Emile narrows his eyes, his smile fading. ‘I don’t follow,’ he says. ‘You must know it’s precisely what we needed.’
‘That’s not …’ He fumbles for a cigarette packet and pulls one out. Where is Claire? Why hasn’t she come? He doesn’t want to think about the moment when she turned away and left the Great Hall. Something in Emile’s expression makes him remember a row of men on the back bench, balancing programmes and notebooks, scribbling furiously; when he ran past them, they were craning to look, their eyes gleeful. ‘It’s nothing. She was taken ill. Or rather – it’s my fault.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Emile holds out his lighter but he doesn’t let go of it, so Léo has to twist it out of his grip.
He lights his cigarette, more deliberately than he needs to. He has to stop talking; nothing he can say will make a difference. He humiliated Claire, and it doesn’t matter why. Oh, if only he’d known, if only he hadn’t … ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘What do you want?’
‘I came to give you some good news.’
He doesn’t want to ask. For a second he thinks he hears footsteps – is it Claire? Surely this time – but as he turns his head to listen, Emile starts to speak again.
‘I know you’re sentimental about this place,’ Emile says. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that it’s staying as it is. Dettler had grand plans – a school in the capital, a whole new institution – but I always thought it was more trouble than it was worth. Far better to keep it here, with its august traditions and so on. There’ll be a few minor changes to the financial structures, perhaps. A bit more quid pro quo … But the Old Man doesn’t want to see Montverre dismantled.’
Léo stares at him. A school in the capital. Was that what Pirène was hinting at, at New Year? The thought makes him shudder. If he’d only known … At last he says, ‘You’re leaving us alone?’
Emile raises his eyebrows at the word ‘us’; but he only nods.
Léo turns away because he doesn’t want Emile to see his expression. Relief pools in his knees, his gut. He hadn’t realised the damage he might have done. Of course Montverre is strong enough to weather a storm. A tempest. It isn’t made of glass, after all. He forces himself to speak. ‘That is good news.’
‘I thought you’d like to hear it,’ Emile says, but he has a sly smile, as if he hasn’t quite finished.
‘I’m surprised. I thought you hated the place.’
‘Who says I don’t? I’m happy for it to stay here, that’s all.’
‘I see. Good.’ A silence. No footsteps. Léo must have been imagining it. All the same, he wants to get rid of Emile; she’ll come soon … ‘Well,’ he says, ‘thanks, but if that’s all—’
‘One other thing,’ Emile says. His smile widens. ‘We’re appointing you Magister Ludi.’
He must have misheard. Assistant to, perhaps – or Magister of something else, maybe they’re creating a post for him, who knows why? He swallows. ‘What?’
Emile laughs softly. ‘You’re the new Magister Ludi. Congratulations.’
‘But there’s – Claire – Magister Dryden.’
‘There were irregularities with her appointment. You may remember that the shortlist was badly managed. The school will issue a full apology, of course, to everyone involved.’
‘You’re getting rid of her?’
‘I don’t think anyone will protest, after this morning’s embarrassment. It came at the perfect moment to demonstrate her inadequacy. Couldn’t have fallen better.’ Emile adds, with a glint, ‘Not that it was sabotage on your part, of course.’ Silence. He turns his hand over in a graceful gesture, almost a contrevure. ‘I should hope you’re pleased.’
Léo remembers Pirène’s advice before an important session in the House: keep breathing. ‘What will happen to her?’
‘She has agreed not to make a fuss. For the sake of the greater good.’
There’s a sharp, hot pain in Léo’s fingers. He’s let his cigarette burn right down. He flicks it aside, shaking the sting from his knuckles. ‘And I’ll replace her. Does she know that?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why? Why me? There must be others.’
‘Don’t be so modest. You’ve proved yourself over the last few months. First your letters, then this morning … I’ve spoken to the Old Man, and he’s prepared to overlook your previous aberration. It’s worth a lot to us, to have someone here we can rely on. Help us implement the changes.’ A pause. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’
‘What makes you think you can trust me?’
‘Léo, we’re making you Magister Ludi. The least you can do is accept with some fucking grace.’
As if he doesn’t have a choice. He inhales slowly. He says, ‘Magister Ludi,’ not meaning anything, simply putting the words into the air as if he’s never heard them before. The room is so still that every sound is clear: outside a bird takes to flight with a clatter of wings, a breeze rattles the window, footsteps scrape suddenly on stone, fade to nothing down the stairs. He can’t think straight. Magister Ludi.
After everything, he could be Magister Ludi. He stares ahead of him, past Emile, as if his younger self is standing in the corner of the room. His pulse thuds uncomfortably in his temples. It was what he dreamt of, for two whole years. The life he thought he’d have – that he should have had. Not a politician; a grand jeu player. Finally living up to his early promise. The youngest ever Gold Medallist.
He remembers, abruptly, the moment when he knew he’d won the Gold Medal. His name on the noticeboard. Léonard Martin, Gold Medallist, Reflections. He’d always told himself that he didn’t care, that he didn’t even pause, only scanned the rest of the names for Carfax’s; but it wasn’t true, was it? It would have been inhuman not to feel his heart leap. For a split second he was the happiest he’d ever been, full of fierce delight and triumph. He’d done it. And when his gaze slid down the list, did he care, would he have swapped his success for Carfax’s? No. Yes. He didn’t want Carfax to fail, of course he didn’t, he genuinely submitted Red because it was brilliant … but was there a pulse of satisfaction, even a tiny one, when he saw?
If there was, does it matter? He would have given his Gold Medal up like a shot. If he’d had the choice. But he didn’t. He hadn’t done it deliberately, but he couldn’t stop himself wanting to win the Gold Medal.
And he wants to be Magister Ludi. He does. He shuts his eyes, and for a moment he’s in the Great Hall, standing in the middle of the terra, and the tense avid silence is for him.
It could happen. He doesn’t even have to do anything.
He opens his eyes.
‘No,’ he says.
Emile opens his mouth and hesitates. ‘Why not?’ he says, at last.
‘Because you have no right to offer it to me.’
Emile makes a fussy little gesture, as if he’s plucking invisible strings. ‘Really, my dear chap,’ he says, ‘why so squeamish? You’ve done it before, after all. Pushed a de Courcy aside to get ahead. I don’t— oh, I see.’ He chuckles. ‘That’s it, is it? It wasn’t your fault, Léo. He did himself in because he was weak. If he couldn’t handle failure, he shouldn’t have been here.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s a game, Léo. Some people win, some people lose. Don’t let guilt stand in your way.’