Page 8 of Love Is A Draw
Gail lowered her gaze to the cover of the magazine. “I only know what I was taught.”
Rachel leaned back against the desk. “Except even Greg, while he spotted the mistake, didn’t see your suggestion to fix it. And he’s been published in that same journal.”
That grabbed Gail’s attention. “It’s not my place to say. I mean, I wouldn’t dream of correcting him.”
Rachel raised a brow. “But you saw it.”
Gail hesitated. “Yes. That’s all.”
Fave hmpfed and shook his head, his expression unreadable.
Rachel studied her for a long beat, making Gail feel uncomfortably visible, then asked lightly, “What did you think of our guest?”
Gail’s fingers tensed around the magazine’s edge. “He speaks English well.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A flush rose along the back of Gail’s neck. “He’s… interesting.” She immediately regretted the truthfulness in her tone.
Rachel’s gaze sharpened, while her voice remained gentle. “Be careful, Gail.”
“I am.”
Rachel didn’t look away. “This isn’t a world where women like us are allowed mistakes. Not in the eyes of men like Baron von List.”
“He’s announced that he’s entering the tournament,” Fave Pearler added gravely.
Gail’s throat tightened. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
Rachel didn’t blink. “Then why do you look like you wish it were everything?”
Gail didn’t answer yet. Because she couldn’t—not in a way that would make sense. Not when her fear wasn’t just chessboard strategy but the quiet, unpunished facts: List had already killed one Jewish opponent after a loss. Another had vanished without a trace. The papers whispered what no one dared say aloud—aristocrats like List were too powerful to be accused of murder. But Jews? Jews paid dearly for even small defiance.
Rachel’s tone softened again. “You don’t need to prove your worth to him. Or anyone.”
Gail lowered her eyes. “Maybe I’m not trying to.”
But her heart wasn’t so certain. Sometimes, she wished she could show everyone that she, too, could be a chess master if given the chance. But it wasn’t for women.
Rachel watched her for another moment, then nodded once. She didn’t push further, only turned to the drawer where the household accounts were kept, and slipped the letters inside.
But Gail stood rooted, theChroniclestill in her hands. She didn’t need a warning to know what Victor Romanov could be. He was a player and Greg’s guest. He wasn’t staying. She couldn’t trust what she saw in him—not the flicker of recognition, not the restless precision in the way he studied aboard, not the flash of surprise when he noticed her steady gaze. He was fleeting and shouldn’t mean anything.
She placed the journal carefully on the desk and turned away. Let him be brilliant. Let him play like the Black Knight and disappear the same way he came. Gail Tarkov did not fall in love with men who would leave. She did not. And she would not start now.
But just as Gail turned to leave, Rachel stopped her. “One more thing,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “If we host the first round here, I’m going to suggest you play.”
Gail froze. “I beg your pardon?”
Rachel’s smile returned, small but sure. “You’ve seen how Greg organizes the match schedules. And we’ll need more players. I’d rather the extra chair go to someone who knows how to play than to one of the gentlemen who pretend they do.”
Gail’s breath caught in her throat. “I’m not—I mean, I’ve never competed.”
Rachel gave a soft shrug. “Neither have half the men in that salon. The difference is you might win.”
Gail gripped the edge of the desk to steady herself, her pulse tightening. “Mrs. Pearler, I?—”
“I won’t insist,” Rachel said gently. “But please consider it.”
