Chapter Seventeen
Oh, please no!
Another check.
I’m losing.
With the lamps turned high and the Lyon’s Den watching, Sander fixed himself to one plain truth—win and stay by her door; lose and the sea would claim him for a passage to Boston.
No!
The curtain brushed his sleeves. His breeches were hot under his palms. The breath of a crowded room held in neat ribs, a chair leg adjusting two or three feet to the left.
Cardamom and orange cut the air. She’s still here.
He couldn’t see Rosine, but he could feel the press of her attention like a warm hand on his back. Hold the line for her. Win.
“Board Six—check,” a caller said, too pleased.
Sander had already counted the boards that mattered.
Four in danger. Six, eight, eleven, fifteen.
One loose king, two over-pushed flanks, one rook endgame heading the wrong way.
One loss and I sail. She told me she wouldn’t follow.
I can’t lose. The games didn’t matter anymore.
Only Rosine did. I have to find a way to stay in London even if I lose without forcing her to relinquish her bakery.
He drew a breath, lifted his voice through the velvet. “Board Six… king to h8.”
A waiting move was like a heartbeat bought in chess time.
Nagy’s tread came nearer. “Confusion,” he said to no one and everyone. “He miscalled a move five minutes ago. I call it irregular.”
“He corrected within a breath,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied, silk cutting clean. “We continue.”
Sander let the words pass without touching them. He closed his eyes a fraction and walked the arc of boards in his head.
A laugh blunted itself against the velvet and interrupted Sander’s concentration again.
Someone had enjoyed a bun and chewed loudly.
Sander swallowed the ache to see Rosine that rose with the scent of caramel but he could not see beyond the curtain. He looked up and saw the ceiling. He looked down and saw his hands on his breeches.
Focus on the board, everything else is noise.
All noise.
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.
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.