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‘Whoever doesn’t win takes a penalty. You have now seen what happens to those who do.’

‘I know that. But I. . .’ Her throat tightens. She knows, she knows, she has known all this time. And yet still, he needed to remind her. She has been so effectively hiding in her own denial. ‘It is a fair competition. My secret will be valued against yours.’

‘A fair competition!’ he scoffs. ‘And then what? One of us leaves, while the other becomes clockwork?’

‘They would not—’

‘They would,’ Leander says harshly. ‘I would, Genevieve. What if I told you I had no secret? What if I told you my only option was to steal yours?’

‘I would tell you that I trust you,’ she replies. ‘That I trust myself not to reveal it to you.’

‘You’re naïve.’

‘Perhaps. But hope is all I have left to me. If that is the same as naivety, I will bear it gladly.’

They stand before each other, silent, stubborn. Behind them, the gears turn. The pendulum swings.

‘Come with me,’ Leander says, and there is a sudden determination to his expression. ‘I want to show you something.’

Genevieve follows in surly silence as Leander leads them down a narrow corridor, towards a pair of sky-painted doors, clouds sponged on in silver and bronze. Leaning forward, he places two hands on either side of the doors. ‘The back gate,’ he says. The Château acquiesces.

He hears Genevieve exclaim beneath her breath, because she had, naturally, expected to be led further into the house. But instead, here is the grey sky and the white fog, the green grass of the gardens. A small, thin path of porcelain gravel leads to a low golden gate embedded into a green-mosaicked wall; beyond this gate there is a precipitous drop, which Leander knows conceals a set of stairs flowing down the mountain.

Leander walks outside, then turns expectantly to Genevieve. ‘This way.’

Her expression is wary. She takes a small, dainty step into the cool spring air, pointing her toe. She is wearing silk shoes; they’ll make the walk arduous, but he’ll carry her if he has to. Leander offers her his arm. She places her hand in the crook of his elbow, and their eyes meet. He feels as if the breath has been knocked from his chest.

Beyond the gate is the forest, unrolling green and gorgeous down the mountainside. The grass is a vast collection of scattered wild flowers, soaring larch trees hiding their height within the fog. The path meanders lazily between these trees, and as Genevieve and Leander proceed, the ground changes from porcelain gravel to cracked stone, then to a simple furrow in the grass, matted here and there with pine needles. The air is damp and cold, scented with sweet sap and wet soil. Genevieve seems awestruck at the scenery: she pauses to marvel at the way the roots tumble along the ground, tilts her head to listen to the chaos of the birdsong in the air.

Leander wants to tell her that this is still deception, even if it’s of a different sort. He wants to tell her that he already suspects the truth, that her secret is already at risk. But he doesn’t. He says nothing at all as he picks his way along the path, knowing the way, knowing his destination, but unable to recall how he came to know these things in the first place.

‘You have been here before,’ Genevieve says to him.

He looks over his shoulder at her. He could try to circumvent the Company’s prohibition on lying, talk around the implicit question until she felt satisfied it was answered. Instead, he says, ‘Yes.’

He stops walking. They have come across a small stream, stitched like a pale green thread along the ground. He hops over it, then offers his hand to Genevieve.

She takes it, her hand small in his. She isn’t wearing gloves, and he can see the dark knubs of calluses on the tips of her fingers. He wraps his grip around her wrist and helps her make the same jump. On the other side, she almost slips on a rock, and she’s forced to lean on him for balance; she is warm, her heartbeat fluttering at her throat, mist forming a translucent sheen on her skin. Leander swallows, once, twice, and then leads her farther down the path.

He shouldn’t, but he keeps hold of her hand as they continue to walk. Leander knows that his mother is probably watching them; they are still on Château land, after all. But here, in the fog and the silence, it feels like nothing and no one exists apart from them. He can hear Genevieve breathing, can hear himself breathing, and he is shivering, slightly cold from the damp. It’s so material, so corporeal. For once Leander is mortal: a presence, not an absence. Genevieve is holding his hand, and he is as human as she is.

Eventually, they reach the clearing.

‘This is the place,’ Leander says, and he hopes she can’t hear the trembling of his voice.

The little stream has widened, quite abruptly, into a river. The water rushes violently, clear as glass, algae-greened pebbles shining beneath the surface like emeralds—there must be a waterfall somewhere farther up, to produce such ferocity of movement, although Leander has never thought to check. The water bisects the clearing, so that the only way to proceed is to cross the river. There is a bridge, although it’s hardly safer than the river itself: a seemingly impossible jumble of mossy rocks, some half tumbling from their perches, built at such a steep curve that the bridge and its reflection in the water form a perfect circle. The bridge’s parapets are tall, but not tall enough to prevent a fall. Where the grass meets the stone bricks, a thin line of white mushrooms has sprouted. It’s a fairy-tale place, an illustration in a picture book. He imagines his mother arranging her miniatures in their doll’s house, ensuring they fit just right. That is the purpose of these auctions, after all. Her entertainment, her collection. She finds the prettiest toys and she places them upon her shelf.

Leander steps further into the clearing. Genevieve follows. On the other side of the water, the mist is so thick they can’t see beyond the first row of trees. The riverbanks are abundant with purple flowers and sprouting fiddleheads, their green faces still curled shyly into their necks.

‘You wish to cross?’ she asks Leander. She must speak loudly to be heard over the roaring of the water.

Oh, how he wishes. ‘Yes,’ he says.

‘What is on the other side?’

‘The real world,’ he replies. ‘If we both crossed, the Château would be forgotten to us. We could leave without winning, without losing.’

‘I am not leaving.’