Margot swallowed. That was part of the wrong. She didn’t know anyone in England who played this game. Didn’t know anyone who did at all, aside from the German officer who had occupied their home when they were in Brussels after the invasion. In her head, it was his voice that sounded, though it emerged from her lips in her own tones. “It is called Go. From the Han Chinese empire, but it has become quite popular in Germany.”

“Germany?” Dot jerked away a degree.

Margot sucked more oxygen into her lungs. “Apparently its popularity is spreading.” She could still feel the smooth round stones against her fingers if she tried hard enough. Still remember sitting for hours at that game board in Brussels, trying not to be too clever in her play, lest the Generalleutnant realize she was more than what she could safely admit to being.

He’d seen anyway, despite her playing like a dunce. They’d had one honest game together before Lukas had found her and Maman and secretted them out of Belgium, into England. Playing Go had been nearly as much fun as cryptography.

She’d been unable to find a game board here in London, and her mother wouldn’t have let her spend the cash on it even if she had. Not to mention that she had no one to play with.

All of which rather begged the question of where this usurper had found a board, and with whom he meant to play. And such a beautiful board, at that, engraved and gleaming. It was a striking contrast to the player, who looked pale and half sick.

“Good morning, Margot. Or afternoon, I suppose.”

Margot spun away from the game board and the scruffy man who was reaching now with his spasmodic fingers for a white stone. An ancient woman, Mrs. Rourke, was settling onto her usual bench, drawing a ball of yarn and a crochet hook from her bag.

Sometimes Maman would bring her knitting to the park on a fine day, and she and Mrs. Rourke would ply their crafts together, chatting about the weather and the news and everything in between. Margot usually had a game of chess with Gregory on such occasions.

She summoned a smile for Mrs. Rourke. “Afternoon.” And then motioned toward the interloper. “Do you know where Gregory is?”

“Oh. Oh dear.” Mrs. Rourke’s face collapsed into folds of wrinkles. “Had you not heard? Gregory died. Tuesday last. You know he’d not been well for some time.”

True, he hadn’t. His trips to the park with the chessboard were about all he could manage. But she hadn’t thought he was dying. She’d thought . . . well, she’d thought he was part of the park, she supposed. As ever-present as that tree yonder, or the gravel of the path.