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‘We all clamour for freedom,’ he tells her, walking over to a window. As he unlatches it, he continues. ‘Some have died for liberty; some have killed for it. And yet people—as all living things—will always be caged by their own desires.’
‘Answer me, monsieur, I beg of you. I have had enough of riddles.’
He chuckles as he opens the window. There is a flutter, the faint sound of wings—and then the birds return. They fly in, a collection of twittering gems, their plumage ruby and emerald and lapis blue, flurrying feathers and glittering eyes; they enter in such a deluge, with such noise and movement, that Claire instinctively raises her arms above her head to defend herself from their approach. But then the storm splits apart, scattering in prismatic colour across the room. The birds sing as they dive into their cages, falling to peck at the seeds.
Slowly, cruelly, the Auctioneer goes round the room and closes cage doors, locking the birds inside.
‘Is he one of you?’ Claire asks. ‘A member of the Company?’
The Auctioneer glances at her with mild surprise. ‘What makes you think so?’
‘He told me. Not directly, but enough for me to guess it.’
He laughs softly. ‘He surrendered, then. I suppose it makes sense. Leander takes after our mother, in some ways. He spins a story around himself, traps himself in his own web.’
Our mother.
‘Reverie and Sons,’ she says.
‘Yes. As you suppose, Leander is a member of the Company. This is the first auction since he joined in which he has participated as a guest.’
‘He lied to me.’
‘Leander has never lied to you,’ the Auctioneer replies. ‘Nor have I. Not once. We cannot. The Château values truth above all else. Instead, we simply. . . allowed you to believe what you wished to. Guests are excellent at drawing their own conclusions.’
Claire wishes to scream at him. She wishes to weep and break open each cage in this room, fly out the window alongside the birds. If she were still Genevieve, she would pitch her voice soft and polite and pliant, make herself pitiable and small. Instead, she snarls, ‘You will let me see him. You owe me that much.’
‘Why?’ he asks. ‘You will win the auction if you bid now. You will forget Leander entirely once you leave. Little need to trouble yourself over him.’
‘But. . . I must see him.’
‘Why?’ he asks again. He is leaning towards her now, his expression enraptured. His eyes glitter in the light with a curious geometry, as if they are faceted gems. In his earlobes twin black pearls reflect blurry traces of the room: warm oranges and blues from the birds, bronze from the bars of their cages. ‘Do you love him?’
‘Love? I. . .’ Claire shakes her head. ‘I have known him for two days.’
‘And so? Is not human history filled with tales of such lovers, mademoiselle?’ he asks, almost overeager—as if he himself is invested in convincing her. ‘Did Helen not see Paris and condemn Troy to ruin? Dido and Aeneas? Echo and Narcissus?’
These are hardly comparisons that inspire confidence. ‘What does it matter if I love him?’ she asks, swallowing her fear. ‘What does it change?’
‘Love leads to sacrifice,’ he replies. ‘If you do love him—if you are willing to free him—he might still attain his wish and leave this place.’
‘Leave this place,’ Claire echoes. ‘That is what he wanted to win in the auction? His freedom?’
‘He sought his liberty. Instead, he found you.’
Claire is mute in response. A spectre of light peeks through the window—dawn is coming.
He says, ‘You must soon make your bid. Once the sun is risen, your chance is over.’
‘I do not wish to bid. I wish to find Leander.’
The Auctioneer’s shoulders slump. ‘I have been ordered to keep him away from you.’
‘Have you been ordered to keep me away from him?’
His lips quirk. ‘I suppose not. But, mademoiselle, you must understand what you risk by demanding this of me. My mother named him Leander because she saw tragedy in him; she knew that you would come and be the one to condemn him. Either way, I fear this will not end happily.’
‘What did she name you?’
