This is the first time I’ve been called upon to formulate rules to a nonexistent game, and to my surprise, it appears as if I have an unexplored talent for it.
“Or we can ask one of the servants to provide the letter,” I continue as another notion occurs to me. “We can also devise a new method. As there is no hard and fast rule, it is what the company decides.”
“I think alphabetical is best,” Sarah says with a confirmatory look at her elder sister, who agrees that it is wisest to stick to an arbitrary order.
“But does the time have to be so limited?” Chester asks with an air of grievance. “I do not think sixty seconds are enough to find everything starting with the letter.”
“That is the point, you sapskull,” Eleanor says on a derisive titter. “If we have five or ten minutes, then we would all find the same things and our lists would be indistinguishable. The constraint ensures you have to look as quickly as possible. Is that not correct, Miss Hyde-Clare?”
The question is gutting, not in its substance but in its tone. It is the first time since I arrived three days ago that one of Sebastian’s siblings has regarded me with anything but contempt—and it is for a game I invented to prove her guilt.
Or her innocence.
The lists Eleanor creates could very well exonerate her.
But that just means she will have to stand silently by while one of her sisters is taken into custody by Mr. Jenner, an arguably better outcome than being carted off to prison herself. Of course, I have little reason to presume she would appreciate the distinction and would instead regard me with intense dislike. The only conciliating factor in that situation is that by the time a Holcroft sibling is apprehended, Sebastian will have already decided we are unsuited, and I would not be exposed to her hatred for long.
Or maybe not at all.
He will most likely sever the connection the second he learns of my investigation, I realize, smothering the cry of pain that rises to my lips.
Oh, to be an iniquitous bit of stunningly beautiful fluff like Miss Petworth. Then I would not have to suffer the tormenting consequences of my decency.
“That is correct,” I say. “The purpose of the clock is to put pressure on participants so that there may be variety in the answers.”
Far from being delighted with this answer, Chester opens his mouth to argue further just as the footman returns with the requested items, which he distributes to everyone in the room.Russell, who shares his fellow Pythagoreanist’s concern, begs for an increase in time. I make a small show of resisting the plea, but it is only for form. If I gave in to my brother without any protest, he might begin to suspect something is amiss.
Although Mrs. Holcroft’s suggestion that they add a second minute is received with general nods of consent, her husband insists that it is too generous. “You get an extra fifteen seconds, Chester, and not a single one more,” he decrees.
“Thank you, sir,” he replies appreciatively.
With the rules established and everyone hunched over a flat writing surface, Sebastian gestures to the footman, who tells us when we may commence recording our answers. Russell begins jotting things down before the official start, and I realize the drawback of following the alphabet is its predictability. Next time we play, we will use random selection to establish the letter.
The next time?
Goodness gracious, what am I thinking?
It is a game invented to help me identify a killer, not a new version of charades or a rival to backgammon.
Although winning is beside the point, I cannot appear indifferent and make a genuine effort to prevail over my competitors. Scrutinizing the tapestry is actually quite engrossing, and when the footman announces that the seventy-five seconds have passed, I am startled by how quickly they have gone.
I thought for certain I had another half minute.
Everyone raises their head except Mr. Holcroft, who continues writing for another few seconds and blinks innocently as he lays his pen on the table. Chester presses his lips together angrily at the presumption but does not confront his father. Instead, he looks at me and asks if he may read his list first, as his name leads in the alphabet.
I have no objection.
Chester declares that he found five items that match the criteria, and more than half are flowers: acanthus, anemone, and allium. His father cries foul on the last, insisting that the bulbous herb is nowhere to be seen on the vast tapestry, and Chester agrees to remove it after a protracted argument. His other two discoveries—arbor and arch—are also noted by other players, and he eliminates them.
“Two points,” he mutters disgruntledly.
Eleanor goes next and earns credit for one entry: amethyst.
The shade of violet decorates one tiny flower in the bottom left corner, but an amethyst flower is an amethyst flower regardless of its size.
I make a note of the word on my own slip to ensure I know it is Eleanor’s handwriting later when I assess the samples. Then I proceed through my sparse assortment of terms, which are promptly eliminated as duplicates and even triplicates.
One by one, we go through the remaining players, with most people scoring one or two points. Mrs. Holcroft does the best, earning four in total, though each one of her terms sparks a protracted debate, as they are complex notions rather than straightforward objects. The one that is most disputed is “abject poverty,” which she justifies by gesturing to the gaunt shepherd who looks as though he has not eaten a hearty meal in weeks. My father objects, noting that if anything represents poverty, it is the emaciated figure of the man toward the bottom left, and Eleanor asserts that adjectives are not permitted, an argument that holds little water, as she derived her only point from a shade of purple describing the color of a blossom.
