Page 19 of Love Is A Draw
The question, so simple but startling in its intimacy, tugged at something deep in her chest. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something in his expression, a combination of levity and sincerity, left her utterly disarmed.
Movement blurred at the edge of her vision. Small fingers darted, swift and expert. She didn’t immediately process what had happened. Her wrist felt suddenly weightless, and Victor turned.
It hit her at once: her reticule and his satchel were gone. She barely caught sight of the child, weaving through the crowd like quicksilver, before Victor moved.
He didn’t shout or demand retribution as she might have expected, but folded the chessboard shut in one smooth motion, slipping the pieces haphazardly inside. He tucked the board under one arm, along with the notebook.
“Are you hurt?” He spared her a single glance, even as his focus honed in on the thief. His dark eyes flashed with a controlled fire that left her momentarily breathless.
“I… no,” she stammered, still catching up to what had happened, rubbing her wrist where her reticule had been.
Victor’s mouth pressed into a firm line as his gaze tracked the child through the thickening crowd. “Good. Let’s go.”
His hand closed around hers, his grip strong and unyielding. The contact electrified her. She barely had time to draw a full breath before he led her into motion, weaving through the bustling pathways with startling confidence. Not a moment’s hesitation, not one backward glance. He charged forward with single-minded determination.
Surprise unfurled within her, quick and warm. To witness Victor so composed yet so daring was arresting. He didn’t pause to curse their misfortune or lament their belongings; he simply acted by instinct, brave and unabashed.
The crowd thickened as Gail and Victor neared the main thoroughfare. Onlookers’ heads tilted skyward to watch the great balloons drifting higher into the blue yonder. Children clapped and twirled; ladies craned their necks, parasols forgotten. The scent of trampled grass mingled with the rich smoke of the balloon displays. Somewhere, a violin played a lively tune, grief and excitement colliding in its melody.
Gail heard the soft oohs and murmurs of the crowd, the shuffle of feet across the gravel paths, as Victor navigated through it as a quick mouse slithering through a field of tall flowers. Her steps faltered briefly on the uneven ground, her slipper catching on the edge of a stone.
Victor noticed instantly. His fingers tightened around hers, steadying her, keeping her from falling. He didn’t stop, didn’t break stride, but the tilt of his head toward her told her everything that she was safe with him.
The little girl turned, and Victor followed, pulling Gail along.
“Victor,” she said breathlessly as the air between them thickened with urgency, “it’s impossible to catch up. She’s too quick!”
“Don’t let her out of your sight.” He showed no doubt, no hesitation. Just a quiet, almost startling confidence that sent a shiver down her back.
As the child darted right, breaking toward the shadow of a balloon tent, Victor made a sharp turn, keeping Gail close. He moved like a man chasing not a thief, but some greater purpose. The ferocity in his pursuit sparked something unexpected within her. She leaned into his pace, into his determination, and held tightly to his hand as though she might never let go.
Around them, the crowd gasped as another balloon lifted into the air, its silken surface glowing in the golden sunlight. For most, the sky held all the marvels they could dream of. But apparently not for Victor. He remained focused on the fleeting figure ahead, and Gail found herself... trusting him. Whatever his plan, whatever he intended to do when they reached their quarry, he would not stop until they succeeded.
She didn’t understand it fully; she simply ran beside him, and inexplicably, she knew wherever he dragged her, she’d follow willingly.
CHAPTER 9
Victor’s grip on Gail’s hand tightened as the girl vanished into the throng. Pickpockets should take money, not his belongings. He didn’t dare slow. Not with what was in that satchel. Not when it held everything.
His boots struck the gravel path hard, the sharp rhythm muffled beneath the din of Vauxhall—laughter, music, fireworks, the shrill whistle of a vendor’s pipe. All of it blurred, background to the singular fact that he was losing it. His notes. His life’s work. Pages filled with every opening he’d ever tested, every loss, every insight—his thoughts in code, scrawled out in margins and redrafted in sleepless hours. He’d built his mind around that collection. If he lost it, what would be left of his life?
Beside him, Gail stumbled briefly, catching herself. He didn’t release her hand; he steadied her, drew her close. He couldn’t let go. Not of her, not of this chase.
The child ducked through a pocket in the crowd, slipping like water between silk skirts and walking sticks. Victor pushed on, threading through startled passersby, his grip firm as he maneuvered Gail alongside him. The pungency of burnt sugar drifted past, but the only thing he could truly smell was the panic edging into his throat.
Gail kept pace, swift, determined. His match.
The crush of the gardens gave way as they neared the outer paths. The manicured gravel underfoot turned to uneven cobblestone, and then … the girl was gone—swallowed by shadow at the mouth of a narrow alley.
Victor halted, pulling Gail gently to his side, shielding her. The alley, choked in dim light, was lined with crates and the sour stench of waste on wet stone.
“Stay close,” he murmured, quiet but firm.
He felt her nod, caught the flick of her bonnet from the corner of his eye—but his focus had narrowed to that dark passageway.
Not my notebooks.
A boy stepped forward from the shadows, wiry and tall for his age—perhaps fourteen. He planted himself between Victor and the alley’s depths, defiant, but unable to hide the tremble in his jaw. “What do you want from my sister?” His voice cracked but didn’t break.
