There was a silence. It’s crazy, but there was something about his voice, as if he was casting a spell. As if we were the last people left.
‘What would you do?’
‘I’d go home,’ he said. ‘I’d get into an empty train, and it would start to move, and I’d check the other carriages because I wouldn’t quite believe what was happening. And there’d be no one, and I’d sit down and try not to panic. And maybe there’d be an old newspaper on the seat beside me, and I’d read that, and there’d be nothing that explained … And when the train stopped, I’d get out and I’d walk the long way up, past the vineyards. And there’d be no one at home, either. And I’d call out, for – for my sister, and she wouldn’t be there, there’d be all the family portraits on the wall and not a single living thing in earshot. And then …’ He stopped.
‘And then?’
‘And then,’ he said, smiling at the slope of slates above us, ‘what else? I’d go into the library and I’d start a grand jeu.’
After a few seconds I began to laugh. ‘You’re mad, you know that? Absolutely crackers.’
‘I know.’ He rolled over to look at me, leaning on one elbow. In the dimness it was hard to make out his expression. The edge of his sleeve brushed against mine and I swear I felt it all the way down my backbone. I thought: now. Neither of us moved.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you have nightmares about?’
‘Was that a nightmare? It sounded like a fantasy.’
‘Come on.’ He tilted his head back and squinted at me. ‘You must be scared of something. Is it getting a lower mark than me at the end of term?’
‘Shut up.’ I could tell he was still waiting for an answer. I tried not to think about the heat of him, the soft air around us, the sense of being alone together, in a different world. ‘I suppose Montverre disappearing would be pretty bad. Or getting chucked out. That would be worse.’
He kept staring at me, very intent. ‘What would you do?’
I looked up into the rafters, because I couldn’t hold his gaze. And in spite of myself I thought about what my life would be like without Montverre. Going home to Mim and Dad, with my life mapped out for me. A job in the scrapyard. Or with one of Dad’s acquaintances. An office. Exports or law or – if I fought for it – journalism. Like being shut in a stuffy little room, for ever. Without the grand jeu …
I said, ‘I think I’d kill myself.’
He shifted. I slid a glance at him. After a second he pulled himself up and sat with his hands around his knees, further away than before. He looked at me and nodded, with the shadow of a smile, as if we’d been arguing over a motif, and finally reached a resolution.
My heart sank. I scrambled to my knees. ‘I didn’t mean that the way it—’
‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re right. Montverre, the grand jeu … that’s what makes life worth living.’
I swallowed. I didn’t want to agree with him. I wanted him to think there were things worth risking Montverre for. But I left it too long to argue. He bent and collected the apple cores, and slung the bag over his shoulder.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’d better get back. I’ve got an essay for tomorrow.’ He reached out to help me to my feet. I took his hand. We stared at each other for an instant. Then I gripped his wrist and hauled myself to my feet.
Later
I couldn’t concentrate this afternoon, so I did my Historiae notes and then went to the gatehouse to get the letter from Mim that’s been waiting there for days. I’ve been looking at it and putting it back. How long has it been since I’ve written to her?
Emile was there, leaning against one of the uprights, idly peering into the other pigeonholes. ‘Had a nice time with Carfax, then?’ Emile said. ‘Did he show you where he goes to howl at the moon?’
‘Very funny.’
‘You be careful, now. What if he flips when you’re alone with—’ He stopped. I glanced round at him. He slid a piece of paper out of his pigeonhole, and unfolded it. The muscles over his jaw flickered.
After a pause, I said, ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘News from home?’ But it can’t have been, it didn’t have an envelope.
‘No. Nothing important.’ He ripped it in half, and then half again. He went to throw it into the rubbish and then checked himself, crumpled it into a ball and shoved it into his pocket.
‘Love letter, then?’
‘Shut up, Martin.’
‘You’re blushing,’ I said. ‘It’s not still your unsavoury liaison with a below-stairs beauty?’
‘Shut up, Martin,’ he said again, and pushed past me so hard I smacked my elbow on the corner of the shelving. ‘Oh, and talking about unsavoury passions,’ he added, without turning his head, ‘you know everyone’s gossiping about you two?’
I caught his arm. ‘What are you talking about?’
He swung round and shoved me backwards. He was so close I could smell his breath. ‘You breathe one word to anyone about that servant,’ he said, ‘and I will go straight to the Magister Scholarium and spill the beans about you and Carfax. You think because he’s a de Courcy they’ll turn a blind eye?’ I was still gripping his elbow. I forced myself to let go. ‘I don’t care what you get up to,’ he said. ‘Boys, girls, who cares a toss? But you can bet the Magisters do. They’d overlook my little peccadillo – but not yours. So watch your mouth.’
‘I haven’t laid a finger on Carfax,’ I said, ‘and I don’t intend to.’
He raised his eyebrows. I held his look.
‘You’re so naïve,’ he said, finally. ‘You really think it makes a difference?’
I feel sick. Who does he think he is?
But they’re wrong. They’re wrong. It isn’t like that. Carfax and I aren’t … We haven’t broken a single rule. There is nothing, nothing we’ve done which brings the school into disrepute. Emile is being bloody-minded. All he wants is to stir up trouble. There’s no danger.
Second day, tenth week
Sometimes I could strangle him. Honestly. Carfax, I mean.
I spent all the time between lessons and dinner trying to sort out my game. Writing the first draft of a grand jeu is like mining, chipping away for days and days, sometimes hitting a rich vein and sometimes a flat wall of adamant. Editing is more like staring at a bit of machinery and wondering why it won’t work. Finally I collapsed forward onto the desk with a sort of groan.
Carfax said, ‘Want me to have a look?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m not working on anything important.’
I raised my head. ‘Are you saying the Tempest’s not important? Could’ve fooled me, you were begging me to look at it the other day—’
‘That’s not what I’m working on.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re doing the essay for Magister Holt. It’s not due in until …’ But he shook his head. I grabbed his notebook and wrenched it away from him. ‘What, then?’