The Betrayals(69)

Down this corridor are the music rooms. Someone is practising scales and arpeggios. He pauses, listening to the clean clarity of the notes as they rise and fall, until a pang of not-quite-memory makes him turn away. His mind’s eye catches at a crescent moon in a window, the deep blue of an evening sky. A face, a shiver on his skin …

And there’s a voice. For a split second it’s both past and present, a familiar inflection that tugs at him like a dream. He turns. Magister Dryden is coming down the corridor with a scholar, laughing.

Laughing. Why does that bother him? Because he wants to be there at her side, the way he would have been with Carfax, the one to make her laugh. He draws back into the doorway of the furthest music room to watch her approach. She’s not like the other Magisters; she wouldn’t be, even if she were a man. She’s different in other ways, in almost every way … She pauses, turning to the scholar, and he hears a fragment of speech: ‘… clever,’ she says, ‘but is it true?’ The scholar grins and ducks his head, conceding.

It’s a strange feeling, watching her like this. Léo’s not exactly hidden, but at the same time he feels the shameful, irresistible rush of spying on her. He wishes he could have seen her at her viva. She must have been exceptional, even if she was only elected because the shortlist was mismanaged. But he’ll see her play the Midsummer Game. He asked the Magister Scholarium if he could stay for it; he wasn’t expecting to be refused, but neither was he expecting the Magister to offer him a seat on the front bench. ‘I understand that you were unable to attend the year you won the Gold Medal,’ the Magister said, ‘so perhaps you should consider yourself to have earnt your place there.’ It was absurd how much that pleased him, even if he suspected that his Gold Medal wasn’t the only reason for the privilege. He hasn’t told her yet that he’ll be there; he wants to surprise her.

The scholar says, ‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Magister,’ and scurries through the door into the main courtyard. A gust of air – cool but scented – swirls down the corridor. The Magister stands looking after him, that amused, authoritative look still on her face.

He almost doesn’t say anything. He’s relishing the pleasure of observing her without her knowing. But there’s something about her expression which stings him into stepping forward. ‘Magister Dryden,’ he says.

She smiles. There’s no hesitation, no thought: she sees him, and her face lights up.

It hits him like a draught of water when he didn’t realise he was thirsty, like the first drag of a cigarette or the first mouthful of a Martini. He smiles back. For maybe half a second the world hangs immobile, the space between them singing. The niggle of jealousy – was it jealousy? how absurd – evaporates; there’s nothing but her gaze meeting his, the sense that they are the only people in the world.

He laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it: a gulp of delight and mirth because he can’t quite – and yet he does, he knows, it’s crazy but he suddenly realises how she isn’t only different from the other Magisters, she’s different from everyone else in the world, except possibly Carfax. What’s happening to him? But he knows. He wants to stand here and stare at her, for ever. There is nowhere else he’d rather be, no one else he’d rather look at. In spite of her plainness, her masculine jaw and straight brows, in spite of – no, because, because she’s herself, she’s lovely, and he never saw it. He hasn’t felt this way since—

She blinks, as if conscious of what her face is doing. She fusses with a loop of hair that has fallen out of her cap, and when she looks up, her expression is deliberately impassive. Momentarily she was so like Carfax it was uncanny. Now she’s herself again, keeping him at bay; but that instant of pleasure and complicity has given her away. She likes him. In spite of herself, perhaps. He feels it like sunlight reflecting off snow. It blots out everything else. He tips his head back, still smiling at her, and the scent of spring whistles damply through the cracks around the doors and windows.

‘Mr Martin,’ she says, striding towards him, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you, Magister,’ he says.





22


Fourth week of term

Haven’t had time to write for ages. Composing a whole game in nine weeks …

I love it, though. On good days I’m sure it’s a good idea. Reflections, I mean. I’ve got that nervous euphoric feeling. When I’m in lessons I’m constantly struggling to listen; I’ve started taking my rough notebook to every class, in case something comes to me and I have to write it down. I’m having real trouble sleeping because things start whirling round in my head. As soon as I get an idea I’m trying to hold on to it, clenching my mind around it in case it slips away. I’m all sewn up, but in a good way, I suppose. At least, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

Fifth week

Odd thing this evening with Carfax. We were both on edge anyway, I think. This afternoon we’d got back an analysis from Magister Holt, and he’d scored sixty-three and I’d only got fifty-seven, so I was feeling irritable already. Also I think we’re both tired, in an electric unrestful way that means we spark off each other, and we were having one of those conversations where no matter how reasonable I’m being he’s determined to take offence. (Well, it felt like that. On reflection, I suppose I might not have been all that reasonable.) I’d criticised the middle movement of his Tempest, and he’d put his head in his hands and said through gritted teeth, ‘You said it was too overwhelming, and now you’re saying it’s underwhelming. What do you advise, Martin?’