Free The Game by A. S. Byatt

night. As for herself, it could have been clear enough to Cassandra what use she had made of their stories. ‘In MissJulia Corbett’s first two novels an element of romantic fantasy was uneasily blended with a warm, human understanding of very real daily problems. In her later work she has consolidated her achievement in the second field – she is probably the best of that increasing number of women writers who explore in loving detail the lives of those trapped in comfort by washing-machines and small children – but with the fantastic romantic overtones some of the vigour has been lost. In the earlier books, clumsily conveyed, was a sense of possibilities and concerns outside domestic claustrophobia. I sometimes wish Miss Corbett could see her way to reopening, reinvigorating her fantastic vein; she might then have it in her to be a very good writer.’ This was from
The Guardian
; Julia had it by heart; it had both irked and vaguely encouraged her. She wondered whether Cassandra had ever read her novels, and whether Cassandra had written anything herself. She thought: she is not creative. She is critical. But it wasn’t the whole truth. It was strange how even now what she saw to be the childish clumsiness of the little figures seemed so much alive.
    They began to play, very self-consciously, going back to the very early days of their partnership when the game had depended on the organization of the moves rather than on sustained imaginative effort. In the later days, they had sat and narrated the feelings of their characters in high romantic prose, with a certain formality. Julia was aware that they were both pretending to forget things; she herself ‘lost’ several characters in the Forêt Sauvage and could not remember how they could be extricated; Cassandra had to ask whether the Abbey grounds, as well as the Abbey, were sanctuary. Cassandra was smiling slightly – Julia, losing a slice of land and several soldiers cried, ‘Do you remember when we decided they were all immortal the day I cried too much to go on? Oh, I
was
a bad loser.’
    Cassandra laughed, and settled the red knights in her dungeon.
    ‘At least they
are
immortal,’ said Julia, feeling a sudden rush of warmth towards Cassandra, the Game, her childhoodand herself, as a child, mourning and reviving the dead knights.
    ‘Immortal?’ said Thor from the gallery. ‘Who is immortal?’
    He leaned over the banister, a pale figure in a thick white fisherman’s sweater, his blond hair gleaming. Julia stared up at him.
    ‘Characters,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t. They have gone to sleep. I am going to bed.’
    ‘It’s a bit early. I’ll come. I’ll come in a moment.’
    ‘As you will,’ said Thor, vanishing.
    When he had gone, Julia said, ‘Oh dear. Oh damn. He makes me feel I behave so badly. At least, I just let him do all the things I ought to be doing. Oh God, Cassandra, I hate myself.’
    ‘Do you?’ said Cassandra. She added, ‘We all need to protect ourselves from thinking too much. We all have different ways. I should think he might understand that. He’s intelligent.’
    ‘You know it’s not only self-protection. It’s a kind of self-indulgence.’ Julia looked almost pleadingly at Cassandra.
    ‘Well —’ said Cassandra. Then, ‘In any case, what does he know? If he does know, he’s likely to forgive. He seems forgiving.’
    ‘
Forgiving?’
said Julia.
    ‘Not that I’m in a position to judge,’ said Cassandra, balancing the black Queen on the palm of her hand. The Queen’s face, by some lucky accident, had a real severity of expression, whilst her skirts were sculpted into real movement. Cassandra closed her hand over her; she was an object still so familiar that she was difficult to see clearly. Julia thought; that was almost a conversation with Cassandra. She bent her head over the network of paths and rivers on the carpet, traced one with her finger, and