Page 22 of Hearts of Locke Hill

6 and nearly 10

Cyril placed his ebony game piece forward on the board. “Knight to F six.”

He leaned back and glanced at Father, who nodded in approval. Cyril didn’t mind that the game would be a long one. Rain pattered unevenly against the library windows, but it was warm by the fire where the chess table had been moved. Mrs. Ritter had sent up plates of biscuits and milk tea sweetened with honey. All was quite cozy in his favorite place in Oakleigh House. Afternoons in the library with Father were far better than being stuck in the nursery writing lines.

Even with that perplexing little Violet Whittemore sitting opposite him.

She studied the board, her lips pursed, her small finger tapping her cheek.

“Remember,” Father said, “in chess—and in life, for that matter—it is important to look beyond what you see in the moment. Sometimes what might be painful now can help us in the long run.”

Her tawny brows wrinkled and she tilted her head.

Ever since her sixth birthday, Violet had been learning chess. Cyril had noticed that the game stilled her more than anything else. She seemed so intent on learning how to play that she spoke very little. So there was that, at least. He would’ve boasted that she’d yet to beat him, but he was almost ten. He would’ve only come across as—well, a nine-year-old boy who could beat a six-year-old girl at chess.

Not at all anything to crow about.

But Violet was catching on to the game faster than he had. And he’d begun playing at ageeight.

Violet removed her finger from her cheek and placed it upon her own knight, currently sitting on G five. She glanced up at his father, who only raised his brow in response, and then lifted her piece and set it down with a hard clack. “Knight to F seven.” She withdrew her hand and rested both elbows on the table, lifting her shoulders with the smallest of grins. She raised her gray-green eyes to his father’s again and bit her lip.

Cyril frowned. “Why would you move there?” he asked. She was just front-left of his king, in every position to be taken.

Father leaned toward the board. “Thunder,” he whispered. He turned to Violet. “Do you see what you did?” Cyril knew enough of his father to know he was asking in earnest and not in the playful banter he sometimes used with the babies.

Violet, with her gold coils of hair and large pink bow and frilly pinafore, nodded. “I looked, like you said to do—”

“Beyond,” Father said.

She passed her hand over the pieces on the board. “Beyond.”

Studying the move, Cyril saw he must take her knight. His queen or bishop was at risk. And the only way to do it was touse his king. And her bishop was already lined up to pose a real threat.

In the next few all-too-quick moves, Cyril had lost the power to boast that he could easily beat a six-year-old girl at chess.

Within the year, she learned to crow.

Chapter 6

The hard wooden chair had seemingly been designed to make the sitter as uncomfortable as possible. To counter this, Cy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hat swinging from his fingers. Then he gave up and stood. Only to sit down again. The alcove in which he was asked to wait was shallow, a potted plant taking up an entire corner and a row of likely just as uncomfortable chairs lining the back wall. Cy sat farthest from the plant and opposite the office of Headmaster Titus Cornell of Godalming College.

Though as a student he’d been confident enough in his studies and exams, at that moment, Cy was as skittish as a squirrel. As proof, twice, other doors had opened along the corridor and he had leaped to his feet, only to find the door he waited for still closed and quiet. Again, he heard the snick of a door opening and the sound of men’s voices, and Cy gripped his hat, willing his body to stay put.

“Ah, Mr. Burke.”

Cy looked up, then stood swiftly. “Professor Cornell.” He stepped forward, then froze, only just noticing the gentleman next to the headmaster.

“CyrilBurke, isn’t it?” the commanding figure asked.

Before Cy could respond, Professor Cornell smiled broadly.“Mr. Burke is a candidate for the natural sciences position. You know one another?”

Cy swallowed, straightened his shoulders, and nodded. “Good day, Mr. Whittemore. How is your family?”

Mr. Hugh Whittemore, Violet’s father, peered at Cy. “Have I heard correctly? You are applying for a teaching job?”

Heat began to creep up Cy’s neck and along his shoulders. The man had ignored his question about his family, which Cy had hoped would deflect any focus on himself.

Again, Professor Cornell answered before Cy could form a word. “Not just a teaching job. We’re in need of a head of the Natural Sciences department—specifically, someone to oversee the chemistry, physics, and physiology courses. But, as you are already acquainted with Mr. Burke, I’m sure you’re aware of his abilities in anthropology, history, and philosophy as well. Honestly”—the man chuckled—“this man is practically overqualified.”