outside; the regular tread of Thomas carrying food trays to the different occupants of the house’s three floors. What there wasn’t: polite conversation between Mathilde and Madame Moreau, comparing last night’s prices on the landing; Monsieur Z’s whining sea shanties echoing up from the street. I’d write to Camille later.
Finally the footsteps came outside my door, and there was a discreet knock and the rattle of a breakfast tray being set down. ‘Madame expects you in her study at nine-thirty,’ Thomas whispered, and then his soft pad away down the stairs again.
I hopped out of bed and dragged the tray into the room; examined the meal. They had gone to the other extreme from last night’s picky nothings: now there was fried kidneys and coffee thick as oil. I pushed the tray out of the room again with one toe, unable to stomach it; and then, because it was still before nine o’clock, dressed and went to explore my domain.
The corridor was warm and sunlit: to the right of my bedroom, doors ran away along a corridor to a picture window at the end, beyond which a tree moved soundlessly, its leaves quivering in a light wind.
I stepped across the carpet runner to the door almost opposite my room, and tested the handle. By daylight, the paintwork in the hall had a bleached-out, dusty look of disuse; the door knob rattled uselessly in my hand. Pursing my lips, I walked to the next door – another set of weary paintwork – and gently turned the handle. Nothing. The same for the next door, and the next, by the window. The leaves outside ruffled, discontented; I tried the rooms on the other side of the corridor, but they were locked right the way back up the passageway to my own room.
I stood outside my bedroom with my hand on the door frame.
This floor is yours
, Thomas had said, beaming at me. But he had not even given me keys to my own room, let alone to the rest of my miniature empire.
Just then, from inside, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed nine-thirty. I pulled the door shut and crossed to the top of the stairs.
When I reach Terpsichore’s floor I don’t know which is her study so I listen, and sure enough, there is the rasp of a page being turned, behind the door at the far end of the passage.
I knock at the door and hear her clear her throat. ‘Come in!’
She has laid the novel on the sofa beside her and now her hands are clasped together. She isn’t the only one posing: the room is long and light, with bookcases lining two walls. It reminds me a little of Père Simon’s front room, but these books are all new, and if dust spirals in the shaft of light from the windows, it is only showing off. On her left, propped against a cushion, is her discarded breakfast tray: a brioche bleeding a dab of jam.
‘Just in time,’ she says, and casts her eyes at the novel splayed on the seat beside her, ‘I was almost at the poison scene again.’
I’m confused. ‘Didn’t you read that last night?’
‘I needed to look at it more closely.’
‘Why?’
She smiles a wicked-fairy smile. ‘I wish to understand the best method of poisoning someone.’
‘Who?’
‘My husband. I’m running away.’
I don’t know the rules of this game, so I go quiet.
‘So my routine,’ she says, ‘until the studio comes to its senses: I read in the morning, scripts or studio business, and the afternoons are for exercise and social calls. Does that sound amenable?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
She looks at me, eyes slightly narrowed, thinking me over.
‘You may begin by answering some of my correspondence,’ she says, and gestures to the desk under the window, where a stack of handwritten letters is waiting. ‘Just write a brief note of acknowledgement to each.’
I don’t need a second invitation to sit to something straightforward, and besides, I want to show her what I can do; I pick up the topmost letter, dip the pen in ink, and bend my head. For a while the only sound is the scratching of my nib on
Finally the footsteps came outside my door, and there was a discreet knock and the rattle of a breakfast tray being set down. ‘Madame expects you in her study at nine-thirty,’ Thomas whispered, and then his soft pad away down the stairs again.
I hopped out of bed and dragged the tray into the room; examined the meal. They had gone to the other extreme from last night’s picky nothings: now there was fried kidneys and coffee thick as oil. I pushed the tray out of the room again with one toe, unable to stomach it; and then, because it was still before nine o’clock, dressed and went to explore my domain.
The corridor was warm and sunlit: to the right of my bedroom, doors ran away along a corridor to a picture window at the end, beyond which a tree moved soundlessly, its leaves quivering in a light wind.
I stepped across the carpet runner to the door almost opposite my room, and tested the handle. By daylight, the paintwork in the hall had a bleached-out, dusty look of disuse; the door knob rattled uselessly in my hand. Pursing my lips, I walked to the next door – another set of weary paintwork – and gently turned the handle. Nothing. The same for the next door, and the next, by the window. The leaves outside ruffled, discontented; I tried the rooms on the other side of the corridor, but they were locked right the way back up the passageway to my own room.
I stood outside my bedroom with my hand on the door frame.
This floor is yours
, Thomas had said, beaming at me. But he had not even given me keys to my own room, let alone to the rest of my miniature empire.
Just then, from inside, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed nine-thirty. I pulled the door shut and crossed to the top of the stairs.
When I reach Terpsichore’s floor I don’t know which is her study so I listen, and sure enough, there is the rasp of a page being turned, behind the door at the far end of the passage.
I knock at the door and hear her clear her throat. ‘Come in!’
She has laid the novel on the sofa beside her and now her hands are clasped together. She isn’t the only one posing: the room is long and light, with bookcases lining two walls. It reminds me a little of Père Simon’s front room, but these books are all new, and if dust spirals in the shaft of light from the windows, it is only showing off. On her left, propped against a cushion, is her discarded breakfast tray: a brioche bleeding a dab of jam.
‘Just in time,’ she says, and casts her eyes at the novel splayed on the seat beside her, ‘I was almost at the poison scene again.’
I’m confused. ‘Didn’t you read that last night?’
‘I needed to look at it more closely.’
‘Why?’
She smiles a wicked-fairy smile. ‘I wish to understand the best method of poisoning someone.’
‘Who?’
‘My husband. I’m running away.’
I don’t know the rules of this game, so I go quiet.
‘So my routine,’ she says, ‘until the studio comes to its senses: I read in the morning, scripts or studio business, and the afternoons are for exercise and social calls. Does that sound amenable?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
She looks at me, eyes slightly narrowed, thinking me over.
‘You may begin by answering some of my correspondence,’ she says, and gestures to the desk under the window, where a stack of handwritten letters is waiting. ‘Just write a brief note of acknowledgement to each.’
I don’t need a second invitation to sit to something straightforward, and besides, I want to show her what I can do; I pick up the topmost letter, dip the pen in ink, and bend my head. For a while the only sound is the scratching of my nib on
Similar Books
