Page 42 of Love Is A Draw
“Gail?”
She stopped, heart hammering. Turned. Fave and Rachel stood below, watching. “I-I was just … Maia’s tea,” she managed.
Rachel lifted herself onto the stair, reaching gently for the tray. “Let me take it,” she said softly. “You need to hear this. Now.”
Gail let the tray go.
Then came the silence. Dense. Waiting.
She moved downward slowly, each tread heavier than the last, hands trembling. When she reached the bottom, Faveclosed the small distance between them. No smile. No preamble. “Your grandfather,” he said. “He’s alive. And he’s coming.”
Victor pacedthe length of the study, every stride deliberate, measured, and packed with barely-contained energy. Every muscle strung tight with frustration and his thoughts tugged at him, sharp as the tension in his shoulders. His hand brushed the carved back of a chair before moving on, restless, unwilling to pause. The faint smell of aged oak mingled with the sharper tang of coal smoke from the hearth, where low flames flickered in the grate.
Behind him, Greg leaned casually against the mantel, his demeanor maddeningly unbothered despite the significance of the matter. He swirled a dark amber liquid in a crystal glass, the clink of it against the elegant rim a quiet counterpoint to Victor’s agitated movements.
Greg raised the glass slightly in Victor’s direction. “Do you want some to calm your nerves?”
Victor stopped short and glared at the other man. “No.” A muscle ticking in his jaw. “I never drink to calm my nerves.”
“Ah.” Greg took a slow sip from his glass. “I’ve heard that before. Fave and Arnold always say the same thing. Something about keeping their guards up.”
“They’re not wrong.” Victor resumed pacing before halting suddenly behind the desk chair. Gripping the armrest with white-knuckled intensity, he stared unseeing at the stack of papers Greg had abandoned on the desk.
Across the room, Greg lowered his glass, his gaze drifting to the fireplace. “So, if I understand you correctly, all your notes are handwritten. Several volumes, each one filled.”
Victor straightened, his grip unwavering on the chair. “Yes.”
“And all of them are gone?” Greg prompted, his voice easy, but his eyes keen.
The familiar weight of defeat settled against Victor’s spine, heavy and unrelenting. “Yes.”
Greg’s scrutiny didn’t waver. “That’s the satchel you’ve been carrying everywhere. The one nobody’s allowed to touch?”
“Yes.”
“But not today,” Greg pressed lightly.
Victor’s expression tightened before he wrenched himself away from the chair, striding several paces before turning sharply on his heel. “Because we were on a bloody balloon. And quite frankly, I’m relieved I didn’t bring it. We ended up landing in a pond.”
Greg’s chuckle was short-lived, cut off by Victor’s unrelenting stare. Sobering, Greg gestured slightly with his glass. “I suppose that was fortunate, then.” He tilted his head, his demeanor becoming more serious. “But it’s gone, Victor. And it’s everything you’ve learned, isn’t it? Everything he taught you?”
Victor stilled. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths as the ache of the loss surged anew. “It’s everything. Every note I took in those years. Every game transcribed, every question I asked, every answer he gave. They aren’t just notes. They’re… Dmitry’s brilliance distilled. His lessons. His genius. My legacy.”
Greg’s gaze flickered with understanding. “A collection like the world has never seen,” he murmured, finally setting his glass down on a nearby table.
“Yes,” Victor snapped, but the fierceness in his honesty was born of protectiveness rather than temper. He straightened, his shoulders squaring, though the weight of the loss remained. “Finally, you understand.”
Greg studied him for a moment before continuing. “I see two choices in front of you, my friend.” He leaned closer, his tone practical but firm. “Option one. You start over. Try to recreate as much as you can remember.”
Victor gave a short and bitter laugh. “Start over? It took over twelve years to compile those notes. Dmitry was by my side when I wrote most of them. He checked my work and made sure the notations were flawless. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to recreate that knowledge.”
“Fair enough.” Greg inclined his head slightly, as if conceding the point. “Then that leaves option two.”
Victor’s gaze locked on him, burning with suppressed fury. “Go on.”
Greg leaned forward, holding Victor’s gaze with equal intensity. “Get them back.”
Victor’s fists clenched at his sides, his mind moving faster than his composure could hold. “I still need proof,” he said through gritted teeth. “If it was List who took them, I need to be certain.”
