“Early morning, just after dawn.” Avery’s answer came as his brain finally registered the scene around them: walls made of heavy gray-and-brown stone, wood paneling on the ceiling, moldings painted gold and blue. “And we’re at Vantage.”
If Jameson’s brain had begun noting the details of this place before, it drank them in now. The room was long and thin and looked like it could have belonged in the castle that Ian had said that Vantage wasn’t, exactly. The stone of the walls looked like the stuff of ancient fortresses; the detailing on the ceiling looked like it belonged in a palace. There was an elaborate X directly over the center of the room, with squares positioned to look like diamonds on either side. Inside each of the diamonds, there was a shield; on the shield, symbols, all in shades of gold and blue.
Aside from that detailing, the room was devoid of decoration. The stone walls were imposing, and Jameson counted only five places in the room where stone gave way to something else: two windows, one door, a fireplace cut into the stone, and, beside it, a second cut-out, equal in size and shape to the door, filled a third of the way up with firewood.
The only piece of furniture in the entire room was a long, heavy table made of dark, shining wood. The table was rectangular, plain. There were no chairs, which would explain why most of the people in the room were standing.
The other players, Jameson’s brain whispered as he registered their presence. Only three, besides Avery and me. It was never too early to take stock of the competition.
Jameson recognized Branford and Zella, who stood on opposite sides of the table. To their left, he saw a woman gazing out one of the windows, her back to them all. The woman’s hair was silvery gray. She wore a white pantsuit, and the fact that it was immaculate made Jameson wonder how she had managed to avoid the knockout treatment.
Maybe she’s someone even the Proprietor of the Devil’s Mercy wouldn’t dare knock out.
With that thought, Jameson shifted his gaze from the woman to the opposite window, where Rohan sat on the stone sill. There were no curtains on the window, no adornments of any kind, just the Factotum, lounging there, reading a book, wearing a suit the same dark purple color as the ink in which Jameson had written his secret.
An H. The word is. The letters v and e. Jameson pushed back against the memory, and the sense of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.
“Are you okay?” Jameson asked Avery calmly. Focusing on her always helped. “Did they use the knockout powder on you, too?”
“I’m fine,” Avery said. “And yes.”
“Well, this is hardly sporting,” the woman at the window commented, turning to face the room. Her silvery hair came barely to her chin, but not a strand of it fell into her eyes. “Are the two of them to be allowed to play together?”
Rohan took that as a cue to snap his book closed. He waited to be sure he had the attention of the entire room, then stood, leaving his reading material on the stone ledge. “If it’s the rules of the Game you’re wanting, Katharine, I would be happy to oblige.”
Rohan walked to stand at the head of the table, his stride languid but his eyes electric.
“Where is Alastair?” Branford asked.
“The Proprietor,” Rohan replied, meeting Branford’s eyes with a dark glint in his own, “has left the design and running of this year’s Game to me.”
“A test of sorts?” Zella said. “For the boy who would be king.”
Jameson tracked each word spoken, taking measure of the players. Zella was attempting to get under Rohan’s skin, her reason for wanting to do so unclear. Branford had asked after Alastair and Rohan had come back with the Proprietor. And something about the shrewd expression on Katharine’s face reminded Jameson of his grandfather.
“As you will have noticed, this year’s Game has taken us to what most would agree is the Mercy’s most notable win of the past decade.” Rohan tossed a smirking look toward Branford. “Welcome home, Viscount.” The Factotum’s deep brown eyes lingered on Branford’s, then his gaze shifted to Katharine’s as he continued. “You are all aware of the stakes of the Game. The prizes you may choose from. Power. Riches.”
There was something in Rohan’s tone that made Jameson wonder how long he had been waiting to run his own Game—and what he’d done to earn the right.
“Hidden somewhere on this estate,” Rohan said with a flourish, “are three keys. The manor, the grounds—they’re all fair play. There are also three boxes.”
One, Jameson thought, for each key.
“The Game is simple,” Rohan said. “Find the keys. Open the boxes. Two of the three contain secrets.” Rohan smiled, and the expression was dark and glittering this time. “Two of yours, as a matter of fact.”
Avery hadn’t been required to pay her way into this game, but Jameson had—and so had Branford. Zella had been dismissed from the room before the Proprietor asked for their secrets, suggesting that she, like Avery, was in the clear. Katharine was a wild card, but she responded to Rohan’s statement with the slightest, satisfied curve of her lips.
Jameson thought about what he’d written down, and it took everything in him not to look at Avery, because suddenly, her presence here didn’t seem like a boon. It was a risk.
After all, Jameson could hear the Proprietor saying, these things are always more interesting when at least a few players have “skin in the game.”
Anyone reading those words would be bad. Avery reading them would open Pandora’s box.
“So, two boxes with secrets. In the third, you’ll find something much more valuable. Tell me what you find in the third box, and you’ll win the mark.” Like a magician, Rohan produced a round, flat stone out of nowhere. It was half black, half white. “The mark may be redeemed for either a page from the Mercy’s ledger that has been forfeited this year or an asset the Mercy has claimed during that same time period. As for rules and limitations…”
Rohan made the mark disappear once more.
“Leave the manor and the grounds in the condition in which you found them. Dig up the yard, and you’d best fill the holes. Anything broken must be mended. Leave no stone unturned but smuggle nothing out.” Rohan laid his palms flat on the dark, gleaming table, leaning forward, his arm muscles pulling at the fabric of his suit. “Likewise, you may do no damage to your fellow players. They, like the house and the grounds, will be left in the condition in which you found them. Violence of any kind will be met with immediate expulsion from the Game.”
Three keys. Three boxes. No damaging the house, the grounds, or the other players. Jameson’s mind reflexively catalogued the rules.
“And that’s it?” Katharine asked. “There are no other limitations or rules?”
“You have twenty-four hours,” Rohan said, “beginning at the top of the hour. After that, the prize will be considered forfeit.”
“And let me guess,” Zella said, drawing out the last word, “if we forfeit, you get the mark.”
Rohan offered her a slow, wicked smile. “If that’s your way of asking if I’ve made it easy for you all, I have not. No rest for the wicked, my dear. But it would hardly be sporting if I hadn’t given you everything you needed to win.”
Without another word, Rohan walked toward the room’s only exit. He went through it, then pulled the heavy wooden door closed. A moment later, Jameson heard the sound of a bolt being thrown.
They were locked in.
“The Game starts when you hear the bells,” Rohan called through the door. “Until then, I suggest you all let the wheels turn a bit and acquaint yourself with the competition.”
CHAPTER 52
JAMESON
Jameson had grown up playing his grandfather’s games. Every Saturday morning, a challenge had been laid out in front of them. One lesson that it had taken years for him to learn was that sometimes, the best opening move was to take a step back.
To watch.
To see.
“I should have known he would send you.” Branford walked to stand next to Katharine. His tone was polite, his expression austere.