Page 50

A player laughed, unable to help himself. The laughter died in his own throat when he lifted his piece and saw the road it left behind.

On Eleven, he exchanged rooks and let his opponent take a pawn he pretended to value.

“Board Two… mate.” A polite murmur. “Board Seven… mate.” A surprised laugh that wanted to be admiration. “Board Nine…” He let the silence between words add weight. Pawn to a8. Promote to Queen.” Mate in two moves was inevitable now.

A ripple—in the boards, in the floor, in his chest—moved and settled.

One-by-one, Sander mated more boards until there were only two left.

The endgames did what endgames do when you have been patient and cruel in the right measures—they began to write themselves.

Nagy’s cane tapped once. He had not decided whether to be reckless or careful. He did not yet see that either choice arrived at the same door.

“Board Nine…” Sander said, the old steadiness back in his mouth, “queen to a1. Check.”

The curtain breathed against his sleeve. Twenty boards lived in the dark where he held them. The pawn’s crown pressed a mark into his skin. If he won, she stayed, and so did he. If he lost—

He did not finish the thought. He called the next move.

Chapter Eighteen

Eighteen boards were down.

Rosine counted them like heartbeats, the callers’ voices pricking the air—mate… mate…—until only two remained: Pembroke and Tisdale. The velvet ring around the blind player held steady; below its hem, Sander’s forearms rested quiet and sure.

Nagy’s voice cut across the hum, pitched to be heard. “Are you the Jewish girl who makes the pastries?”

Tisdale shushed Nagy, Pembroke shook his head. But neither looked up from their boards.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t answer for her. A small tip of the chin—your floor.

Rosine lifted her head. “Raizelle Cassis, I’m in charge of the kitchen here, sir.”

“A Jew in charge? And a French girl no less?” Nagy sputtered, the corners of his mustache bristling like offended bracken.

Do not shrink. Rosine held his gaze. The burn along her wrist pulsed once strongly.

A lord from one of the finished tables shoved back his chair. “I demand to know who played me.”

“Because you lost, Lord MacGovern?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked, silk over steel. “Would you also ask if you’d won?”

“I’d claim my prize,” the lord snapped.

“So I claim mine. Sit down or gamble not merely your fortune but your honor away, too.”

He sat.

Somewhere behind the velvet, Sander’s voice slipped into the seam between breaths.

“Board Nineteen… rook to d1. Check.”

Tisdale frowned. The caller repeated the move; the sound shivered along the gallery rail like a drawn bow. Rosine tasted cardamom and relief and refused both; she crossed her arms and thought, Hold Aryeh, my lion.

Pembroke, still bent over his pieces, let out a careless noise. “Our wagers stand with the House, not with Jews.”

“So you admit to betting against the Lyon’s Den?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked, pleasant as a lemon at an open wound.

“They all wagered on chess here,” Nagy said quickly, seizing the line and trying to twist it. “All of them.”