Page 41 of A True King

I take in the room. It’s white and large. Brass-framed mirrors hang above two different fireplaces. There’s a baby grand piano in one corner and a set of sofas in front of one fireplace and several chairs in front of the other. And in the far corner, two smaller chairs sit on either side of a chess table. The pieces look expensive as though they’re made of a precious stone.

“Do you play?” King Ivan asks as he nods at the table.

“A little,” I state. It’s been ages since I played. Dad and I played often when I was growing up, but I’ve only played on a few occasions with Christian in recent years.

“How about we have a drink and play a game?” he suggests. “I could use some entertainment around here.”

I give him a small smile. “Sure.”

We sit in chairs that I’m sure cost a small fortune in front of a table that’s well over one hundred years old. The chessboard is comprised of two different tones of wood inlaid into a third type of wood. And the entire thing is trimmed by a two-toned wood pattern resembling sunflowers. It’s exquisite, so much so that I’m almost afraid to touch the table to play. The pieces are carved of stones that glisten like gems under the chandelier light overhead.

We begin to play, each of us taking turns after giving thought to the move. My grandfather asks me questions, the type one would ask as polite conversation at a dinner party. What are my favorite places to visit? What was my degree in? Had I been to the opera house in Norddale? What was my favorite fictional story?

I answer him while waiting for a moment that seems right. I have so many questions for him.

“Checkmate,” I say as I move my queen. When I said I didn’t play recently, it was true. But what I didn’t divulge is that I’ve been playing since I was four years old. Dad would set up a game every week. And we’d play it through the entire week. One little move at a time, allowing me hours to contemplate my next move and the move after that. I never entered a competition or played in any competition, but I could have.

King Ivan sits back in his chair. “You are a worthy opponent.”

Shrugging, I knock over his king. We stare at each other for a long moment. There’s little doubt in my mind that we are related. Even with his age, I can see physical traits in him that are also mine. His third finger on his left hand bends slightly to the right, just like mine. The curve of his earlobe is just like mine. Even the straight bridge of his nose is the same as mine.

“Why did you want to meet me? I mean, why now?” I ask, breaking the silence between us.

“Curiosity of an old man, I suppose.”

“You were never curious before?” I question as I fold my hands in my lap.

He crosses his legs and places his hands in his lap, mirroring my pose. I can’t help but wonder if our natural sitting positions are also genetic.

“I was.” He pauses and tilts his head. I know he’s thinking about how he wants to answer the question because he’s done that over a dozen times during the chess game as he contemplated his next move. “I won’t beat around the bush. I’m sick, Mia. I have limited time left and that changes a person. I want to get my affairs in order. I need to finish the things I started. And meeting you was high on my list of priorities. I’d like to speak with your father, too, if I could find him. It appears he and your mother have taken a trip.” He raises an eyebrow as if to say “checkmate.” He knows that I know their whereabouts.

“I’m sorry that you are ill.” My answer isn’t the one he wants. I can see it in his eyes, but I won’t tell him where they are. It’s not my place to say. If he’s contacted my father and Dad has refused to see him, then he must have a good reason for his decision and it’s not my place to step into his business, especially not with his father.

“Tell me what you know of our family,” he says after a beat. I feel a little like he’s prying, but the question is a valid one.

Clearing my throat, I decide what to say. “I know you are my biological grandfather. I know my father tried to keep us hidden away. I know you loved my grandmother.”

“I think you can do better than that,” he prompts.

“Gilbert’s not your son, is he?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as if to say, “Two can play at this game.”

His lips quiver as he tries to hide the smirk threatening to emerge on his face. “Ah, I see your knowledge is greater than you let on.”

I raise my eyebrow again, signaling to him that I’m waiting for his response.

“I never loved Agatha. She was a means to an end. So was Gilbert as was Jasper.” He knocks a pawn over on the table. “Pawns, if you will.”

“So, there was a purpose for them, just not the one most would assume,” I state.

He nods. “You are bright. Much more so than my bastard son. His stunted lineage did him no justice when it came to brains.”

I clench my jaw at his words. They are cold and calculated. He truly doesn’t love the man he raised as his own. What kind of person would hate the child they raised? I contemplate that question. Perhaps, his anger at Agatha was redirected toward Gilbert.

“You don’t see the long game yet, my dear. But you will,” he says as he watches me carefully.

“Will you be telling me what the long game is?” I ask. His choice of words is curious. What could a royal’s long game possibly be?

“All in good time.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but a staff member walks into the room.

---