The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  ‘What? You can’t not go to Montverre!’ He grimaced, looking mulish. She sat up straight and slammed her book down on the table next to her. ‘So why did you apply? I helped you with that game for days.’

  ‘You could go in my place.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Aimé, of course you’ll go.’

  ‘Did you hear what I said? I’m serious.’ He leapt up and bounced from foot to foot. ‘You could viva my game with your eyes closed. It’s half yours, after all.’

  ‘Except they might notice the fact that I’m female.’ She sat back, crossing her arms.

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re tall and scrawny enough. Cut your hair, wear my clothes – maybe squash those down a bit,’ he added, waving at her chest, ‘but it’s not like you’re very womanly to start with. And your voice – you can pass for a tenor, easily.’

  She gave him a sour look; but the longer he held her gaze, and didn’t burst into giggles, the harder it was to keep that expression on her face. ‘You think I could?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because …’ She inhaled through her teeth: it was like trying to explain the concept of a locked door. ‘You know it’s not that simple.’

  ‘Worth a try, though, isn’t it?’ He paced towards the window and stopped, distracted, to scratch at a new patch of mould on the Chinese wallpaper. ‘I’m going to stay here and write my own games. I’m on the verge of a breakthrough, something really big; I don’t want to end up like those idiots in the Gambit. And I’ll be able to work all night and sleep all day …’

  ‘You’d be alone practically all the time. It wouldn’t be good for you. I can’t, Aimé,’ she said, ‘so stop harping on it. You should go to Montverre, and I’ll go to stay with Aunt Frances, like we agreed.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  Silence. A rat scuttled somewhere. She shut her eyes. For a moment she imagined packing her trunk – Aimé’s trunk – and setting off. The train, the village, the mountain road – and then the buildings of Montverre, not in the intricate greys of an etching, but vivid against a real blue sky. Aimé might disdain the lessons, but she ached for them: maths, music, words, notation, history. A library ten times bigger than the mouldering, haphazard, pawnshop-decimated one here; the greatest grand jeu archive in the world. It was like being hungry and dreaming of food. ‘You know what I want,’ she said, her stomach twisting.

  When she opened her eyes, he was standing over her. He took hold of her, pulled her out of her chair, and bowed. He was smiling; from that angle he looked like Papa. ‘You must be Aimé Carfax de Courcy,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ And then, with a flourish, he made the gesture of ouverture.

  That’s how she wants to remember him: not how he was later, when the de Courcy strain started to eat away at him. That moment: his grin as he spun away and reached for the wine he was drinking straight out of the bottle, the way her heart swelled as she understood what he was offering her. Or how he was later – after she and Léo got seventy in their joint game, the second year, when the word seventy became a war-cry and he sang it to her, chalked it on the terrace, scrawled it on her mirror in soap. My clever sister, he’d said. Or sometimes, clever Aimé. clever me. Had he ever been jealous? If he was, he hid it. They celebrated like children, that New Year, running amok in the château, playing drunken hide-and-seek. But then he began to slide. It started with little things. He’d forget to wash or eat, or talk to himself in long incessant monologues, or rip pages out of books because he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Then he began to stay up all night to play the piano, to scrawl incoherent grands jeux on the wall with burnt sticks, and shout at her when she tried to stagger to bed at four in the morning. But instead of helping him – what could she have done? If only she’d known what to do – she’d packed her trunk and the cello and spent the last days watching the clock, desperate to get away. And – oh, that last night, two days after she should have gone back to Montverre, when he begged her not to leave … She clenches her jaw. She’d have stayed, if she could have helped. But she was lost, worn thin by shame and helplessness; and she didn’t think he was in danger, not really. The housekeeper would come in every day to cook, wash the sheets, tell him to eat … She crept away the next morning, without saying goodbye. Later she’d written to him, a breezy, cheery letter that pretended to assume he was fine. He didn’t answer. When his telegram came – so naked, so direct – she should have known that he needed her. No. She had known. And she’d chosen to stay at Montverre, seduced by the glory of seeing her name – his name – on the top of the mark sheet. And by Léo. When Léo kissed her, she’d wanted more. More and more, until she was shocked by the heat building between her legs, the sweet shameless vertigo. The euphoria of having everything she wanted, all at once. When he went to take off her gown it took all the strength she had to push him away. And then that stupid thing she’d said. I love you, Léo …

  It doesn’t matter now. Aimé is dead, long ago.

