“Have you always been able to do such things?” he asks her, looking back at the watch
again.
Celia nods.
“My … my momma said I was the devil’s child,” she says quietly.
The man in the grey suit leans forward and whispers something in her ear, too low for
her father to overhear. A small smile brightens her face.
“Hold out your right hand,” he says, leaning back in his chair. Celia immediately puts out her hand, palm up, unsure of what to expect. But the man in the grey suit does not place anything in her open palm. Instead, he turns her hand over and removes a silver ring from his pinkie. He slides it onto her ring finger, though it is too loose for her slim fingers, keeping his other hand around her wrist.
She is opening her mouth to state the obvious fact that the ring, though very pretty, does not fit, when she realizes that it is shrinking on her hand.
Her momentary glee at the adjustment is crushed by the pain that follows as the ring continues to close around her finger, the metal burning into her skin. She tries to pull away but the man in the grey suit keeps his hand firmly around her wrist.
The ring thins and fades, leaving only a bright red scar around Celia’s finger.
The man in the grey suit releases her wrist and she steps back, retreating into a corner and staring at her hand.
“Good girl,” her father says.
“I will require some time to prepare a player of my own,” the man in the grey suit says.
“Of course,” Hector says. “Take all the time you need.” He pulls a gold band from his
own hand and puts it on the table. “For when you find yours.”
“You prefer not to do the honors yourself?”
“I trust you.”
The man in the grey suit nods and pulls a handkerchief from his coat, picking up the ring without touching it and placing it in his pocket.
“I do hope you are not doing this because my player won the last challenge.”
“Of course not,” Hector says. “I am doing this because I have a player that can beat anyone you choose to put against her, and because times have changed enough to make it interesting. Besides, I believe the overall record leans in my favor.”
The man in the grey suit does not contest this point, he only watches Celia with the same scrutinizing gaze. She attempts to step out of his line of sight but the room is too small.
“I suppose you already have a venue in mind?” he asks.
“Not precisely,” Hector says. “I thought it might be more fun to leave a bit of leeway as far as venue is concerned. An element of surprise, if you will. I am acquainted with a theatrical producer here in London who should be game for staging the unusual. I shall drop a few hints when the time comes, and I am certain he will come up with something
appropriate. Better to have it on neutral ground, though I thought you might appreciate starting things on your side of the pond.”
“This gentleman’s name?”
“Lefèvre. Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre. They say he’s the illegitimate son of an Indian prince or something like that. Mother was some tramp of a ballerina. I have his card somewhere in this mess. You’ll like him, he’s quite forward-thinking. Wealthy, eccentric.
A bit obsessive, somewhat unpredictable, but I suppose that is part and parcel of having an artistic temperament.” The pile of papers on a nearby desk shifts and shuffles until a single business card finds its way to the surface and sails across the room. Hector catches it in his hand and reads it before handing it to the man in the grey suit. “He throws wonderful parties.”
The man in the grey suit puts it in his pocket without so much as glancing at it.
“I have not heard of him,” he says. “And I am not fond of public settings for such matters. I will take it under consideration.”
“Nonsense, the public setting is half the fun! It brings in so many restrictions, so many challenging parameters to work around.”
The man in the grey suit considers this for a moment before he nods.
“Do we have a disclosure clause? It would be fair, given my awareness of your choice of player.”