Page 22 of Love Is A Draw
Gail’s lips pressed into a sad line. “The comb was more precious, but they’ll never know.” Her sorrow struck somewhere deep within him.
“Silver, right?”
Gail hesitated before shaking her head. “Actually, no.”
He stopped mid-stride and turned to look at her fully, his eyebrows furrowing. “But the girl asked…”
“I didn’t confirm.” Gail’s lips curled into a small, almost mischievous smile. “I merely said I’d had it since I was a girl.”
Victor’s expression flickered from confusion to intrigue before amusement broke across it. “You bluffed.” His admiration warmed into something personal. He tilted his head, letting his grin grow wider as the realization sank in. “Well done.”
Gail’s cheeks flushed under his steady gaze. “It is meaningful, though, even if it’s not precious.” Her fingers traced the strap of her reticule. “It was the comb my grandmother used, and when she passed, I received it.” She stared straight ahead, her gaze distant. “No one thought much of it, but it was hers. That’s what mattered.”
Victor nodded slowly, his own gaze drifting over his shoulder, back toward the shadowed streets they had left behind. “An heirloom.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Should I go back? I could try to get it back for you.”
“No!” Gail cut him off before he could move. Her hand tightened on his arm, her grip firm enough to halt him in his tracks. When he looked at her, it wasn’t the fear in her eyes that stopped him, but the quiet, unshakable resolve beneath it. “Don’t put yourself in danger for material things.”
Victor stared at her then, taking in the furrow of her brow, the tension in her shoulders, the fire tucked behind her words. It startled him, her protectiveness of him. And it mattered—more than it should have.
“I understand very well,” he said after a beat, “that there’s more to life than material things.”
But Gail didn’t leave it at that. “And yet you were willing to risk yours for a satchel full of chess notation?”
Victor’s steps faltered briefly, but he recovered quickly, his expression an unreadable mask. He hesitated momentarily, as though weighing how much to reveal. Then, without meaning to, he let the truth slip. “It’s more than that.”
Gail turned toward him, waiting—but said nothing. Her silence felt like a door left open.
He stepped through. “It’s... not just chess. There are patterns. Questions I haven’t solved yet. Every page helps me see clearer—how to think better, how to anticipate. It’s a kind of order. When everything else seems uncertain, the pages make sense.”
“One day, you want to show your teacher that you solved the puzzles?” Gail looked up at him then, eyes soft and searching.
He didn’t flinch under her scrutiny, didn’t mask the rawness in his question. “How do you know that?”
“I just understand. I have puzzles to solve, too.” Her gaze lingered on him, and he realized she didn’t just try to offer comfort. She meant it aspermission. He could share more if he chose to.
They walked on for a while longer, her hand still resting lightly on his arm. The night folded around them, quiet and serene, as the golden light of the lanterns cast gentle halos at their feet. Victor pressed his hand against the weight of the satchel at his side, his thoughts circling both its contents and the woman walking beside him.
She had lost something tonight. A small, irreplaceable piece of her past. But she had protected him without hesitation, and he had trusted her without even realizing it. And as they moved through the deepening twilight, he wondered whether—between what was stolen and what was offered—they had each found something even more valuable.
CHAPTER 10
They didn’t speak much as they walked back toward St. James, but clearly Victor was walking Gail home. He’d offered his arm, and her grip on him was light, certain—wordless companionship. The air between them throbbed with something new: neither command nor surrender, but shared conviction. She followed him through the growing dusk—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
By the time they reached the Pearlers’ house, twilight had deepened the sky to a bruised navy. The lights inside cast a light orange glow onto the street.
Victor stared at the worn stone steps, jaw working in silence—as though preparing himself. “May I—?” he finally offered, gesturing toward the front door, tone low, rough around the edges but strangely steady.
She nodded.
He knocked for her, and the butler, James, let them in.
Inside, the house pressed around them: quiet, embers smoldering in the hearth, the only sound the grandfather clock ticking steadily against the hush. Victor placed the satchel down with care. Gail stood by the doorway.
He reached into the satchel and drew out a heavy leather volume. He laid it on the small side table across the grandfather clock.
She stepped closer, and the soft light caught his profile.
He opened the volume to reveal a dense tangle of analysis moves, annotations, and diagonal arrows. But that wasn’t what made her breath catch.
