Chapter 54: 54 First game

Settings

Font Size

A

A

16px

Font Family

Background Color

54: First game 54: First game They were still finishing scraping the bottoms of their bowls when Percival Aldous left his table and walked over to the Two-Ninety group’s table.

He stopped in front of Clara.

“Your time has come,” he said, adjusting his glasses with one finger.

“Reginald is already waiting for us in the game room.” Clara set down her spoon, unhurried.

“I’m coming.” Percival nodded and returned to his own table, where the rest of the Two-Eighty group was already standing up.

“Get moving,” Marcus told the others, without fully turning around.

“We don’t have all day either,” Gregory replied, rising to his feet as well.

It was Amara who explained—as they gathered the empty bowls to return them to the counter, staying close to Kairan the whole way with her arm brushing against his—”The challenges start right after lunch.

First, the ones played with the mind.

Chess.

The physical ones come later, in the afternoon, when there’s more time and better light for the courtyard.” “Why the mental ones first?” Kairan asked.

“Because after running or arm-wrestling, nobody can think straight anymore,” said Clara, who had already stood up and was tucking her hair behind her ears with a quick, almost automatic movement.

“It makes sense to do them while we’re still sharp.” “It makes sense,” said Victor, leaning against the wall next to the table with his arms crossed.

“It’s your turn, then,” said Peter.

“I know,” said Clara.

Samuel looked at Clara with a worried expression, his hands gripping the rim of his empty bowl.

“Percival is good, isn’t he?

I heard people saying that this morning.” “He is good,” Clara confirmed, looking unperturbed by the fact.

“And you’re better,” Gregory said, with an air of absolute certainty.

“I don’t know,” Clara said.

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Lena tucked a stray lock of hair back into place—a quick, almost maternal gesture.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be fine.” Meanwhile, Amara hadn’t let go of Kairan.

She had linked her arm through his as they walked, glancing sideways at him every now and then—as if to reassure herself that he was still there, that everything was okay.

“Are you all right?” she asked in a low voice as they left the common room.

“It’s been a packed morning for your first day.” “I’m fine,” Kairan said.

“If anything seems strange, you can always ask me,” she said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

“You don’t have to figure it all out on your own.” They all stepped out together, heading toward the corridor that led to the small chess room.

Room 280 was walking down the same corridor, and for a stretch, the two groups found themselves walking almost side by side.

This time, it was Marcus who slowed his pace until he was walking alongside Kairan.

“You’re a good cook,” he said.

“The soup was delicious.” He paused, his tone shifting slightly.

“But the running game and the arm-wrestling match are something else entirely.” “I know,” Kairan said.

“I don’t think you really do,” Marcus said.

“The race is the game that draws the biggest crowd of all.

Almost all one hundred and sixty of us—if you count all twenty rooms.

The courtyard gets so packed you can barely move.” “And arm-wrestling?” “Fewer people.

Maybe twenty or so.

It takes place in a small space, and not everyone gets a good view, so people prefer watching the race.” Marcus looked ahead, toward the corridor that was about to open into the small room.

“Chess matches are different again.

Usually, there are only the sixteen people from the two involved rooms, plus the judge—Reginald, in this case.

No one else enters, so no one else watches.” “Why doesn’t anyone else enter?” “Because the room is small,” Marcus said, “and because with too many people, someone would end up suggesting moves.

The rules forbid it.” Rosalind Thackeray, a little further back, added: “You’ll see the courtyard packed this afternoon.

You have no idea how many people come to watch the race when there’s something new to see.” “Like me,” Kairan said.

“Like you,” Marcus confirmed, not smiling this time.

Amara, still beside Kairan, gave him a light nudge with her shoulder.

“Does it worry you?” “No,” Kairan said.

Upon reaching the door to the small room, the two groups parted ways again.

Clara paused for a moment in the doorway, while Percival Aldous approached from the opposite direction behind her.

The two exchanged a silent glance, then entered the small room together.

Inside, the midday light fell directly onto a wooden table in the center, where a chessboard was already set up with the pieces aligned.

Reginald was already seated in a chair slightly set back; his glasses were sliding down his nose a little, and his book rested on his lap—open, yet unread.

“Clara Wren.

Percival Aldous,” he said, closing the door with a sharp movement.

“Two-Ninety against Two-Eighty.

You both know the rules.” “I do,” Percival said, sitting down.

“So do I,” Clara said.

taking her seat on the other side of the table.

“White moves first,” said Reginald.

“You drew lots this morning, before lunch.

Clara, it’s your turn.” Clara gazed at the chessboard for a long moment, her eyes moving from piece to piece with the same methodical care with which she would scan the pages of a new book each evening.

Percival watched her, motionless, waiting.

Then Clara reached out two fingers toward a central pawn and pushed it forward two squares.

“I’m starting,” she said, more to herself than to the other two in the room.