Chapter 16: The Notebook

"Give that back," I said.

Armand held the notebook out of my reach and opened it with his thumb.

He did not read it to himself.

He read it aloud, in the flat voice he used for numbers.

"Saturday. Dominique. Went slow when I shook. Asked what I wanted before he asked what I could take."

Dominique stood very still by the window.

"Monday. Léon. Told me to breathe. Did not tell me I was good until I was."

"Armand," said Léon.

"Tuesday. Auguste. Cruel on the surface. Waited for my answer before every order."

Auguste said nothing.

I was naked on the floor with a sheet around my shoulders.

Spit was still drying on my chin, and I could not stand up.

Armand turned a page.

"Wednesday. Armand. Counted every stroke. Did not notice my hands were cold."

His voice did not change on his own name.

It was worse than if it had.

"A line for each of us," he said. "Every night. And under it, in the margin, a mark."

He held the page to the lamp.

"A tick, a cross or a circle. Who is this for, Elise?"

"For me."

"What do the marks mean?"

"Who heard me."

He closed the book.

"Heard what? You told us everything you wanted. You wrote it down in four colours. You said it to our faces."

"Not everything."

"You graded us."

"I tested you."

"You let me put my hands on you," said Armand, "and you took notes."

His face had gone grey around the mouth.

I had never seen him hurt.

I had seen him controlled, amused and aroused, and I had thought those were all of him.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I should have told you."

"You should have told me something. Dominique, did you know?"

"No."

"But you saw her write."

"I saw the pen move," Dominique said. "I did not ask."

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