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Rosine’s mouth went dry. The room’s sound collapsed and pressed in. She set a cup so gently on the tray she made no chime at all.

She felt the little pawn in her pocket and wished, wildly, for brass and copper and a safe kitchen with Sander’s coat on the peg. If he loses, I lose the bakery and or my love. If he wins, I keep both?

“It was a slip,” someone muttered. “He cannot keep twenty in his head.”

Behind the curtain, only his forearms showed and Rosine noticed Sander flexing his muscles till the veins showed. He was tense. Then his hands moved, deliberate, planting again on his knees as if steadying the ground itself.

“My error,” Sander said, voice even, stripped to purpose. “Board Six… king to h8.”

A murmur. A reprieve. Not a win. Not yet. Across two boards he had given air, not victory.

Nagy’s mouth tightened; he smelled opportunity like a man who has found a loose thread and means to pull. Another wolf, Titan, eased his boot half a pace nearer to Rosine as if he were ready to stand in front of her and protect her.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil did not so much as quiver. “Eat another bun, Mr. Nagy,” she said to the room. “It helps with the wait.”

Nagy reached without looking—pride eating where pride was told—and bit. “Caramel,” he said again, as if the word could defend him.

“Board Eight,” Sander said, cool restored, “bishop to g4.” Another breathless ah as a threat appeared where a moment ago there had been nothing but polite wood. “Board Fourteen… rook to d1.”

He was pulling himself back onto the line with the calm of a man walking a rope he had strung himself. She could almost see it: the map of twenty boards in his mind, the places he could risk brilliance and the places he must be cautious because her freedom sat on the same squares.

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.