Page 33 of Chateau Reverie

‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘But it must be safer than starving, no?’

‘. . . I suppose so.’

The door to the conservatory opens. Madame Kramarov rolls in, taking an empty space at the table opposite Genevieve. ‘Good morning, mademoiselle, monsieur.’

They echo the greeting.

‘I slept very well,’ Kramarov says. ‘When I leave, I shall take that bed with me. It is marvellous.’

Genevieve tears her bread into two pieces, then returns both of them to the plate. She looks around the room again. They are all present, excepting Ortiz and Saliha Sultan.

‘May I enquire,’ she says, ‘have either of you seen Monsieur Ortiz yet this morning? Or Saliha Sultan?’

‘. . . Ortiz?’ echoes Missah. ‘Sultan?’

‘Yes.’

He gapes at her, baffled. So does Kramarov. ‘My dear,’ she says, ‘who are these people?’

Genevieve pauses. She looks sideways at Leander, who is on the other side of the room. He is studiously ignoring them.

‘They are the other guests,’ she says uncertainly.

Missah says, ‘I do not recall any other guests being present, apart from us, Monsieur Sterne, and Monsieur Kurki.’

‘But they—’ A hysterical sort of laugh has risen in Genevieve’s throat; she swallows it whole. ‘I-Excuse me.’

She rises from the table and goes to Leander, who is standing by the buffet still holding his empty plate in his hands, staring at an arrangement of spiralled black sausages. ‘Monsieur Ortiz,’ she murmurs to him under her breath, and he raises a brow.

‘What about him?’

‘They do not seem to remember him.’

‘Ah.’ Leander bows his head. ‘That’s a shame.’

Genevieve seizes his sleeve. ‘You remember,’ she says, somewhat desperately. ‘You remember him. And Saliha Sultan, also?’

Leander glances to the others, then back to her. ‘Yes. And you do also, I see. You’re upset?’

‘Yes. How. . . Where have they gone?’

‘It doesn’t matter, as I doubt we can find them, Genevieve. Saliha Sultan took a penalty. As for Ortiz. . . I suppose he has done the same.’

‘But why is it that we remember them, when no one else does?’

‘Now, that is a canny question.’ He puts the empty plate down on the sideboard. ‘Perhaps someone would prefer us to remember.’

‘Who? Someone from the Company?’

‘Yes.’ Leander looks uncertainly down at the dishes, then back to her. ‘I would propose,’ he says carefully, ‘that while we are here—while we eat their food and accept their hospitality—we are providing them some influence over our state of mind.’

Genevieve looks warily at the breakfast foods. Directly beneath her is a plate of sliced persimmons, sweating gold juice, atop which has been arranged a large bird skull, its sockets filled with bruise-coloured berries. She reaches out to press at a berry with her fork. It bursts, and its juice runs in scarlet rivulets down the side of the skull. Despite her hunger, her stomach turns.

‘I would rather not take breakfast, I think,’ she says.

‘I have some food I foraged with me in my room. As long as the food is not served to you by the Château or its servants, it ought to be safe. There should be enough for both of us this morning—although we will remain hungry. It’s hardly a feast.’

Genevieve lays a hand on her chest in affected gratitude. ‘You would share with me, monsieur?’