The Betrayals(59)

He paused by the scent counter. A girl with a brassy Marcel wave – a little like Chryse?s, but not as beautiful – gave him a shy upwards glance. ‘Can I help you?’ And then …

Argh, what possessed him? He shakes his head with a wry smile, as if he’s being observed. It’s one of the skills he learnt at the Ministry, dismissing his own embarrassment with panache; but this time there’s no one here to absolve him, no one to charm or distract. The second blue-and-gold package is crammed into the corner of his suitcase, wrapped in a pair of socks. The only person who knows it’s there is Léo himself; but he’s the only one he can’t deceive. What a fool. If he had any sense, he’d lean out of the window as the train winds along a ravine or over a viaduct and hurl it into unseen depths.

Then again, he can always keep it wrapped and hidden. No one will laugh at his stupidity, except him.

The landscape slides past – fields, a windmill – familiar and unfamiliar, places that he’s only ever seen from a moving train. How many times has he made this journey? Six times – no, seven times … Sometimes he liked the feeling of suspension, the in-between limbo before he arrived at Montverre; later, in his third year, he felt numb and taciturn, like a man on the way to the gallows. And now …

Now, he realises, he’s happy.

It’s like the first glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror, the day he got to Mim’s: he stuttered mid-step – no, actually walked backwards – to get a proper view of himself, astounded at how much weight he’d lost. His clothes had been looser, of course, but he was amazed to see the clean shape of his jaw, the straight drop from chest to waistband. He hadn’t realised he’d had that much to lose. And feeling happy is the same, somehow; it feels alien, dislocating. He can’t understand it. Is it merely relief at escaping Mim? No more tense dinners, greyish slabs of meat, painfully dilute cocktails. Or is it something else? The pleasure of serenity and sacrifice. Going back to a sanctuary from politics, and the Purity Laws, and his own guilt. The frisson of renouncing the temptations of the world and the flesh.

It’s nothing, nothing at all to do with the little blue-and-gold package in his suitcase.





18


First day of Vernal Term

It’s all so familiar. Slogging up the hill, the first sight of the towers through blinked-away sweat, the walk across the courtyard. Bright clouds scudding across the sky, so that the snow glared and dazzled and then died to dull grey. And when I looked up it looked like the Great Hall was toppling. About to fall on me. Tragedy as promising scholar crushed by collapsing building. Bereaved father campaigns for compensation.

Carfax wasn’t at dinner. I went and knocked on his door after the Quietus but he didn’t answer, and when I pushed it open a crack the room was empty. Nothing there. His trunk wasn’t at the foot of the bed. I suddenly thought of that time he got a telegram from home. What if something happened and he couldn’t come back? Surely he wouldn’t stash it now. But then, where is he?

Second day of Vernal Term

Last night I couldn’t sleep. Again. I got up to put on an extra shirt, and a big woollen jersey, and another pair of socks. Then I didn’t feel like going back to bed. I’d only given myself a sketchy wash, because of the cold, and I had an itchy, grimy sensation on my skin from the train journey. I thought about going to the lavatory and running myself a bath, but at its best the water is tepid, and the idea of stripping off and getting in was worse than feeling dirty. I looked out of the window but there was no light anywhere. Everyone else was asleep. Remember that night when I saw Carfax’s window casting a square of lamplight on the curtain of snow? It seems years ago. Where is he? All over the vacation I kept thinking of things I wanted to say to him – jokes, ideas, fragments of grand jeu play, things that only he would understand – and now they’re all stuck in my head. It never occurred to me that he might not be here. He has to come back. He has to.

I found myself going out into the passage. I didn’t know where I was going but I set off as if I did. I kept listening for other footsteps, but it was as if I was the only person in the world. I don’t think it’s forbidden to wander around at night, but I’m pretty sure it’d be frowned upon. We’ve all got chamberpots, and the library’s locked at midnight, so it’s not like there’s anywhere you can legitimately go.

I made my way down to the Lesser Hall, and stood for a while at the window at the far end. The clouds were still sailing across the sky, so that you’d swear the moon was moving. Then I went out into the lobby. I actually considered going out into the snow – it looked so clean out there, almost daylight-bright – but instead I went over to a low, narrow door I’d never been through. It’s another tacit rule, that we’re not allowed in the servants’ corridors. I left it ajar behind me, in case I got lost, but the light disappeared as I climbed the spiral staircase and in a few moments I was in pitch darkness. I had to feel my way along, and I was starting to think I should turn round and go back when I came out at the top. I think I must have been above the kitchens. I was right under the roof, with low windows on one side and doors on the other – not big arched oak doors like ours, but plain and set close together. Staff dormitories, I guess. The place smelt of stale sour soap. I swear I could hear the servants breathing behind those doors. It was like standing outside a kennel: half comforting, half alien.