A countess.
Curtsying toMax.
He desperately wished he had any idea how to make a proper leg.
Somehow he managed to bow without disaster.
“Come,” Mrs. Spaulding said, motioning him to join the others on the floor. “It’s perfect timing. We’re just in the middle of a game of cards.”
Max hesitated. This truly was an organized game of some kind? And they wanted him to join?
His eyes met the commiserative gazes of the sole two men amongst the roomful of women.
With a knowing look, Lord Wainwright called out, “You’ll get used to it.”
“I invented this game myself,” Heath Grenville added proudly.
“New rule!” shouted a girl who had just tossed an impressive quantity of playing-cards into the air. “It’s Mr. Gideon’s turn next.”
That was a rule?
Before Max could properly discern what was happening, half a dozen students in plaits and pinafores dragged him to the middle of the room, sat him on the carpet, and presented him with a bent pile of playing-cards.
“Er...” he said brilliantly. He ran a gaming hell. He could do this. “How many cards am I meant to deal each person?”
The girls laughed at his apparently ridiculous query. “Molly’s rule was to abolish specific counts of any sort, and Beatrice’s rule was to get rid of dealing altogether.”
“It was?” Max said faintly.
The girls pointed at the pile of playing-cards in his hand. “Louisa’s rule is that the number of cards you get is however many you are handed.”
“Of course.” Defeated, he turned his gaze toward Bryony in supplication.
“Whoever wins a round gets to make a new rule for the game,” she told him, eyes sparkling. “That was my rule. Winners are also allowed to toss their playing cards in the faces of their opponents, who may then do the same. The girls have decided that it is your turn. Go ahead when you’re ready.”
Max gazed back at her in consternation. When he was ready to what, exactly? The alleged explanation had given him absolutely no insight into the actual mechanics of the game.
He turned his cards face up.
All of the girls immediately did the same.
He fanned them in one hand to hide their face value from his dozens of nosy onlookers.
All of the girls did the same.
He narrowed his eyes.
The six-year-old closest to him narrowed hers right back.
Max grinned. Someone’s rule must have been,copy whoever’s turn it is. This could be fun after all. He closed the fan of cards in one sharp movement, creating a crisp rectangular stack, and then placed the entirety atop his head in perfect balance.
With shrieks of merriment, the girls attempted to do the same.
In seconds, the varyingly-sized piles of cards had slid down necks, over ears, into laps, and onto the carpet.
Max was the only one whose pile was still on his head.
“Mr. Gideon wins the round!” shrieked an eight- or nine-year-old toward the back.
