The Virgin and the Fae

 

“Charlotte, I am beginning to think you don’t understand how this game works,” Garrick tsked, swiping her knight with his queen.

            “I understand chess just fine,” Charlotte grumbled, watching him place her white knight beside his already captured brother.

            “Then why do you insist on defending every single pawn? You’re losing pieces—important pieces—because of it. Just focus on the important pieces; the pawns are there to be sacrificed. ”

            “What an awful thing to say,” Charlotte countered, moving one of her beloved pawns into a challenging position against his rook.

            “Awful?” Garrick looked oddly bewildered.

            “Yes ‘awful;’ how would that make you feel if you were a pawn?” She teased, smiling further when, in his bewilderment, he moved his bishop back to protect his queen, forgetting entirely his challenged rook.

            “I am not a pawn. I am a king.”

            “Sometimes there isn’t any difference,” Charlotte replied, taking his rook with a whisk of her wrist.

            The image of her vitamin bottle flashed across her mind. Iron. Eighteen milligrams.

            Could she kill a king as easily as he spoke of sacrificing a pawn?

            No. Not even for her freedom, Charlotte thought with a sigh, letting her mind drift once more to the thoughts she’d had throughout their dinner as well. She’d find another way to get out.

            “Check.” Garrick’s voice shook her back to the present game.

            “Oh—“ Charlotte grudgingly moved her queen to protect her cornered king. Swiftly, Garrick’s remaining rook took the white queen.

            “Checkmate,” he declared with pleasure.

            Charlotte scanned the wood board carefully, ensuring that her king was well and truly trapped without recourse. Finally she gave a slight shrug with her better shoulder as if to say, “oh, well.”

            Charlotte leaned back in her chair, taking in her library further. They had retired there after dinner. She liked it immensely—full of books without being overbearing or suffocating like Garrick’s library had felt. There were moldings on the ceiling—more nymphs and their lovers, though Charlotte couldn’t make out the particulars well enough to say what story each molded scene depicted. It was difficult even to notice the moldings at first they weren’t raised by very much and the whole of the ceiling, moldings and all, was the same shade of perfect white. The color of her mother’s white porcelain dishware was the closest Charlotte had ever seen of this particular white in the mortal world.

            “This was fun,” she said at last, looking back across the desk at Garrick.

            “Will you play with me again tomorrow night?”

            Charlotte began to nod with ease, already looking forward to the game and then froze. What was she thinking? Why did she want to spend more time with him? He was her captor. But he hadn’t been cruel to her, a voice whispered, not truly. But of course he had, another voice countered. She thought back to that dungeon room and flinched. 

            Iron. Eighteen milligrams.

            Garrick’s face darkened, thinking her flinch had been her response to his request. Anger mixed with—though he wouldn’t admit it fully—hurt. He wanted to throw the chessboard to the floor, dash the chessmen to pieces, kiss her, rage at her. But before he could do anything, the library door creaked open.