  ‘Oh no,’ Léo says. ‘Please, shh. Stop it. Don’t – please don’t.’

  But it’s too late. She can’t help it. And there’s a kind of luxury in letting herself go. There’s no reason to pretend any more: for the first time, someone else knows exactly why she’s crying. She rests her forehead on her arms, and sobs judder through her.

  ‘Hush,’ he says, ‘it’s all right, shh …’ It isn’t all right, and it never will be; he knows that as well as she does. He crosses the room to her, and she senses him hesitating at arm’s length. Then he murmurs, ‘Shh, shh,’ and pats her head. It’s such a maladroit gesture that she could almost laugh. She raises her face to look at him, blinking away tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and then she can’t say anything more, because the grief rises again – this time at what she’s done to him, because ten years ago he could have become anyone, he could have been Magister Ludi, and now here he is, old and exiled and helpless, not even a politician.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he says. ‘Please, Aimé – Magister – Claire …’

  And then he puts his arms round her.

  She stiffens. Even now her instincts cry out against letting him touch her, in case she gives herself away: but there’s nothing left. What will he discover? That she’s a woman? That she’s Aimé? She’s stripped of all her secrets already. She doesn’t have the force to push him away. He leans into her, warm against her shoulder, and his hand strokes her backbone – slowly, firmly – steadying her, comforting her. He goes on murmuring, the syllables blurring into one another, meaningless. Gradually her sobs grow smaller. It’s ridiculous, that he should be comforting her, when she’s the one who lied to him: and that she should let him, when only a few minutes ago he capsized her Midsummer Game. But in the solid heat of his body against hers, those things seem distant. She can’t remember the last time she was held.

  Finally she can stop crying. But even when she pulls away, the space between them is softer, elastic, as though it would be the easiest thing in the world to fall back into his arms. She wipes her eyes on her gown, sniffing wetly. He makes a tiny sound of amusement, but when she looks at him he isn’t smiling. He says, ‘I love you.’

  ‘What?’

  He has the grace to grin, but he holds her gaze; and with a twist of her gut, she realises that he means it. Or thinks he does. He says again, ‘I love you. I always did.’

  She laughs. It doesn’t feel very different from crying.

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Is it? And what do you want me to do about it?’ She is still laughing as she says it. It’s as though he’s made an outrageous, barely-legal move in an adversarial game: she can’t take it seriously.

  ‘I don’t know. That is—’ he hesitates, and glances away.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That.’

  ‘Well, yes, that,’ he says, ‘obviously. But not only that.’

  ‘So what else do you want?’

  ‘Everything.’ He pauses, and looks back at her with a smile that’
s somehow deadly serious. ‘Anything. What will you give me?’

  She wipes her face, taking more time than she needs to. The salt is sticky on her palms. She shouldn’t believe him, but she does. Her heart feels swollen and thin-membraned, like a bubble: the lightest touch and it might pop, but for now it’s quivering, iridescent, drifting. She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to bring herself back to earth. He loves her. He wants everything, anything, whatever she’s prepared to give. With a jolt she realises she wants the same from him. ‘You may have noticed,’ she says, fighting to keep her voice cool, ‘that Magisters have to take a vow of celibacy.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘And a vow of lifelong service. I’ll be here for ever.’

  ‘Well, yes, I wasn’t—’ He stops, and glances away, as if there’s an answer he doesn’t want to give her. ‘But what if …’ he says, ‘what if—’

  ‘I’ll always be Magister Ludi.’ She says it loudly, announcing it to the whole of the Biblioteca Ludi, to all the books with their backs turned, all the ghosts of former Magisters. She may have walked out of her own Midsummer Game, but she is still Magister Ludi. A Magister is Magister for life: there is no what if.

