The Betrayals(64)

‘Please,’ she says, ‘please don’t,’ and then she falls silent, thinking of the page she read in Martin’s diary a moment ago. Is she standing like a duellist who’s opened his arms, inviting a blow? Perhaps. Well, too bad if she is: if he steps inside her guard she’ll scratch out his eyes.

He holds her gaze for a long time. The clock chimes. A long way away a door slams, and two young voices come down the passage in a counterpoint of laughter, rising to a crescendo and fading again until another door shuts on them.

‘I must get back to—’

‘Well, I should let you work,’ he says at the same time, and they both wince and share an unconvincing smile, as though they’ve nearly collided at a blind corner. But it’s Martin who carries on, assuming he has right of way. His manner is easy again, assured; the politician is back. ‘Let me warn you, though, that I’m going to pester you this term. I have an idea for a new game, and I’m too out of practice to compose it without help.’

‘I’m not sure that I can.’

‘You offered. You did offer.’

‘Yes, but – this term, Vernal Term is tricky.’

‘I won’t be any trouble. I promise.’ He shrugs boyishly, and she can’t be bothered to point out that he’s just said he’s going to pester her. She is perfectly capable of avoiding him later. She blocks out the treacherous whisper in her head that says she might not entirely want to.

‘In the meantime,’ she says, and gestures at her desk.

‘Yes, of course.’ He bows his head in ironic obedience. ‘Oh – one more thing.’ All this time – like an amateur magician concealing a card – he’s kept one arm at his side, the hand hidden by the cloth of his trousers. Now he holds it out with a nearly casual flourish, offering her another little package. It’s smaller than the marrons glacés, but wrapped in the same blue-and-gold paper. ‘I took the liberty of …’

‘What’s that?’

‘I wondered if – I saw it, and I thought – well, after all, you don’t get to town much, and—’ He stops. Again, her reaction has fallen short of what he wanted. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing. It’s stupid.’ Now he sounds confused, accusatory. She thinks he’s going to retract his arm and storm out, without a backward glance. Instead he puts the second package on the desk, next to the other. As he steps backwards he trips against the chair and nearly falls over. Then, before she can say anything, he’s gone.

She shuts the door after him and stays there, her head close to the doorway, until his footsteps have died away. But when she finally straightens, breathing more freely, the two gaudy parcels on top of her books catch her eye, stubbornly refusing to disappear. Like a reproach? A threat? Or something else … She picks up the smaller one, weighs it in her hand, considers throwing it out of the window into the snow bank. But she’s bluffing, of course. This is what Martin does to her: she’s reduced to performing, even when she’s alone. She can’t get rid of his gaze. What is it he wants from her? What does she want from him? Nothing. Nothing.

She takes the paper off, sliding her fingers under the folds to avoid tearing it. Another game for her invisible audience, to show that she isn’t interested enough to rip it off hastily.

A dark red box, rippled with orange and saffron. Gold writing. Incenso Lagrime.

The inside slides out, like a drawer. Like a matchbox. A bottle lies on padded silk, gleaming. Even in the pale wintry light of her study it shines like a flame. She lifts it out, holds it up. The glass is stained scarlet, crimson, Indian yellow, imprisoning a bright swirl of gold sparks. It spirals to an asymmetric point, so that when she twists her wrist it seems to move, narrowing and flickering. She lifts the stopper.

Frankincense and smoke, amber, cardamom, harsh resin, beeswax … She shuts her eyes and breathes in until her lungs creak. She hears herself gasp, exhale, inhale again. It’s rich, alluring and complex; she begrudges having to breathe out. A line of poetry runs through her head: where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree … Something else, a line of terza rima, the Inferno. The phoenix, she thinks, feeds only on the tears of incense and spices. Dies and is reborn in flames. And all at once, dancing on the edge of her mind, she feels the heat and blaze of fire.

She catches her breath. Clumsily she shoves the stopper back into the bottle and puts it down.

The smell of burning. His gift is the smell of burning. She shakes her head, trying to laugh; but it stings like a whip on raw skin. An appropriate perfume for the granddaughter of the Lunatic of London Library. Another sly reminder that she is a de Courcy, and de Courcys go mad, de Courcys are dangerous. She thought all those jokes, the de Courcy jokes, had been left behind: but no, here is another one. If she closed her eyes she’d see matches scattered everywhere. Or hear Léo’s voice, malicious, as he gestured at a dying fire: Hey, de Courcy, can’t you find a couple of books to throw on that? Except this time, as she’s a woman, the joke is more elegant. An expensive present. Beautiful. Feminine. Only a hysteric would object. How dare he? For a moment, when Martin was talking about Aimé, she thought he was sincere. But this …

She puts the bottle back into its box. The scent has dampened her fingers and she resists the urge to lift her hand to her face. She puts the box in the back of a drawer, behind a pile of past papers, and slams the drawer shut.