Page 2 of The Grandmaster's Pawn (Checkmate)

Dirt and bits of hay cover the floor, and cobwebs hang from rafters in the ceiling. It smells like cow pies and sawdust, and we explore every inch of the cavernous space. Until Nora climbs up onto a bale of hay.

“Gemma, look at me! I’m taller than you are!” She bounces up and down on the solid bale a couple of times, and I march over and jam my hands on my hips.

“Maybe, but I’ll always be older. Now get down. We’re going to be late!”

Nora pouts, but jumps down. And as she lands, the wooden floor gives way, and we fall into darkness.

“Help!” I scream, sitting bolt upright in bed before the spiders crawl over my skin and I feel Nora’s final breath against my cheek. I’m not trapped in an underground storage room beneath the abandoned barn, unable to move, my leg broken, and a metal rake impaling Nora—the tines piercing her liver and one lung. I don’t have to shiver as the temperature drops, don’t have to cry as the light fades and I see my sister’s eyes for the last time.

But I still see my father’s heartbroken face lit by a flashlight as he peers through the hole in the floor and realizes my sister is gone. My shin throbs where the bones broke, and I reach down to rub the dull ache away, skimming the long scar from the surgery. Sometimes, I think I can feel the metal pins, though the doctors all assured me that was impossible.

I stumble out to the little kitchenette and pour myself a glass of water. The liquid soothes my raw throat, but not my nerves, and I flip every single light on before I hide back under the duvet.

Here, in my flat, I’m safe. I’m warm. But Nora’s still gone. And I’m still terrified of the dark.

Two

Gemma

I didn’t have time to make my usual cup of coffee this morning, and my lingering sluggishness annoys me. As does the headache from too little sleep. I woke up half a dozen times last night. Two nightmares, but the rest of my dreams were of happier times with Nora. With my parents.

Each one made me cry. So now my eyes are swollen behind my glasses, and my lids are made of sandpaper.

“Morning, Charles,” I say to the day guard as I rush by the antiquities room.

“‘Allo, Miss Gemma. Watch—”

I skid on the still-wet floor, and with a grace only I can manage, end up on my ass, practically doing the splits as my briefcase slips from my shoulder and my textbooks tumble to the ground, notes and papers flying everywhere.

“—your step,” Charles says as he rushes over to me. “You all right, Miss Gemma?”

“I’m fine. Just…soaked. And mortified. Thanks.” In truth, I’m close to tears again. My ass hurts, my pants are wet, and my class notes…well…they’re slowly dissolving in the remnants of the crappy mopping job someone did this morning.

He helps me up, but groans every time he bends over. The man’s pushing seventy, and loves cookies and beer a little too much. “I’ll get everything,” I say, patting his arm. “But can you call someone to get this floor taken care of? Or at least put up a sign? This is dangerous.”

“Called half an hour ago. But I’ll call again.” He shuffles off to one of the wall-mounted staff phones as I limp towards my office. I’ll be lucky if my right ass cheek isn’t four shades of purple by the end of the day.

The room isn’t much bigger than my closet, but at least it has a door I can lock, and once I know I won’t be interrupted for at least a few minutes, I ease myself into my crappy desk chair with a wince.

Turning on my computer, I check my schedule. Great. A university tour group is showing up in an hour. And their professor requested a docent with in-depth knowledge of the Lewis Chessmen. As we don’t have one, I’ll have to fill in.

I’m about to pull out my makeup bag to see just how bad my face looks when a new email pops up from ChessWorld.

Gemma, I fear I offended you last night. That was not my intention, and I apologize. I hope you’ll have time to finish our game this evening.

Your humble opponent, Daniel

My cheeks warm, and I shake my head as I reach into my bag and pull out a mirror. The man is so very British. And formal. I’m not sure why, but he makes me smile. Not even the sight of my blotchy skin and red-rimmed eyes dims the little thrill that runs through me.

Taking a few seconds to pull up the game, I make my next move, then add a brief note.

No apologies necessary. It was just a stressful night. Your move.

I’m about to log off when another message comes in.

Chess is a wonderful cure for stress. And perhaps, I will send you a photo of those awful hammer pants I spoke of. If only to hear you laugh again.

The flush that started in my cheeks takes over my entire body. I shouldn’t be doing this. Flirting with a man online I barely know. But then I realize last night was the first time I’ve laughed in weeks. It felt good.

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