Retrospect
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1, 1901
The man in the grey suit slips easily through the crowd of circus patrons. They step out of the way without even considering the movement, parting like water as he heads toward the gates.
The figure that blocks his path near the edge of the courtyard is transparent, appearing like a mirage in the glow of the bonfire and the gently swaying paper lanterns. The man in the grey suit halts, though he could easily continue on through his colleague’s apparition unimpeded.
“Interesting evening, isn’t it?” Hector asks him, drawing curious stares from the nearby patrons.
The man in the grey suit subtly moves the fingers of one gloved hand, as though turning the page of a book, and the staring ceases, curious eyes becoming unfocused, their attention drawn to other sights.
The crowd continues by, moving to and from the gates without noticing either gentleman.
“It’s not worth the bother,” Hector scoffs. “Half these people expect to see a ghost around every corner.”
“This has gotten out of hand,” the man in the grey suit says. “This venue was always too exposed.”
“That’s what makes it fun,” Hector says, waving an arm over the crowd. His hand passes through a woman’s shoulder and she turns, surprised, but continues walking when she sees nothing. “Did you not use enough of your concealment techniques, even after ingratiating yourself with Chandresh to control the venue?”
“I control nothing,” the man in the grey suit says. “I established a protocol of secrecy disguised as an air of mystery. My counsel is the reason this venue moves from location to location unannounced. It benefits both players.”
“It keeps them apart. If you’d put them together properly from the beginning, she would have broken him years ago.”
“Has your current state made you blind? You were a fool to trap yourself like that, and you are a fool if you cannot see that they are each besotted with the other. If they had not been kept apart it simply would have happened sooner.”
“You should have been a damned matchmaker,” Hector says, his narrowed eyes vanishing and reappearing in the undulating light. “I have trained my player better than that.”
“And yet she came to me. She invited me here personally, as you—” He stops, a figure in the crowd catching his eye.
“I thought I told you to choose a player you could tolerate losing,” Hector says, watching the way his companion gazes after the distressed young man in the bowler hat who passes by without noticing either of them, pursuing Chandresh through the throng of patrons. “You always grow too attached to your students. Unfortunate how few of them ever realize that.”
“And how many of your own students have chosen to end the game themselves?” the man in the grey suit asks, turning back. “Seven? Will your daughter be the eighth?”
“That is not going to happen again,” Hector responds, each word sharp and heavy despite his insubstantial form.
“If she wins, she will hate you for it if she does not already.”
“She will win. Do not try to avoid the fact that she is a stronger player than yours and always has been.”
The man in the grey suit lifts a hand in the direction of the bonfire, amplifying the sound that echoes from beyond the courtyard so that Hector can hear his daughter, repeating Friedrick’s name over and over in increasing panic.
“Does that sound like strength to you?” he asks, dropping his hand and letting Celia’s voice blend into the din of the crowd.
Hector only scowls, the flames of the bonfire further distorting his expression.
“An innocent man died here tonight,” the man in the grey suit continues. “A man your player was quite fond of. If she had not already begun to break, this will do it. Was that what you meant to accomplish here? Have you learned nothing after so many competitions? There is never any way to predict what will come to pass. No guarantees on either side.”
“This isn’t over yet,” Hector says, vanishing in a blur of light and shadow.
The man in the grey suit walks on as though he had not paused, making his way through the curtains of velvet that separate the courtyard from the world outside.
He watches the clock by the gates for some time before he departs the circus.
Beautiful Pain
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1, 1901
Marco’s flat was once plain and spare but now it is crowded with an assortment of mismatched furniture. Pieces that Chandresh became bored with at one point or another and were adopted into this purgatory instead of being discarded entirely.