‘Right. OK,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘But you have to promise you’ll stay until tomorrow. Long enough to see yourself on the noticeboard with Gold Medallist next to your name. All right?’ He didn’t answer. ‘If you run away tonight I’ll kill you. Twelve hours, Carfax. Please.’
He hesitated. ‘All right.’
‘Thank you.’ I meant to leave, but I couldn’t stop myself pulling up in the doorway. I said, ‘There’s something I should tell you.’
He said: ‘I love you, Léo.’
I knew it. I knew it.
It’s half past three. I’ve been writing for hours. But I know already I’m not going to be able to sleep. I’m going to go and sit in the Great Hall and watch the sun come up.
Chapter 29
30: Léo
She knows, curse her. Somehow Claire knows about that last night with Carfax – and about the Red game, how does she know that he submitted it? But the Red game is public, of course, it would be in the archive if it hadn’t been lost, perhaps she saw it before it disappeared … He can’t think straight. It doesn’t matter how. She knows. That he kissed Carfax. That Carfax’s death was his fault – whether it was the Red game – he sees BASTARD on the cell wall – or the kiss – if it was that, the shame in Carfax’s eyes as they drew apart, realisation, fear, a truth that he couldn’t handle … She knew all the time. But how? The police report said there was no note, and he’d never thought to question it. But perhaps there was. Or did Carfax tell her before he died – and if he did, does that mean it was the kiss? Or both. BASTARD. The one, then the other, when he could have survived either … Léo clenches his jaw. She knows, that’s all. As though he has been walking around naked for months. And when he kissed her, she must have thought – what did she think? No wonder she’s angry with him. The thought of her anger makes his skin prickle with shame and resentment. She has no right.
He’s in the library, at his desk in the archive, trying to analyse Harnoncourt’s Third Rule. But he can’t stop thinking about her. You would have done anything to win. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t. He can’t bear the thought of her judging him. All this time he’s been trying to speak to her he thought he’d go mad. He was haunted by the memory of her body against his, mixing with his dreams until he wasn’t sure what was real, what was her and what was Carfax, years ago. It hurt to think about her and yet he couldn’t resist. Her eyes, her mouth. You never looked at me … It’s driving him mad. That exchange, in the corridor … It would have been better not to see her at all. If only they had been somewhere private. If only he could tell her … what? There’s nothing, no magic word. No winning move. Even if he told her that he loved—
Carfax, Léo thinks. That he loved Carfax.
Then he thinks: her.
He stares at the wall. Mad. Of course he doesn’t love her. Not love. Desire, yes, although she’s prickly, plain, rebarbative. Desire because he’s lonely and frustrated, because she makes him laugh and think and work for her approval, desire because he was drunk and because she looked so much like Carfax in a certain light … But that’s all. Nothing more. Nothing more than a lightening of the heart when she smiles at him, a fierce raw happiness that she exists, that they’re under the same roof, that for a few seconds she didn’t push him away. A sense that whatever game they’re playing, it’s at the centre of the universe. Is that love?
It isn’t only that she’s like Carfax; it’s the differences, too, the lines under her eyes, the fact that she’s Magister Ludi, the softness she tries to hide. If he closes his eyes, it’s her face, not Carfax’s, that surfaces. Until it ripples, like a reflection, and for a moment he can see them both, superimposed; and then his guilt floods back, and the moment has passed. What is he thinking? It’s his fault Carfax is dead – she thinks so too – and this is self-indulgent, pathetic. He has no right. And it’s not only ridiculous, it’s hopeless. She despises him. That’s clear from how she spoke to him. And even if she didn’t … Magisters are celibate, nominally at least; perhaps a few of them bend the rule, discreetly, but she couldn’t risk it. Too many people would be pleased to see her dismissed. If he loves her … He grimaces. It was different, when he kissed her, thinking that was all he wanted. Now he’s struck by the enormity of it; and the impossibility. Love.
Can’t we go back …? he’d said, and she said, No.
The dinner bell rings. He clutches at the distraction. Hurriedly he tidies his desk and straightens his tie. Then he runs down the stairs to the main library, and stops dead.
Emile.
It takes him by surprise, so he almost trips up. His head has been so full of Claire and Carfax that he’d almost forgotten that Emile had arrived. He catches himself on the banister. Emile turns, and smiles. ‘Léo,’ he says. He’s holding a book, flicking through the pages. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Emile.’ He regains his balance. ‘Thanks for keeping in touch.’
‘Not at all. My pleasure.’
‘And for sending …’ He gestures. ‘The parcels.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Emile inclines his head. ‘My dear chap, it wasn’t charity. You earnt them.’
The letters. When Emile was miles away, it was easier to rationalise them; now, face to face, he feels the humiliation of it. He’s been so obedient, so useful. A servant. Frightened into compliance. He says, ‘I didn’t realise you were coming.’
‘I must say it brings back memories, doesn’t it?’ Emile puts down the book he’s holding and turns to take in the bookshelves and the empty desks. Of course, the Gold Medal was announced today: no one is studying tonight. He inhales theatrically. ‘Ah, the smell of youth and scholarship!’ He slides a hand neatly into his pocket and gets out his cigarette case.
The bell stops ringing. ‘Well then,’ Léo says, ‘shall we …?’ He starts to move towards the door.
‘Drop in on me later, won’t you?’ Emile says. ‘They’ve been very kind and found me a small suite above the Lesser Hall. Do come. I have some excellent brandy.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘No, I insist.’ He puts a cigarette between his lips and gets a box of matches out of his pocket. He lights his cigarette and flicks the match sideways without checking that it’s extinguished. It lands under one of the desks. He takes a long drag and blows smoke into the air.
Léo stifles the urge to crouch down to check it’s gone out. For a second he’s reminded, unpleasantly, of himself when he first got here, flicking matches in the Magisters’ courtyard. Now he understands how Claire felt. ‘You can’t smoke in here.’ He says it loudly, but the librarian at the far end of the room stays hunched over his ledger, studiously not noticing.
Emile laughs. ‘Well, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’
‘The books …’
‘Relax. The most valuable ones have been taken off the shelves, I believe.’