“I made a suggestion to a drunk. Drunks are highly suggestible. And nicely accepting of conversations with dead people.”
“You must have known he could do nothing to Alexander,” Celia says. The reasoning makes no sense, not that her father’s reasoning often does.
“I thought the old man could use a knife in the back for a change. That student of his was practically screaming to do it himself, so much so that the idea of it was already in Chandresh’s head, all of that rage sneaking into his subconscious from being exposed to it over time. All I had to do was give him a push in the right direction.”
“You said there was a rule about interference,” Celia says, placing down her pen.
“Interfering with you or your opponent,” her father clarifies. “I can interfere with anyone else as much as I please.”
“Your interfering got Friedrick killed!”
“There are other clockmakers in the world,” Hector says. “You could find a new one if you are in need of additional timepieces.”
Celia’s hands are shaking as she picks up a volume from the pile of Shakespeare and hurls it at him. As You Like It passes through his chest without pause, hitting the wall of the tent beyond and falling to the ground. The raven caws, ruffling its feathers.
The cages around the doves and the clock begin to quiver. The glass over the framed photograph cracks.
“Go away, Papa,” Celia says through clenched teeth, trying to control herself.
“You cannot keep pushing me away,” he says.
Celia turns her attention to the candles on the desk, concentrating on a single dancing flame.
“You think you are making personal connections with these people?” Hector continues. “You think you mean anything to them? They are all going to die eventually. You are letting your emotions trump your power.”
“You are a coward,” Celia says. “You are both cowards. You fight by proxy because you are too cowardly to challenge each other directly. Afraid that you will fail and have nothing to blame except yourselves.”
“That is not true,” Hector protests.
“I hate you,” Celia says, still staring at the candle flame.
The shadow of her father shudders and vanishes.
*
THERE IS NO FROST UPON THE WINDOWS of Marco’s flat, so he inscribes lines of symbols in the shape of a letter A with ink, pressing his darkened fingers against the panes. The ink drips down over the glass like rain.
He sits staring at the door, twisting the silver ring around his finger in anxious circles until the knock comes early the next morning.
The man in the grey suit does not admonish him for calling. He stands in the hall outside the door with his hands on his cane and waits for Marco to speak.
“She thinks one of us has to die in order for the game to end,” Marco says.
“She is correct.”
Having the confirmation is worse than Marco had expected. The small glimmer of hope he had held that she might be mistaken is crushed in three simple words.
“To win would be worse than losing,” he says.
“I did inform you that your feelings for Miss Bowen would make the challenge more difficult for you,” his instructor replies.
“Why would you do this to me?” Marco asks. “Why would you spend all that time training me for such a thing?”
The pause before the response is heavy.
“I thought it preferable to the life you might have had otherwise, regardless of the consequences.”
Marco closes and locks the door.