Page 49
A middlegame on twenty boards was noise, there were too many pieces to hold in his mind now and he had to cut it out.
He knew the path now. Endgames started when the queens were off the boards and fewer pieces remained. They were simplified battles, but they were slow and clear. To get there, he would have to strip the boards clean. It meant letting go of some of his pieces. It meant trusting the small pieces.
Just like Mrs. Dove-Lyon trusts us, Rosine and me.
He began with a cut only men who listen to the structure of the chessboard hear.
“Board Ten… queen to e8. Check.”
A caller repeated it; the room made a sound he knew well—a soft intake that meant they thought they saw the end.
“Board Four… queen takes h6. Check.”
Gasps. A chair knocked against the rail and stopped just short of rude.
“Board Three… queen takes g7. Check.”
Someone laughed, bright and too quick.
No. He had taken the board apart on purpose. Let the noise talk to itself; he would talk to the files on the board.
Queen sacrifices fell like precise stitches in cloth. Eight in all, spaced so the room could count if it wished: one here, one there, another two beats later.
Sander invited trades. Bishops for bishops. Knights for knights. Rooks on heavy files, lifted and set aside. He kept pawns. Always pawns. On five boards, he allowed an eager bishop to bite, because it left a pair of small soldiers untouched and abreast.
He heard Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil turn in the air without seeing it. The way a room answered her when she decided something—quietly, as if remembering its manners—told him enough. She stands. The king stands with the board. Mrs. Dove-Lyon is standing with us.
But she can fall with the Lyon’s Den.
I must not allow it. Nor do I want to go to Boston or force Rosine to choose between me and the bakery.
“Board Two… rook to h8. Check.”
Metal lifted, settled. A spoon stirring nervously in a teacup, perhaps? The sound of a man realizing he was losing at board two. He answered with a nonsensical move. “Board Two… rook to h7. Checkmate.”
Applause flickered and was hushed again, like a small wind over a field. One point.
“Board Seven… rook to e8. Check.”
Back rank. He did not let himself enjoy it. He moved to the next necessity.
“Board Nine… pawn to a5.”
An outside passer begins without sound or flattery. And so it went until Sander had checkmates on ten boards.
Nagy tried again, louder for the men who needed instruction on what to feel. “Time,” he said, though no clock ticked. “This display has gone on long enough.”
“When the gentleman finishes winning,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon answered, and Sander was grateful for her support, “we will adjourn.”
“Board Eight… bishop to g4.”
A small ah breathed out. He moved on.
Cardamom. Orange. Someone set a tray down. Rosine is there and she brought her baked pieces of art.
“Board Twelve… pawn to c6,” Sander called.
“Board Twelve… queen to d8. Check,” the opponent responded.
