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He looks, although she senses he is not particularly impressed. In fact, if anything, he appears uncomfortable with the miniature, and he quickly pulls his arm out of her grasp so that he might step back.

‘Our first entertainment is a treasure hunt,’ the Auctioneer says in a hushed voice, as if he is imparting a secret. ‘Within the real Château have been hidden small figurines, one to represent each of you. You have until the end of the banquet this eve to find your figurine and place it within this miniature. The contestant who first succeeds shall be provided with a prize. And please note—anyone who fails to retrieve their figurine before the deadline shall receive a penalty.’

‘What penalty?’ Madame Kramarov asks.

‘That shall remain to be seen, madame. But I assure you, it will bring no grief to any of you.’

Beside Genevieve, Sterne hisses a breath through his teeth as if in dread. The treasure hunt sounds exciting to her—she has been looking forward to another opportunity to explore the grounds, and she has always been competitive—but perhaps his reservations are understandable. Surely losing itself would be penalty enough? What further punishment could the Company inflict?

The Auctioneer rings his glass bell once more.

‘You may begin,’ he says brightly.

The guests all pause, glancing at one another in mild confusion. When it becomes clear no further instruction is coming, they scatter away.

Six

It begins civilised enough, as most of his mother’s trials do. The other guests, with the exception of Genevieve, seem less than enthused by the thought of a treasure hunt. Still, with little else to divert them, they wander out into the grounds, entirely ignorant of the danger they face.

Meanwhile, Genevieve de Vienne is all afire. She looks up at the Château, eyes shining with purpose, and says, ‘Where shall we start? We must find them both—then, if you wish, you can set yours in place before mine. I do not much mind about the prize, as long as I know that together we were the first to succeed.’

Leander blinks at her. Genevieve doesn’t give the impression of being an idiot, but what other explanation could there possibly be for her stubborn preoccupation with him? Leander wonders if he could piss on her skirts and she would thank him for it. He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Why would we work together?’

‘Well. . . I imagined it might be amusing.’

‘Amusing,’ he echoes, suppressing the urge to grip her by the shoulders. I am helping you, he wants to say. Let me keep you away from me, for God’s sake.

Genevieve smiles at him and flutters her fan. It sends a gust of her perfume towards him, lilac sweet, with the underlying scents of silk and powder and a woman’s skin: all the ordinary, corporeal things that the Château usually denies him. His mouth goes dry.

‘You are dangerous, Mademoiselle de Vienne,’ Leander says. ‘You don’t realise it, and yet you are.’

‘How so?’

‘When a worm is placed on a hook, does the worm know that it’s bait?’

The mademoiselle laughs—a hurt laugh, fraying at its edges. ‘I have never had a man call me a worm before.’

‘Good,’ he says. ‘You ought to find another man, then. I’m certain there is someone here who will bite.’

Then, before he can lose his nerve, Leander turns and walks away.

That ought to do it, at least—how much more sincerely can he possibly insult her before she learns to keep her distance? His mother is probably watching them at that very moment, laughing to herself. How quickly her son’s mettle wavers at the sight of a pretty girl.

Leander goes to the fountain and sits beside one of the marble lions. He places his hand on its mane and feels it rumble with contentment beneath his palm. Small victories, he tells himself: these moments of resistance, of anger. As long as he is angry, he remains someone separate from the Château—someone real.

After a moment, a figure sits beside him.

‘Orestes,’ Leander says. Not in greeting but in warning.

‘Leander,’ Orestes says, and his voice is as cordial and unbothered as ever; he could be commenting on Leander’s hairstyle or the chalky powder on his shoes from the gravel. ‘Are you enjoying the auction so far?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘What is your intention?’ Orestes asks him.

‘To win my freedom.’

‘Elaborate suicide,’ he replies cheerfully. ‘Or delusional optimism?’