Page 24 of Love Is A Draw
She turned toward the door. “I’ll go,” she murmured, though it wasn’t a promise, but simply a way to continue when something profound had happened and she didn’t yet know what came next.
They stood on either side of the notebooks—but no longer divided. The pages between them were not barriers, but bridges. Shared memory, lived knowledge, quiet awe.
She had been the girl in the shadowed hallway—the one who listened.
He had been the boy she loved before she ever knew his name.
“Gail,” he said.
She stopped.
The words faltered at the edge of his mouth, as if he might take them back. “Will you look at the next one? There’s a line I can’t reconstruct.”
Her eyes met his. The smallest nod. “Yes.”
And in that soft, steady silence, they began again.
Gail stepped ahead,her slippers whispering over the oak floor of the great hall. She didn’t wait for him. She simply moved, purposeful and composed, and sat at the table where two chairs faced each other. Victor followed without thinking. Her confidence in chess pulled him like gravity.
He remained standing, watching her hands settle lightly in her lap, then he placed the second notebook on the table. Darkerthan the rest. Smaller. The edges had frayed, the spine cracked from use. He opened it slowly, his fingertips careful on the brittle paper. Not like a man consulting a strategy—but like one unfolding memory.
“There,” he murmured. “It starts here. I can’t see how it ends.”
She leaned forward, and something in his chest tightened. The lamplight slanted across her cheek as she read, casting the notations into sharp relief—ink faded, edges blurred. But she read it easily, as though she already knew what she’d find.
“You were trying to trap the bishop,” she said quietly.
He nodded.
“But the position collapsed. You never looked back at the structure that made it possible.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because she was brilliant, and she was here. And he’d never known how much he needed both until just now.
Her gaze lifted, seeking his. “You play the position in front of you.”
“I must,” he replied. “What else is there?”
“You could shape it. Force the game into your hands.”
“That isn’t chess.” His dismissal came rougher than he’d meant. “It’s control.”
“No. It’s mastery.”
Victor leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, drawing closer. The air between them warmed. “You learned that from your grandfather.”
“Yes,” she answered. “But I used it on you.”
He dropped his gaze—then laughed, quiet and disbelieving. “He’d have been proud.”
Her expression didn’t soften. It tightened. “He never let me play you.”
He lifted his eyes to hers—really seeing her this time. The ache behind her words caught him off guard. “He didn’t see that you already were a master.”
Something shifted then. Not between them—but around them. As if the room itself held its breath.
She reached forward and turned the page. Her fingers brushed his. Neither of them moved. The touch was brief, accidental, insignificant. And yet a pulse went through Victor’s bones. He looked at her—not with interest, not with admiration, but with something more. Something sharp. Something final.
She held his gaze. “I should go.”
