Page 52 of The Number of Love
Though one suit of clothes wouldn’t solve this man’s ultimate problem either. The missing variable in his equation was surely equal to a larger number than that. But it could help. Could perhaps put his feet—organic and artificial both—on a path toward restoration.
She watched him wrestle with his pride though. It took the form of his hands twisting in the knitted length he still held. He didn’t want to take it, any of it. Didn’t want toneedto. But he also apparently didn’t want to go on as he had been. He shoved the scarf into his pocket—leaving one end trailing out—and nodded. “Anything you need me to do, miss, you just ask. Anything at all.”
Williams drew her attention back to the board when he slid a black stone to a new position. One not entirely stupid.
Margot pursed her lips and considered her next move. “Very well.At the moment, I need you to see my friend safely home, if you would.”
Even without looking, she could see his smile. “A real hardship, that, but I’ll manage it. And be back here in an hour.” He moved half a step but then stopped. “Will you be all right here alone?”
It was her own park in her own neighborhood. Moreover, she didn’t intend to move for the next hour. “We will be quite busy until you return. Isn’t that right, sir?”
Her shaggy-haired opponent steepled his hands, rested his chin against them, and stared at the board with bright eyes. His grunt this time clearly said,Your move.
She slid a white stone to a better position.
Williams’s smile bloomed full this time. He nodded his approval and studied his own pieces.
Holmes breathed a laugh. “Enjoy your game, Miss De Wilde. I’ll see you in an hour.”
Das Gespenst sat in the park long after the chill chased everyone else indoors and the gaslights turned on. The clouds had rolled in, bringing damp air. Cold.
He hated every damp breeze of this blasted island, but he was at least learning to control the ever-present cough. It was better if he didn’t try to talk. He could just grunt and let everyone think him an idiot.
His eyes wandered toward the park entrance where the girls had stood two hours ago. The thirst for revenge tickled his lungs, drowning him as surely as the waters of theBoyntonhad tried to do. He’d have his day. He must. And it could well be the same day he handed over the codebooks to his superiors. How perfect would that be?
Margot De Wilde and Dorothea Elton. He’d hardly been able to believe it when his research had led him back to them—and then when they’d come right up to him. Mother would say it was the hand of God, delivering his enemies to him on a silver platter.
More like a small world, this one of intelligence. Everyone wasconnected to everyone else. It hadn’t been surprise so much as certainty filling his veins when he’d learned her name.Of coursethey were connected. They were all connected. And now all he had to do was forge his own connection. To them.
To one of them, at least. One would do. Get one, and he’d have them both, as inseparable as they were.
Margot De Wilde. He traced a finger along the pattern in the iron of the bench. Who’d have thought she’d know how to play Go? It made perfect what had otherwise been sufficient. He could use the game to get to know her. Use her to get at his true enemies.
From what he’d seen, no one else in this part of London knew how to play. It would just be her. And him. A new game.
He had to know what kind of opponent she would be. How many strategies he would need to employ. How many uses he could find for each move, each play.
He’d soon know. With each move, he’d learn more.
He dug his fingers into his leg. His chest ached, all the way down to his soul. But he wouldn’t let it stop him. If anything, it must motivate him. He must succeed. He’d have his revenge, and he’d hand over everything the High Command asked for. Their targets. Their codebooks. And then he’d make a demand of his own—relocation.
He was ready to be finished with this godforsaken island.
A smile tugged up the corners of his lips. Heinrich would have enjoyed this ghost story. A tale of hauntings and recompense and evening the score. It wasn’t his brother’s usual type of yarn, but still he would appreciate it. Not every tale was one of glory. Of heroics.
What did playing the part of a hero ever really get one, anyway? Death, that’s what. An enemy’s bullet. A pathetic medal sent home to one’s wife.
Das Gespenst. He closed his eyes and drew the name close. Let every other name—and he’d had no fewer than half a dozen—fade away. He’d be no one. Everyone. Faceless. Nameless.
Heinrich had a name, and it would be carved for eternity in a slab of granite in the cemetery. Their mother and Ilse would takeflowers every Sunday until they too were just a few letters carved on other slabs.
All that nobility, all those stories of glory and feats of honor and bravery, forgotten.
Margot De Wilde had a streak of the heroic in her, too, trying to provide as she was for the crippled man. She, too, would learn that it was a weakness. Andhewould be the one to teach her. He’d use it, as surely as he used Go.
Das Gespenst opened his eyes again and stared into the world that lost its color a little more with every minute. Daylight fading, night oozing in, stripping it of green and pink and orange and leaving muted grey behind. She wouldn’t understand, she with that noble streak. Just as Heinrich had never understood.
It couldn’t be about nobility. Or honor. Or bravery. It could only be about the game.
