Checkmate

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

 

Nathiel’s train car is the first in the long line of rumbling line of machines, the leading duckling behind the mother engine.  Through careful note-taking, I’ve inferred that any crew-members are compelled to pad softly through a special walkway in Nathiel’s car to reach the rest of the train.  There appears to be no bathrooms in this car, perhaps, if the planners had followed an inkling of sense, in the next car over.  I do believe, however, that a car to a person is mightily ridiculous; the Prince is top in the hierarchy, with a crown of thorns and a robe of steel chains.  The myriad number of lords and dukes would lead to a train of a thousand links.  No, with all probability, the dukes and lords share cars; perhaps the others besides the Prince’s are split into two or three separate compartments.  Dukes are at the bottom of the royal pyramid; perhaps their cars are even more compacted. 

Though earlier he had spoken sparsely of delivering me to my own quarters, Nathiel has furtively neglected to release me from these royal surroundings.  I’ve got a penchant to avoid direct conversation.  Dropping hints the way a farmer drops seeds into his rich field of soil, delicacy is my ally and finesse my friend.  The thoughts of what may come do rain upon my pertinacious attitude, but the reluctance to spend another night, another night where Nathiel may not be the gentleman he was before, in this car.  On the opposite hand, the tipper of the scales, I do not have an inkling on where I may be sent – if the contest is between the Prince I have so smitten and a misogynous man as a partner, the Prince will always emerge victorious. 

I may have to trust my instincts and leave Nathiel by himself for a night. 

Tricky balances, tricky questions.  The future resembles a fallen log: some sections are firm, mottled bark facilely hefting the weight of a person’s portly footing upon its calloused hide, back braced to support any travelers of its steady course; other areas are slick as oil, moist wood allowing precarious footfalls to slip from its greasy skin, a place where only the cautious survive; others are moldy and hapless, a rotten center hailed by a deceiving layer of certainty, each step bringing more misfortune than the last.  Dare I walk the log?  Dare I risk the daunting wood in fear of an erroneous mistake? 

Fingers frisking over the worn yellow paper of my novel, the gaze of Nathiel nearly distracts me from the blissful reverie the weather-worn pages of this crackling book.  The crinkled pages are riddled with white-tinted fractures over the pages, the corners frayed into a fuzzed softness with a bizarre and yet alluring texture by the constant use.  The cover has been mauled by the decades of abuse, the metallic script banding the top part of the page beaten by the harsh elements.  Words at times are scarred and smudged over the yellow pages, and many I do not have definitions for.  However, Gay’s lucky talisman will not be left behind, despite the awful wrench of raw emotion each of these words bring. 

The soft odor of aged paper and ink from another era emit memories as they waft from the pages of Harry Potter, the vestigial thoughts as vague as ghosts in the noonday sun.  How many times had Gay curled me up on his lap to read to me, praising the mellifluous chapters incessantly?  Every leisure, if not reading aloud to me in his husky voice, he was swamped in layers of ratty sheets, finger tracing the black text, eyes round.  How often had he lusted for another copy of the series?  How often had he speculated and estimated?  How shall he ever know if his guesses were correct?

These depressing thoughts agglomerating do me harm, and yet, their purpose is not to lighten my mood.  Slipping a reeking strip of animal hide between the pages to mark my position, I turn my attention to Nathiel.

Leonine eyes flicker from his dark corner, dancing with the colors painting our shared train car.  His face, though brooding and dark, seems to perk slightly beneath my gaze.  The hand previously holding his head drops to his lap as he lifts, eyes alighting.