  ‘All right,’ he says, although he’s still avoiding her eyes. ‘I mean … of course. But that doesn’t mean we can’t find a way.’

  ‘To break my vows? You’re assuming I want to find a way. What makes you think that I would do that?’

  He cuts her off. ‘You loved me.’ A tiny pause. ‘Didn’t you? You said you did.’

  ‘More than ten years ago.’

  ‘Was it true?’

  She exhales. What difference does it make now? ‘Yes,’ she says.

  He leans forward. She catches the scent of cologne, and underneath it the salty male note of his skin. ‘Imagine the games we could play,’ he says. ‘I’ll never be as good as you, but I can give you a run for your money. Right? Remember when we got seventy for the Danse Macabre?’ He gives her a flickering smile. ‘I know it sounds crazy. But we could make it work. Please …’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s a second chance.’ He rubs the desk with his thumb, back and forth, as if he’s erasing a stain. ‘Wouldn’t you go back, if you could?’

  She looks past him, out of the window. The quivery tears-or-laughter feeling surges again, and she focuses on the breeze swaying the pines, the shadows sweeping back and forth over the flower-studded grass. Would she go back? Of course. She was happier as Aimé than she has ever been since. If she could, she would … But what’s more, she can imagine the life she might have with Léo: long days spent arguing and joking and studying – that joyous ongoing duel that left them both breathless – and nights that fanned the flame … She’s missed that, more than anything. No one has ever been her equal, the way he was. She turns back to him, and perhaps he can see what she’s thinking, because his eyes search her face as if he’s going to kiss her.

  But he doesn’t. He stays very still, waiting. As if something has changed, and it’s her responsibility, not his, to make the first move. For the first time in years she remembers what it’s like to be a man, and it goes straight to her heart like a drug. She pauses for as long as she can bear to, savouring the rush of power in her veins.

  ‘You’re alive,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it. You’re alive.’

  34

  Dear Léo,

  You’ll hear that I’m dead, but I’m not. Aimé Carfax de Courcy is – but he’s not who you think he is. I’m not who you think I am.

  Today it was my brother Aimé’s funeral. It was this afternoon. He was buried in the de Courcy vault with our parents. It was hot, the air was like glass, the clouds were building up over the hills. There weren’t many people there, only the family lawyer and the mayor and a few others from the village. My aunt is on her way to collect me, because young women shouldn’t be left on their own after a bereavement, but the boat-train was cancelled because of strikes and she telegraphed to say that she wouldn’t arrive till tomorrow. I stood there in my black dress and high-heeled shoes and veiled hat and I felt them looking at me, pitying me. No one mentioned my hair; perhaps they thought I’d hacked at it myself as a sign of grief. I didn’t feel grief-stricken. I felt unreal, and furious. Not with Aimé, because he’d been ill, and he wasn’t to blame. With you. I was waiting to see you come through the gate of the cemetery – late, sweating – and hurry over to us, interrupting the service. I wanted to see your swollen eyes and two-day beard, and the creases in your suit from the train. I wanted to see you stumble to a stop, and stare at the entrance to the vault, and wilt. I wanted to see you cry.

  And then, when the service was over, and the mayor had shaken my hand and wandered away, I knew you would approach me. You’d introduce yourself. I’d hesitate before I said my name, but then – in spite of hating you, right then – I’d insist that you came back to the château to drink to my brother. I wouldn’t let you refuse. And you’d be too addled by the journey and the heat to do anything but follow me, lugging your overnight case, and we’d take the short cut through the olive trees, climbing the unkempt terraces up to the back of the garden. There’d be bread and saucisson and salad, left out for me by the old woman who comes in to cook, and I’d go down to the cellar and bring up some of the oldest, dustiest wine. Nothing but the best for Aimé. I would pour you a glass and propose a toast, and as you raised your glass you’d meet my eyes for the first time. And suddenly you would realise who I was. You’d blink in disbelief, and blink again as your eyes filled, and then you’d put down your glass, overcome, and I’d watch you cry, despising you a little because after all my brother would still be dead.

