Hide Me Among the Graves
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THE FELT-PADDED BASE of the ivory bishop thumped faintly on the marble chessboard.
“Check,” said the girl.
The face of the old man across the table from her was in shadow — the curtains were drawn across the street-side windows, and the chandelier overhead hung crookedly because of the gas-saving mantle screwed onto it — and all she could see under the visor of his black cap was the gleam of his thick spectacles as he peered at the chess pieces.
Both of them hated to lose.
“And mate in … two,” he said. He sat back, blinking owlishly at the girl.
She sighed and spread her hands. “I believe so, Papa.”
The old man thoughtfully lifted the ebony king from the board and looked toward the fireplace, as if considering throwing the piece onto the coals. Instead he put it into the pocket of his robe, and when his hand reemerged it was holding instead a thumb-sized black stone statue.
Christina raised her eyebrows.