The room is vast, a rectangle of flagstone and glass, roofed entirely in panes now caked with sleet. Every surface is cold to the touch, but the hearth at the far end—twice the size of the Blue Room’s—is alive, a single basket of coals radiating a fierce, localized heat.
The air smells of green things, even in this season. Someone has clustered dormant roses and violets around the perimeter, their leaves gray and dusted with hoarfrost. Lane, I assume. My heart does a little flip at the thought of him.
Larkin sits at a round table near the fire, hands folded, back lit in silhouette by the orange flame. He is dressed not for the weather, but for performance: crisp shirt, black vest, no tie. The only concession to the cold is the woolen scarf draped over his shoulder, the same improbable green as his eyes.
He does not look up until I am two steps away from the table. Then he rises—not as a greeting, but as a signal that the game is already in progress.
“Miss Vale,” he says, with a slight bow.
“Mr. Hughes,” I reply, and immediately regret the attempt at mockery.
He gestures at the seat opposite. “You’re early,” he says, “but so am I.”
The table is set for two. Between us is the chessboard, inlaid with alternating squares of pale bone and blackened wood, the pieces carved in some antique, almost baroque style. Each pawn wears a different crown; the bishops wield tiny, bejeweled croziers. The set is beautiful, and I cannot help but admire the detail, the polish, the way the firelight licks the edges of everycurve.
Larkin sits. His posture is textbook. Spine straight, elbows close, hands resting lightly at either side of the board. I take my seat, pulling my sleeves over my wrists for warmth, and study the opening. He has set it up exactly as in the diagram, White to move, my queen’s pawn already advanced.
I glance up at him. His eyes are fixed on the board, but I sense he is tracking every move, every twitch of my hand, every inhalation. We sit in silence, the world outside reduced to a muffled riot of sleet and wind.
I reach for my bishop, move it out to c4, and let my hand linger on the polished bone. The surface is so smooth it almost slips from my grip.
Larkin responds instantly, knight to f6. He doesn’t touch the board with both hands at once. Every move is one-handed, elegant, a flick of the wrist or a subtle twist. There is a choreography to it, as if he is dancing with the pieces, or perhaps with me.
“So,” he says, still watching the board. “How did you sleep?”
I slide my bishop back, then advance a pawn, hedging. “Like a rock,” I say. “Or a fossil.”
He smiles. “That’s the right attitude.”
We play in near silence for a dozen moves. The storm outside intensifies, the sound of sleet against glass mounting in waves, then fading, then surging again. The fire pops once, sending a single ember spiraling up the flue.
I notice, after a few rounds, that Larkin never looks at me directly. He watches my hands, my reflection in the glass, but not my face. I wonder if he’s afraid of what he’ll see there.
The room grows warmer, or maybe I have simply adjusted. The plants along the wall sweat into the air, filling the conservatory with a ghostly memory of spring. The chessboard glows in the firelight, the white pieces blaze with aninner life, while the black absorb all color, drinking it down to nothing.
I realize I am losing.
Larkin has boxed in my queen, forcing her to skirt the edge of the board while his rooks marshal the center. He sacrifices a knight—deliberately, with an almost sexual flourish—and captures two pawns in the process. He takes the piece and rolls it between his fingers, as if testing its weight.
“Did you ever play against my aunt?” I ask, trying to break his concentration.
He places the knight at the edge, away from the rest, and says, “Once or twice. She preferred other games.”
“What kind?”
He shrugs, almost bashful. “The kind you can’t win. Or lose.”
I watch his hands, the pale scar on his ring finger, the thumbnail bitten too short. He advances a rook and checks my king.
I move my own rook to block. “You always play the same opening?”
He shakes his head, just once. “Only when I want to see if the other player knows how to finish.”
“You think I don’t?”
He finally meets my eyes, and for a moment the mask slips: I see weariness, and something older, more brittle, underneath.
“I think you might surprise me,” he says, and his voice is softer now, almost kind.
