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.
Then she stands up, locks her door, and goes back to work. But it takes her a long time to turn her attention to the essay questions she’s trying to write, and the heady spice of smoke lingers all day, clinging to her skin. Later, when she teaches a lesson, she sees the scholars frown, sniff the air, and let their eyes linger on her speculatively: as though a mere waft of molecules is enough to bewitch her against her will, change her from a Magister to a woman.
20
Second week of Vernal Term
The second week! That’s gone quickly. I thought last term was hard work, but now … We’ve got, what, ten weeks till our games have to be in? The third-years have had the whole year to work on their games, but of course this is only a practice run for us, so we don’t get half as long. (Although I bet if we called it that in front of a Magister we’d get bawled out. We’re supposed to pretend every opportunity to play a grand jeu is sacred. Ha. It’s not as if second-years ever get a real shot at the Gold Medal.) Carfax has already drawn up a plan for his, curse him.
It’s as if the vac never happened. Almost as if we’re still working on a joint game. Carfax and I are spending nearly every evening bouncing ideas off each other. First we walked over the Bridges of Königsberg – and when I say walked over, I think we’ve been back and forth over every one of them, I feel like I could draw a map of every single street in Königsberg and I STILL CAN’T WALK OVER EVERY BRIDGE ONLY ONCE – but then when we’d finally thrashed out exactly why we both hated it, I couldn’t help asking his opinion about an article I read over the New Year. And then we didn’t finish talking about it, so the next day … etc., etc.
Something’s changed since last term. He’s changed. He laughs more.
Unless it’s me. I suppose it could be me.
Sixteenth day, I think
Struggling to think of a theme for my game. Hate this feeling. Mentioned it to Carfax and I saw him start to say something pitying. Then he bit it back. I didn’t know whether to cuff him round the head or kiss him.
For not saying it, I mean. Obviously.
Seventeenth day (assuming I was counting right yesterday)
Weird, brilliant Motuum class today. I think the Magister gets bored; every so often he does something odd, and I can never tell whether he’s teaching or ragging us. We ended up going out in the snow to practise our forms – knee-deep, stumbling about like drunks – which was odd and funny and surprisingly useful.
We hurried in at the end of the lesson, dripping, and the Magister told us to go and get dry before Cartae. I was still breathless from laughing, scuffling with Jacob and Paul. Even Emile had got into the spirit of it. Then I heard someone say, ‘Dancing about in snow isn’t my idea of the grand jeu,’ and someone else said, ‘What about water? Or fire? Hey, Carfax—’
‘Yeah, Carfax, was that what your granddad was doing? Maybe he wasn’t a raving loony, maybe he was poncing about on hot coals to practise.’
I swung round. I didn’t think. ‘Shut up,’ I said. ‘Leave him alone.’
It was Felix and Freddie. They smirked and looked at each other. Felix said, ‘We were only asking Carfax about—’
I didn’t trust myself. I grabbed Carfax’s arm and dragged him up the stairs, leaving them behind. We’d come up the south-west tower so we got to his cell first. I shoved him into it and followed him, shutting the door before the others went past. After a second he said, ‘Turn your back while I get changed.’ I sighed loudly (why would I care what he looks like anyway?) but I did. While I was still staring at the wall, he said, ‘Don’t defend me.’
‘What? I only thought—’
‘Don’t. I don’t need it. I never did.’
‘All right.’ I turned round.
‘I can cope with them.’
‘I never said you couldn’t.’
There was a silence. He straightened his gown and pushed his damp hair off his face. But then, instead of opening the door to leave, he sat down at the desk and stared at the bare wood. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’d do anything to stop being a de Courcy. For a day, even.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Sure. Being descended from the most famous family of grand jeu players who ever lived must be such a burden.’
He raised his head. ‘The mad de Courcys,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard of the Lunatic of London Library. And the Half-wit Poet, I expect. How about Lady Dulcamara de Courcy de Corombona? She lived back in the eighteenth century. She invented the Italian quaintise, and poisoned a couple of lovers.’ He held my gaze, narrowing his eyes when I smiled. ‘Did you know my mother committed suicide? And she was only a de Courcy by marriage, it must be infectious … My aunt died in an asylum. My father drank himself to death. We play the grand jeu, and we burn out.’ He added, with a sort of mirthless hiccup, ‘Literally, sometimes.’
I swallowed. ‘I didn’t know. Not … that.’