Page 15

The Spaniard, Ortiz, has decided to engage Leander and Genevieve in conversation. Leander doesn’t wish to speak with him, obviously, yet he knows how the Château works; he knows what sort of guests his mother would invite. There is someone here that he can use; otherwise she wouldn’t have let them join as a guest. A game without risk is a game without fun, after all.

Although Leander fears he already knows who, with her haunted gaze and fragile grace, might be most worthy of his attentions.

Ortiz, apparently, has had a long career as a watchmaker. Furthermore, he seems to believe this will be interesting to Leander, a man who has no memory of how watches work or why he ought to care about them. Genevieve, however, seems very impressed. ‘It is beautiful,’ she exclaims, examining a timepiece that Ortiz has produced from his coat pocket. ‘An extraordinary accomplishment. Monsieur Sterne, you must see also.’

Despite himself, Leander obliges and leans over her shoulder to observe the watch she holds in her hands. It’s pretty enough, he supposes; the external case is entirely enamel, with an image of lovers embracing on a background of darkest blue. Inside, the watch face is a pale shell, inset with tiny pearls. But the Château could create such a thing within seconds if it wanted to. It could make a watch so beautiful that they would all stare at it ticking until they starved, wasting away as the hand spun round and round.

Ortiz says, ‘Unfortunately, it is working somewhat erratically—as are all the others I have brought. I am uncertain why; perhaps something to do with the pressure of the air at such an altitude? I do not know. Perhaps it does not matter. Anything I could make pales in comparison to that clock in the foyer—I have never seen such a marvel of engineering. If only I could see its workings. . .’

‘The Auctioneer told us not to touch it,’ Leander says to him.

‘Yes. . . Yes.’ Ortiz sighs and dabs at his brow with a kerchief. ‘I am aware.’

Genevieve returns the pocket watch, then asks him, ‘You have been a watchmaker all your life?’

‘Indeed. There are few masters of the craft in Spain, so I made my own way to Paris as a young man and apprenticed there under Breguet.’

‘Breguet!’ she cries.

Leander is beginning to feel irritated at the mademoiselle’s earnest delight. Ortiz is not that impressive, surely. ‘Breguet,’ he echoes, tone entirely flat—he has no idea who that is—and Genevieve casts him a harsh glance. She is prettiest, he thinks, when she is irritated; some of that perfect mask of etiquette slips, and there is something wilder in those eyes, something like storm clouds gathering. It is as if the pressure in the air changes. Leander wants to lie down in the grass and open his arms to the rain.

Ortiz drops his kerchief to the ground. He curses and bows to pick it up.

His hand is now trembling noticeably. ‘Are you well, monsieur?’ Genevieve asks.

Ortiz raises his hands for their inspection. They are shaking violently, his fingers moving in rippling motions as if playing a piano.

‘My heart’s desire,’ he says ruefully. ‘What I wrote on the invitation: a cure. This tremor has plagued me for years. It comes on quite suddenly—I have rarely been able to work. I have tried every treatment my physician has prescribed, from hemlock to binding; nothing has helped.’

Genevieve covers her throat with her hand, as if Ortiz’s suffering has wounded her also. ‘I am so sorry,’ she says.

Ortiz replies, ‘Do not be. I have many joys in my life still, and many are sicker than I. Part of me feels quite unworthy of this entire endeavour.’

Leander wants to agree with him. He reminds himself that this wealthy man, while perhaps frustrated by his inability to work, has still had a family, an identity, freedom. Leander has been refused these things and so surely he is warranted in ruining Ortiz’s chances, in ruining Genevieve’s chances, because there is no one else at this auction whose wish is as desperate as his.

But Leander doesn’t feel that way. He looks at Ortiz’s smiling red face and Genevieve smiling back at him, so disgustingly genuine in her compassion, and he doesn’t feel that way even remotely. He simply feels frustrated. He simply feels tired.

There is a high, tinkling noise. Orestes holds a little glass bell shaped like a buttercup, his mouth smiling, his gaze meeting Leander’s directly. To the others, he must seem as affable as ever. But Leander recognises the darkness in those eyes, the resignation. He knows that their mother has issued an order.

‘Our first entertainment now begins, mesdames and messieurs,’ Orestes says. ‘Please, follow me to the centre of the rose garden. And, ah—Master Sterne. . .’

Leander suppresses a sneer. ‘What is it?’

‘I am glad you have been enjoying our blooms,’ he says, voice pleasant. ‘But do take notice of the thorns.’

The Auctioneer does not seem to like Monsieur Sterne very much, Genevieve thinks, and she wonders why it is so; it seems plausible that Sterne was rude to him upon his arrival here, so perhaps the relationship was soured from the start. As they follow the path to the centre of the rose garden, Sterne glowers as if someone is treading upon his foot, although he does permit Genevieve to take his arm without a moue of complaint. Still, his stride is so long that she stumbles in following him, and he is forced to slow his pace.

‘You would walk faster if you wore more comfortable shoes,’ he says to her.

‘A lady ought to walk deliberately,’ Genevieve returns. ‘If she is hurried, she has not left early enough.’

‘What a crock of bullshit,’ Sterne replies in English. Genevieve gasps, but the gasp turns into a splutter, and then she is giggling behind her palm.

He watches her, half a smile on his face, and when she whispers, ‘Perhaps it is indeed, as you say, bullshit,’ he starts laughing, too.

As a result of this interlude, they are the last to arrive at the first entertainment. The other guests are silent in their awe. In a bare patch of earth—perhaps where a briar of roses once stood—there is an elaborate construction: the Château Reverie in miniature, in height reaching the top of Sterne’s head, in width as long as his arms outstretched. The Château has been halved at its centre, displaying a perfect cross section of rooms like a doll’s house. There is the foyer with its golden clock, lovingly rendered in the same size as Genevieve’s thumb; a ballroom set with tiny banquet tables bearing porcelain pieces of fruit and meat no larger than dandelion seeds; and—most charming of all—a room upon the highest floor filled with little birdcages, each bearing a tiny clockwork occupant that spins in place and lifts its wings as if alive.

‘Glorious!’ Ortiz proclaims, mopping his brow. Missah voices his agreement; Madame Kramarov is inspecting the Château with narrowed eyes, leaning forward in her chair; even the silent, surly guest, the tall ginger man with the cruel face, seems begrudgingly impressed. In the corner, by a bush of roses the same shade of purple as her turban, Saliha Sultan inspects her fingernails and affects disinterest. Genevieve wonders if she ought to do the same, but aloofness has never been her strongest suit. She cannot help but clap her hands in delight and lunge forward, dragging Sterne with her. ‘Oh, look!’ she says. ‘The little birds!’