Page 47
“Neither.” Rosine lifted the bowl, letting the lamplight show the ugly truth at the bottom. “Sugar melts. Sand does not. At least not at this temperature. We took the lot to hard crack and drew only the clean stream. Yield drops when sugar is adulterated. What you don’t see in the pastries sits there in the bowl. It’s evidence, not waste.”
Her burned wrist pulsed once and she looked over toward Sander. He remained rigid. She let the sleeve slide back so the mark showed when she set the bowl down.
A footman pushed forward a sealed sack on the side table. Rosine nodded toward it. “One remains untouched for inspection.”
“Where did you get it?” Nagy pressed. “Name the seller. Foreign sugar? Duty paid?”
“River Office consignment,” she answered, precise and public. “Dawn delivery. A clerk with brown-ink cuffs. He laughed—said Zucker under his breath.”
Two men along the arc of boards stiffened like hounds catching the wrong scent. Puck saw them; she could sense his attention sharpen. The wolves were closing in and ready at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s command.
Sander’s tempo tightened when he announced the next moves, as if he’d felt the shift even though he couldn’t see anything. “Board Eight… pawn takes pawn. Board Fourteen… queen to e2.”
He is listening for danger while he plays for us.
“If I suspect fraud or danger to the public,” Nagy said cool as rain, “I may seize your stores. And the baker. For questioning in the name of the Crown.” He turned to Pembroke and the viscount. “I’ll count on your support.”
From the curtain came Sander’s voice, colder now, a knife laid on velvet. “Board Five… check.” This meant as much as not so fast.
A man swore softly; a wolf repeated the word with relish. The room rocked minutely toward the boards and toward Sander.
He is buying me time.
“We could do the polite thing,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, as if suggesting a change of music. “And I’ll report this to the magistrate. We have witnesses that confirm that you bribed the boy to open the sacks and change the label.” She paused. “Or we keep the arrangement we began tonight. Twenty boards as you see. If my House loses any games—you get the names you asked for. If not, you will forever stay far away from the Lyon’s Den and all of our staff.”
She didn’t look at Rosine when she offered the list of names as a wager on Sander. That was its own kind of shield.
Nagy sputtered something under his breath.
A chill ran over Rosine’s back. This was it, the question of the future would hold.
“If we win,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon went on, smiling only at Nagy, “you never disturb our peace again. Is that clear?”
“Surely not afraid of a little chess, Nagy?” Tisdale drawled.
Rosine watched, breath perched on the rim of her mouth. She wanted—foolishly and fiercely—for Sander to see her standing in the blaze of lamp-light with her work in front of her. He could not from his spot behind the curtain, of course because he was the invisible thing making men swallow pride; she was the visible thing he refused to let them devour.
“Board Twelve…” Sander said, softer now, the kind of softness that made the other men at the boards lean in. “Mate.”
A hush deepened. Somewhere, a piece settled with the weight of bad news.
Nagy’s gaze skimmed from the bowl of grit and the patrons chewing contentedly to Sander behind the curtain, and then to Mrs. Dove-Lyon standing motionless, before finally reaching Rosine a half-step before her caramel lions, and as his hand lifted, the guards drew tight as bowstrings.
“Board Six—” Sander said, and there was something faltered in his voice. “Knight to d5.”
A beat too long. Then, from two different tables at once, the callers spoke over one another.
“Board Six had no knight—”
“Sir, that is Board Nine’s position—”
A player’s voice cut in, pleased and sharp. “He’s confused. Check on Six.”
The word struck her harder than any slap. “Check!” called one of the patrons.
If he lost one out of twenty, it would still be enough for Nagy to prevail. Sander would have to go to Boston.
And I’ll leave my bakery behind.
