She bends over the page, laughing softly. Why didn’t she think of this before? All this time wasted on searching for ideas, when what she needed was right here. She raises the book to her face and puts her lips against the cover. Can she smell ink and sweat? Perhaps. The passions of ten years ago, the hours spent in the library, the exhaustion and euphoria. The late nights, the sleepless nights, the white nights … Nights like this one. She tries not to think about Léo’s mouth against hers, that moment before she pushed him away. A wave of gratitude crashes over her, and for a moment she doesn’t care that Aimé’s dead, or that it was her fault. She says, under her breath, ‘Thank you,’ and then, because she can, she says it again, aloud.
25: Léo
He dreams, not of Claire, but of Chryseïs. She is in front of him in a queue, in mourning – in the dream he isn’t surprised, as if it has come back into fashion – her back turned to him, her hair hidden under an elegant little hat. They are in a hall which is both the Great Hall at Montverre and the Central Immigration Office, and they are waiting for something important. Final marks. There is a slick of blood on the floor but people step decorously around it, without commenting. They have been waiting for a long time. But whenever the queue inches forward there are more people in front of Léo, more people separating him from her, and somehow he is incapable of pushing forward. She is afraid. They are all afraid; and as well as the fear Léo is full of a creeping sense of guilt. It’s his fault that Chryseïs is here, and in black. If he could call out, he would.
She reaches the front of the queue, and the man behind the desk looks up. In that instant Léo sees that it’s Carfax. He doesn’t understand why he didn’t notice before. If he had been more observant … But it doesn’t matter. For a few flaring seconds he is full of joy, because it has all been a misunderstanding, and Carfax is somehow alive.
Then a bell rings, and it’s too late. Out of nowhere there is a glass wall between Léo and the rest of the room. He knows that he is trapped, and something appalling is going to happen, and he is going to have to watch.
He wakes in a panic. He’s been left behind, behind glass. He has done something terrible. Something stupid. He has to sit up and wipe the sweat off his face before he knows what’s the dream and what’s true. Carfax is dead but Chryseïs has gone, and please let her be in hiding or on her way to safety. He draws a long breath. Only a nightmare, the remains of the fever combined with too much to drink.
He gets up, a little shakily, dresses and shaves. He has been getting better at shaving without a mirror, but today he manages to nick himself and the blood stains his cuff before he can get it to stop. He pauses to stare at the drop of scarlet spreading into the weave of the fabric. Red as the Red game, red like—
He kissed the Magister Ludi.
The memory comes from nowhere, so vivid that for a moment he thinks he’s dreamt that too. But no, it’s real, it really happened: his mouth against hers, hot breath and smooth skin, the moment where he thought she was going to kiss him back. Before she pushed him away. He grimaces.
He has to see her. He splashes his face, blinking and gasping, until the cut on his chin has stopped stinging. The water in the basin is pink. His face wavers in it, a ruddy ghost. He’s glad to turn away from it; although as he leaves the room he imagines his reflection still there, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for him to return.
It’s late, long past breakfast. The corridors are mostly quiet, although here and there grey-clad servants are sweeping or dusting. They move aside silently to let him pass. As he turns into the Magisters’ corridor there’s the sound of an engine, and a khaki police van drives through the gatehouse into the courtyard. He stops to watch. Surely it’s an emergency, if it’s been allowed into the courtyard itself? But the bell is silent, and no one hurries out to meet it. Instead the porter who has waved it through slouches back into the lodge, and a single policeman gets out with a weary groan. He has a sheet of paper in one hand, and he consults it. There’s something in the gesture that reminds Léo of his dream. He leans closer to the window so that he can listen unobtrusively.
The clock strikes ten. As if on cue, a scholar hurries out of the far tower with a suitcase. He isn’t wearing a gown, and he looks out of place and awkward, like a tourist. A cloth cross is tacked crookedly to his waistcoat. The policeman gets a pencil from behind his ear and says, ‘Charpentier or Throckmorton?’
‘Throckmorton.’
The policeman nods and makes a mark on the paper. He opens the van door and gestures to Throckmorton to get in. Then he leans against the bonnet and waits. After a few moments he lights a cigarette and passes the packet in through the van window to his colleague.
Nothing is happening; the policemen smoke, and Throckmorton sits quietly on the bench in the dim space behind them, only his legs and suitcase visible. But Léo’s unease grows, prickling up and down his spine. He has never seen the police at Montverre – no, that’s not true. He has seen them once, after that servant fell from the Square Tower, not long after the news about Carfax; then they came to scrape up the body and certify the death as an accident. This is different.
What are they waiting for? One policeman mutters something to the other and laughs. Léo wants to turn away, but something keeps him at the window, watching. As if being a witness can prevent – whatever it is he’s worried about … He remembers Sara Paget and Pirène talking about the new Purity Laws.
Footsteps echo at the far end of the corridor. He looks round. A figure in a shabby jumper and trousers is knocking at Magister Dryden’s door, a suitcase in the other hand and an armful of books balanced in the crook of his elbow. Another scholar. This time Léo recognises him, vaguely: Charpentier, the other Christian. He has a hangdog look that makes Léo want to shake him; and the brownish clothes make him look even weedier, like grass that’s been flattened under a rock. He knocks again, with a defeated air, as though he already knows that Magister Dryden is elsewhere. At last he sags to a crouch and piles the books next to the door. Then he picks up his suitcase again and walks towards Léo, towards the exit to the courtyard.
‘Hey!’
Charpentier flinches. ‘Sorry,’ he says reflexively.
Léo despises himself. He should let this pathetic young man go. ‘There’s a police van out there. Is it you they’re waiting for?’
‘Oh – yes. I’m going home.’
‘Home?’
‘Yes, I was returning the Magister’s books.’ He hunches, like an animal making itself small.
‘The police are taking you home?’
Charpentier jerks his head as though a wasp has flown at him. But he’s used to being spoken to roughly; he doesn’t protest. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We had a letter … They’re updating the Register. Only for a few days, we’ve been told to pack night things and our papers but nothing else.’
Léo looks at the suitcase. It’s small and battered, with chipped initials painted on the side. SC. It was expensive, once; now it inspires him with pity that’s tinged with distaste. He glances out of the window to where the policeman is checking his watch. Smoke drifts on the air. Throckmorton’s feet haven’t moved.