But she doesn’t have time. She replaits her hair and pins it up again. It smells of Léo and the leather-salt scent of skin. She strips, wipes herself with a damp cloth, finds a clean shirt, and dresses again. No matter how she feels, she has to look respectable. Although … not too respectable. She moistens her collar and trickles some water down the front of her gown. With her flushed cheeks – and her hands, which are still trembling – she can convince them that she was taken ill. Temporarily, and not seriously.
She shuts her eyes. Her mind is whirling. She counts her heartbeats, trying to calm herself as if she’s about to begin a grand jeu. She has to stop thinking about Léo, at least for a little while. She is Magister Ludi, and she has walked out of her first Midsummer Game; right now she needs to concentrate. She has lied for years, but it’s never been as important as this.
Ninety-nine, a hundred. Her pulse is still much faster than it should be, but she doesn’t have time to wait until it slows. She dabs a last handful of water along her hairline, lets it run down her temples, and goes out into the corridor. Outside in the courtyard men are in scattered, uncertain groups, some smoking and chatting, others silent; she hurries past the windows, head down, her cheeks prickling with renewed heat. She came the long way from the Biblioteca Ludi to her room, through the servants’ corridors and empty classrooms; there’s no alternative route to the Magister Scholarium’s office, but no one looks round and as far as she knows none of the visitors have noticed her. A servant passes, clutching a note, and in spite of herself she imagines the chaos in the kitchens, the Magister Domus shouting as the cooks struggle to get lunch ready two hours earlier than planned. Her fault. She’s already walking fast, but she speeds up, almost running.
When she knocks, there’s a pause before the Magister Scholarium says, ‘Who is it?’
She straightens her shoulders and raises her chin. Then she pushes the door open.
He’s not alone. She stumbles, as though the shock of it is a solid block under her feet. She has to catch herself on the back of a chair, and then they’re all staring at her, the Magister Scholarium and Emile and another man, thin and moustached and faintly familiar. Was he in the audience, earlier?
The Magister Scholarium says, ‘Magister Dryden,’ and she can’t decide if it’s a warning or a question.
She says, ‘May I speak to you alone, Magister?’
‘I’m afraid that Mr Dettler, Mr Fallon, and I are occupied.’
‘It won’t take a moment. I have to explain.’
‘No need,’ Emile says. He is leaning back in his chair, his hands crossed on his belly. There’s a pause. The Magister takes off his glasses and starts to clean them on his sleeve, while Dettler – is it? – coughs drily into his handkerchief.
She hesitates, taken aback. Of course she needs to explain. They ought to be insisting on it. ‘I was taken ill.’
‘I do hope you’re recovered,’ Emile says, ‘but we’re having a rather important meeting.’
‘But—’
The Magister Scholarium sighs. ‘It doesn’t matter, Claire.’
She stares at him. He’s still rubbing his glasses on his sleeve, without meeting her gaze.
‘Perhaps, since Miss Dryden is here, it might be as well to … er …’ Dettler gestures at the desk. There are papers piled there, a newspaper, letters. She catches a glimpse of familiar handwriting: Léo’s. ‘As it happens, we were discussing today’s unfortunate incident. In the context of … wider issues.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She hardly notices that he’s called her Miss Dryden.
‘Well. Er.’
‘It shouldn’t come as a surprise,’ Emile says, ‘that the Ministry for Culture has concerns about the education of our finest minds. Today’s fiasco has merely confirmed that they were justified. We simply cannot have the school brought into disrepute.’ His voice is smooth. She can remember how he played the grand jeu: slippery, somehow unctuous and perfunctory at the same time. She remembers imitating it for Léo, until he cried with laughter; now she can’t imagine laughing.
She says, ‘Are you speaking for the school or the Ministry?’
‘I’m speaking for the Prime Minister,’ he says, and smiles at her.
The Magister Scholarium puts his glasses on, finally. ‘Magister Dryden,’ he says, ‘I’m afraid Mr Dettler has been explaining the government’s position. That is …’
Another silence. Her scalp is prickling. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘The government’s position?’
‘The grand jeu,’ Dettler says, ‘is our national game. We should be proud of it. We should make sure that it thrives, under our oversight. We can’t allow it to be stifled. Difficult decisions have to be made.’
She looks at the Magister, waiting for a translation; then, when he doesn’t answer, she looks at Emile. ‘The point is,’ Emile says, easily, ‘that Montverre is in an extremely fragile position. Its future is very uncertain. We don’t want to destroy the legacy of centuries of tradition, but we have to face facts. The school needs to be sustainable, to pull its weight economically, and to work together with the government to achieve our mutual goals.’
‘The school’s only goal is the grand jeu.’
‘Well, you see, that’s exactly the sort of unhelpful approach we need to reassess.’ He smiles at the far wall as if it’s an old master.
She says, ‘What’s going on? Magister?’
The Magister Scholarium coughs drily and shuffles the papers on his desk, but he doesn’t say anything. Emile’s eyes slide back to her, and the smile is gone, as though she imagined it. ‘We have explained to the Magister Scholarium,’ he says, ‘that if the school expects the government’s continued support, it must be prepared to work with, not against, us. That it must be prepared to make significant changes.’
‘Changes?’
The Magister Scholarium glances up at her, and then away; his fingers are twitching. ‘We have to ask you to leave, Claire.’
‘For how long? Where to?’
Emile sighs. ‘No. To resign.’
She waits for the world to become real again. Outside the window there are birds singing and the whisper of a breeze. Sunshine glints off the cap of the Magister’s fountain pen, off Emile’s rings, Dettler’s tie-pin. Her robe hangs heavy on her; a drop of sweat trickles between her breasts. She was expecting to be chastised – humiliated, even – but not this. This is impossible.
‘Claire, this is terribly difficult.’ The Magister Scholarium shifts in his seat, and then gets to his feet, wincing a little. ‘You know that I’ve always supported you. But you can’t deny that it hasn’t been easy for anyone. And now this … Perhaps it would be for the best.’
‘Magisters are elected for life,’ she says. She can’t get enough breath into her lungs. ‘I can’t resign.’
‘You’re right, that was the wrong word,’ Emile says. ‘But there were irregularities with your appointment, I believe. Outside interference. Under the circumstances, the Capitulum will agree that it should be annulled.’