Eighteen. The number didn’t echo in that part of her mind where the Lord spoke. It just echoed. Would always echo, she suspected. The number she’d thought of the day she went inside to find her mother gone. The month plus the date of that terrible day. The birthday that came far too quickly on the heels of that loss. The number of the agent she’d prayed for, not knowing who it was. Eighteen. The number, even, of the year soon to dawn.

She reached a corner and hesitated. The air was cold, the night was dark, and the quickest route home was straight ahead. Maman never would have considered turning to the right instead, just to walk through the park. Not now.

Margot pressed her lips together, paused for one more second, and then turned to the right. There was no reason to walk through the park. But she wanted to, and there was nothing to stop her.

At the park’s edge, she turned onto the little brick path, following it by the bench where Mrs. Rourke was obviously not sitting with her crochet hook. To the wrought-iron table where neither Gregory sat with his chessboard nor Williams with his Go.

Only . . . that wasn’t quite true. There was no person seated at the table. But the Go board was there.

How very odd. She moved over to it, frowning into the shadows. Why would Williams have left his board set up? It was a stupid thing to do—anyone could come by and steal it. Even if few in London knew how to play the game, any thief could see that it was a valuable board.

But there it sat, safe and whole and set up for the beginning of a game. Or rather, she saw as she drew nearer, a game just begun. One black stone had been moved.

She edged closer and saw a slip of white fluttering in the breeze, secured partly under the board. A slip of white with black ink on both sides. She read the top first.

Margot De Wilde. I waited throughout the afternoon and found myself a terrible substitute for you as an opponent. Perhaps you’ll stop by soon—I had to flee the damp of evening for a while in favor of a cup of tea. But if you happen by before I return, do make a play.

Her brows scrunched together. He surely hadn’t been out here all evening, waiting—with the cough he obviously struggled against, that couldn’t be good for him. But no, the paper was damp, proving it had been there awhile. Had he left the board unattended for hours? Stupid. Stupid enough to make her itchy. But perhaps he had fallen asleep after his cup of tea. Heaven knew he wasn’t well. And this time, at least, no one had stolen the game.

The breeze shifted and she saw the bottom of the paper. Sente.