tastes of grease and dirty dishcloth, so one mouthful was enough. But it was only so I could avoid the others. Emile and Jacob change here too, but I saw them go into the gentleman’s bar. It’s a pity, I could murder a brandy, but I can’t bear the prospect of having to talk. It was hard enough on the train from Montverre, everyone shouting and messing about, but now I don’t think I could string together a coherent sentence. Not aloud, anyway. I’m so tired I’ve come out the other end of it, and everything is a bit too clear and bright, as if I’m seeing it through a diamond.

Yesterday we only had morning lessons – mainly Magisters handing out the last of our vacation work. I can tell you already that next term is going to be oh-so amusing, given that we’ve been told to meditate on trees in all their forms (!), research the ancient Greek and Roman rituals of communion with the divine, and familiarise ourselves with the Bridges of K?nigsberg. Not to mention tick off everything on Magister Holt’s reading list, which is full of books that will definitely not be in our local library. Gah. I suppose they have to find some way to keep us out of mischief for two months, while the old place is snowed in … Anyway, after lunch we had the Quietus early, and then a few hours to pack before dinner. I flung everything into my trunk and then lay down on my bed, hoping to drift off to sleep, but I couldn’t. I was too nervous. The marks for the joint game always go up before dinner, the last day of term.

Finally the bell rang. It was as if everyone was waiting for that moment. I heard all the doors in our corridor open at once, and a rush of footsteps. I got up as slowly as I could, splashed my face with water, smoothed my hair down where it had got stuck in a stupid tuft, and then couldn’t think of any other way to distract myself. I didn’t want to be there at the same time as the rest of them, pushing and shoving to see the noticeboard, having to elbow people in order to stay at the front long enough to find my name … Our names. But I felt worse than before an exam, and I wanted it to be over. So I went downstairs to look.

There was a muttering group of scholars in front of the noticeboard. Paul looked round and said to me, ‘They haven’t put the marks up yet.’

‘What? Why?’

Paul shrugged. Freddie said, ‘Because they’re cold-blooded bastards,’ with real venom. His father promised him a motor car for New Year if he got more than fifty. Funny how it’s always the hopeless cases who get offered bribes. Maybe that’s why; if Dad had promised me the same he’d have had to cough up last term.

‘They’re still debating,’ Emile said. ‘I walked past the Capitulum on my way here.’

‘Past the Capitulum? To get here? Where were you, the servants’ quarters?’

I’d been joking, but Emile gave me a strange look. Someone (Jacob, I think) said, ‘Well, they’ll have to put them up soon. Won’t they? Before we go home?’

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’m going to dinner.’ I wasn’t remotely hungry, but I wasn’t going to stand there mithering like an aristocrat in the queue for the guillotine. So I stalked off. Some of the others came with me, and we all made a point of talking and laughing as if we couldn’t care less.

It wasn’t until halfway through dinner (I have no idea what I ate, or if I ate anything) that Felix came rushing into the refectory and announced, ‘They’re up!’

And then he caught my eye, and said, ‘Well done.’

Seventy.

Seventy. A distinction. The nearest mark to us was Emile and Paul, and that was sixty-two.

I can’t remember what Felix said, or getting to my feet, or walking out. I was in front of the noticeboard, and our names were at the top of the page.

Aimé Carfax de Courcy and Léonard Martin, Danse Macabre, 70.

People were behind me. Someone swore, someone said, ‘Oh come on, we deserved more than that!’ and someone else said, ‘Phew, I was sure we’d completely messed it up …’ I let the current push me to one side and leant against the wall, still reeling. Seventy. I can’t remember anyone getting higher than sixty-five, not even Carfax.