The Betrayals(55)
‘It is you!’ He smiles. ‘Remember me? Simon. Sorry if I scared you.’
The words inside her head are suddenly outside her head. Simon. Sorry. It makes her blink, as if objects are materialising out of thin air. She thinks of bread and cheese and fruit, hopeful, but nothing happens.
‘I couldn’t sleep, I’ve been walking about. Last night they came to my cell and – anyway. I was outside, then I heard the tap running, and I thought …’ Gently, he pushes the door wider. ‘I was hoping I’d see you again.’ He gives a laugh, although not much of one. It nudges at her memory: a laugh-that-isn’t-a-laugh, a twinge of misery. A woman saying don’t take any notice of me, darling, I’m all right, only being a bit silly … She bends her knees, ready to leap past him and out of reach.
‘I’m going home tomorrow. Are you …? I mean, you live here, do you? Are you a servant? You don’t look … Sorry, listen to me, I’m talking too much. I’m not crazy. It’s just that no one speaks to me any more, even the Magisters don’t … I feel like I’m invisible sometimes.’ He tugs at his collar. ‘Is it this, do you think? I don’t even know any more. I feel like I’m not human, Like a ghost.’
He takes a step towards her. The wall presses into her back. A trap, this is a trap. His voice. If only he’d stop talking, stop filling her attention with stupid human words.
‘Are you all right? I don’t mean to … Please don’t look at me like that, we’re not all bad. Wait.’ He fumbles in his gown. ‘Would you like this? It’s my last bit, I was saving it.’
He holds out his hand. There’s a square, glinting morsel in it. His fingers are open, ready to catch at her if she reaches out to take it. She knows better. The nerves in her teeth tingle. The soft flesh above his collar is exposed. If she has to bite to get away …
He doesn’t move. At last he exhales and steps back, still watching her, until he bumps into the edge of a man-size bowl. He looks round jerkily, as if it moved on its own. Then he puts the glinting square down on the lip. ‘I’ll leave it here, shall I? It’s fruit and nut.’
Is it bait? What does he want? She stares at him until he bobs his head.
‘I’d better get back. Early start tomorrow. Can’t wait to get home. I’ve got a sister about your age. I hope my family are …’
Silence. She stays very still. Maybe if she doesn’t move, he’ll forget she’s there.
‘Good night, then.’ He turns away, as if something has broken. ‘And, um … happy New Year.’
She waits a long time before she moves. He has gone – she knows he’s gone – but something lingers, a queasiness in her belly as though his questions have made her ill. Finally she picks up the thing he left for her and raises it to her nose. It has a skin of paper and metal, folded around at the top; when she unpeels it, the thing inside smells rich and creamy.
She bites it. For a second she is not a rat (a rat would be wary). But she is nothing else, either: only the taste of chocolate on her tongue, the little soft nub of a raisin and the harder crunch of a hazelnut. Another mouthful, and another, and it’s gone. She stands in the freezing silence, light-headed, disbelieving, her mouth full of fading sweetness. Why would someone give this away? It’s incomprehensible. No one gives her anything. Not since before – food, comfort, a woman’s voice singing her to sleep …
A trap. Of course it is a trap. That hand held out, that gentle voice, the expecting-her-to-be-human. A poison. She should have been careful. She should have known better.
She thrusts her hand into her mouth, gags and gags. At last the sweet stuff comes back up, thick and stringy and tinged with bile. She crouches, vomiting on the floor until she is sure it has all gone. Better. Then she scrubs the dark mess with her blanket until the stain is almost invisible. But her mind is not so easily purged: the words stay there – Simon, sorry – and the memory of his hand, offering. Those are a different kind of poison.
She gets up. She is careful as she goes out into the corridor, in case he is there; but the shadows are empty, the night silent. She tells herself that she is safe now, that she has averted whatever danger she saw in his eyes. But underneath she feels a perverse flicker of disappointment; and his voice echoes in her head, being kind, saying she’s like his sister, wishing her a happy New Year.
PART TWO
Vernal Term
17: Léo
Léo sits back in his seat and takes a deep breath. He’s alone in the carriage. The smell of steam and hot metal surrounds him, catching in his throat. The guard blows his whistle and the train judders and rattles, gathering speed. It’s like being twenty again: here’s the familiar sense of freedom, the faint guilt, the ache to stay on the train all the way to the terminal and stumble out into bustling streets and fleshpots … But he knows – as he always knew – that he won’t. He’ll change obediently for Montverre, without pausing to watch the train puff away to the capital. He stretches out his legs and crosses his ankles on the seat opposite; then he lights a cigarette and blows a plume at the ceiling. Mim hates to see him smoke. For the first few days at home she winced and coughed delicately when she came into his room, peering through the virtually non-existent tinge of grey-blue as if she could hardly make him out. Finally he gave in, and leant out of the window or stood on the terrace, staring into the drab flowerbeds with their wintry, hand-me-down air. It took the pleasure out of it, which was quite probably what Mim had in mind. She has a gift for that, for serving meals that are oddly savourless, no matter how much seasoning the cook has added; for pouring cocktails that seem to be mainly water; or for giving presents that clutch depressingly at the heart. At New Year he unwrapped a blotchy silver-paper packet that held a wilting tie the colour of mould.