  You don’t understand, do you? You’d understand if you’d come. But you didn’t, did you? You didn’t even come to Aimé’s funeral. Was it too much bother? Too long a journey? Or were you too excited about staying at Montverre for the Midsummer Game, basking in the glory of being Gold Medallist? Do you even care that Aimé killed himself?

  Because what you would have seen, looking into my eyes …

  It was me. The man you know as Aimé Carfax de Courcy – the man you hated, and cheated, and kissed – is me. Claire. His sister.

  Don’t tell anyone. You mustn’t tell anyone, ever.

  I was such a fool. Such a weak, credulous idiot. I’d never been kissed before, you see. I thought it meant something big. Important. But it can’t have done. I spent that last night thinking about you, wondering if I could tell you, somehow, swear you to secrecy, sure that you’d never betray me. I lay on my bed, feeling your mouth on mine. Such a cliché, but it’s true. And all that time Aimé was waiting for me. Pacing, maybe. Struggling every second to hold on until I got to him. Thinking I was on my way to him, when I was lying there, dreaming of you … I’ll never forgive myself. Or you.

  My fingers are still black from writing on your wall. It’s just as well I had to wear gloves for the funeral. I wish I could have seen your face. BASTARD. You deserved it. You deserved worse.

  It’s over. I can never go back to Montverre. Aimé’s death was in the papers; now I’m stuck with being Claire. He killed me, too, in a way. I thought, if you were there … at least I’d know it was real, all that. Not some kind of de Courcy hallucination. What if it was really him, and I’ve been at home for the last two years, practising the piano and reading? I don’t know who I am. Help me.

  If they find out what I did … I’ll be disqualified from playing the grand jeu, ever again. It’ll be a scandal. They’ll call me a hussy and a whore. They’ll say, the other scholars must have known. How did she keep them quiet? I hear her brother killed himself from the shame … And if you decided to fuel the fires … Do I trust you? You’ve always been jealous, prickly – if you wanted to ruin my reputation, for ever … It would be one way to make sure I never beat you again.

  If someone else had found Aimé, before I got off the train … Or if I hadn’t come home at all … I was lucky.
The blood, his body. The nightmares. Lucky.

  No one can ever know.

  For one night, I thought I was the Gold Medallist, and I thought you loved me. It’s like a fairy tale: a girl who gets everything she wants, and loses it all, because she had to lie to get it. Jewels that turn out to be glass, ground into white dust.

  I didn’t sleep, after you left me. I made myself wait until the clock struck six, and then I went down to see if they’d put up the marks. I thought that was enough time for the office to have typed up the list, and I was right.

  You know what it said. I won’t tell you how it felt. I won’t give you the satisfaction.

  I’ve taken your diary. It was on your desk, when I came to find you. First I looked at it to see whether you’d really submitted the wrong game. I thought maybe it was a mistake. But you did it deliberately. As though it was a favour. I didn’t understand. I thought if I read all of it, your whole life, it would make sense. But it still doesn’t. It’s here now. Your handwriting makes me feel sick.

  I think you never stopped hating me.

  Dear Léo, I’m not dead.

  Dear Léo, I’m dead.

  I’m sorry.

  I hate you.

  Write. Write to me, to Claire. Send me a letter telling me how sorry you are, how much you loved Aimé. Then I’ll reply. That’s all you need to do. One letter, and I’ll come back from the dead.

  Chapter 34

  35: the Magister Ludi

  This is the grand jeu. This – yes – is her Midsummer Game: not in front of the guests in the Great Hall but here and now, alone with Léo, the moment she has been waiting for. The pause, the absolute stillness before she leans towards him, the silently indrawn breath and the blood humming in her ears. This is not the ouverture, but the main theme, the perfect move that floods a room with energy. It gives her the same pure clarity of mind, the same certainty. The audience, the terra, the rest of Montverre – none of that matters. They’re irrelevant, left behind. Like her objections. The grand jeu is now, her heartbeat, his eyes on hers. It’s all she needs.