Page 51 of Love Is A Draw
Treason? How could chess be treason if it was honor, love, and dignity?Victor’s gut turned. They didn’t understand. Worse—they didn’t want to.
Greg interrupted, his voice sharp. “It’s thorough notation Mr. Romanov has collected over a lifetime. Volumes of precious work.”
The man ignored him. “Or perhaps encoded messaging. A foreign script. Convenient, isn’t it?”
Victor’s heart pounded. List had studied the ledgers. Used them. Warped them.
The investigator lifted the bundle as though it might burn. “So, tell me, Mr. Romanov—if this is chess, what does it say?”
Victor stared at the pages—not as diagrams, but as years of labor. Tarkov’s hand. His own. Gail’s faith that those hours had mattered.
The officers had the papers in hand and the same question ready on their tongues.
“Mr. Romanov,” one began, tapping the margin, “you claim to be a chess player—yet this notation is not what we see in theChessman’sChronicles.” He pulled out a pristine paper that showed he hadn’t studied the articles; it was just a freshly printed edition. Any true player, however, pored over the Chessman’s Chronicles as soon as it was published. Pristine copies were in the possession of only those who didn’t appreciate the paper itself.
The other man leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Are you, in fact, a chess player at all?”
Victor kept his expression even.Do not give them the scene they want.
“It says nothing to you,” he answered, voice level. “And that is why I will not argue. Call the round. Let me play in the tournament today and watch for yourself.”
Bootsteps carried down the corridor before any reply came—fast, coordinated, the sound of men who expected doors to open. Two of List’s attendants swept in first, speaking low to the officers, glancing at Victor, then back again, as if ticking boxeson an invisible list. The officers straightened at once. No attempt to hide they were in his pocket.
Baron von List arrived with Sofia on his arm, velvet and jewels, a measured pace that made the room wait for him. The officers bowed, not to the tournament, not to the game, but to the man.
“Watch us,” List said, smooth as polished steel. “He plays me.”
No debate. No delay. The officers gave a single, sharp nod.
Greg led the party to the room where boards had been set up for the third round. The winner of this third round would play Greg for the title of Black Knight.
Victor walked to the table under their gaze. He sat. The board lay simple and absolute before him—sixty-four squares, nothing more, nothing less. The pieces felt heavier today, not for their weight, but for who watched them.
Across from him, List rested two fingers on a pawn and smiled without warmth.
Movement at the far doors down the hall drew Victor’s eyes. Rachel Pearler entered with Fave—and with Gail between them. They saw the officers. Rachel’s hand closed on Gail’s sleeve at once, drawing her aside toward Greg and Lady Hermy. Fave stepped in close, a quiet wall, and the four of them spoke in low voices near the gallery rail.
Victor did not hear the words. He would not. The line of his focus narrowed and held.
Center first. Then the man across from you. Then everything else.
List’s smile did not change.
The officers took their places at the edge of sight, watching. The chamber stilled. Round Three waited.
Victor set his hand over the board—and the game began.
CHAPTER 23
The hall stirred before a single move was made. Word had flown ahead like a spark catching dry tinder: Gail would play again. Rachel Pearler had secured it, her voice steady with the authority of fairness itself, and there was no rule to bar Gail now. The arbiter whom Fave Pearler had approved could only nod, papers shuffled with reluctant hands. But what began as a murmur grew into a swell—astonishment, whispers of impropriety, wagers muttered in corners. If Gail played, then so would the Baroness Sofia von List.
The realization rippled through the room, sharper than any opening gambit. Chairs scraped, gentlemen leaned in, ladies fanned themselves with brisk, fluttering strokes. Round Three had come, and with it, the board itself seemed to tremble under the weight of what was at stake.
Time twisted strangely. The game started within the hour, but the air dragged, thick as molasses, as though years passed in the span of minutes. Every glance, every breath stretched longer than it ought, holding the room taut with expectation.
In the early afternoon, the fire in the hearth had burned to its last glowing coals, casting a dull orange across the chessboard. But the heat hadn’t reached Victor in hours. He sat at the edge ofhis seat, the hard wood biting through the layers of his breeches, his shirt clinging to his back with cold sweat.
The room reeked of polish and overcooked tension. Every breath scraped down his throat like sand. Fave stood in the corner, arms crossed tightly, and even Greg looked pale beneath his usual composure, seemingly unconsoled by his wife, Hermy.
