“Your subway series is extraordinary. The way you captured those strangers, their humanity, their invisible stories. It takes a rare eye to find beauty in what most people overlook.”
“Thank you. That means more than you know.”
The king steps forward, and his handshake is firm but brief. “Miss Cross, we’re honored you made the journey to be here.”
“It’s my pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“We apologize that our son could not be here to greet you.” The queen gestures for me to sit, and I perch on the edge of a velvet chair across from them. “He has a great appreciation for art. I’m sure he would have enjoyed meeting you and talking too much about the finer details.”
“I’m sure our paths will cross eventually,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
The queen’s gaze lingers on my face like she’s memorizing me for future reference. I hold her stare because looking away isn’t my style.
“Indeed,” she says. “The competition is well underway. You’ll have access to the entire grounds for inspiration. Our previous royal artist, Henri Beaumont, believed this place was magical with inspiration in every cranny.”
“I agree. I noticed his work on my way in. It’s remarkable. A true legend and talent.”
“He set a very high standard,” the king says. “We expect whoever takes his place to honor him.”
“I understand, Your Majesty.”
The conversation continues for another twenty minutes. They ask about my training, my influences, and my process. I answer and noticehow impressed they are with my education. I keep it professional, and the king and queen seem intrigued by me.
When the meeting ends, I curtsy again and thank them for their time.
The queen stops me at the door with my name. “Miss Cross.”
I turn toward her. “Your Majesty?”
She studies me for a long moment with her head tilted slightly, and the look in her eyes makes me stand straighter.
“There’s something about you,” she says. “I can’t quite name it yet.”
I hold her gaze. “Is it a good thing?”
“I suppose we’ll find out.”
I spend the next hour wandering the palace and telling myself it’s research. I need to understand the history if I’m going to paint something worthy of it. Really, I’m overwhelmed, and walking sometimes helps me think.
The hallways are endless with portrait after portrait, each one more accomplished than the last. Henri Beaumont’s work is everywhere, and I can see why they’re struggling to replace him. He was a master at his craft. Every brushstroke was made with confidence, every expression alive, every royal captured as they were and as they wanted to be remembered.
I take a wrong turn somewhere and end up in a quieter part of the palace. It’s less formal, which isn’t saying much. But the rooms are smaller and the hallways narrower. It’s private, like I’ve stumbled into a corridor where I shouldn’t be.
When I’m about to turn back, I see a chessboard on a small table between two leather chairs. I move closer, picking up a pawn, noticing the pieces are hand-carved from ivory and ebony. The board has mother-of-pearl inlaid, and it catches the fading afternoon light. It’s an antique and probably priceless. It’s already set up for a new game with the pieces in their starting positions.
I look around, but the hallway is empty.
Chess has been my favorite game since my father taught me when I was eight years old. We played every Sunday until I left for boarding school and kept playing through college. Chess is intimidating—a game of strategy where two people can have a conversation without words. Each move is a dance where every step matters.
My hand reaches out before I can stop myself, and I move an ivory pawn in a classic opening.
The piece sits in its new position like a question waiting for an answer. I leave without looking back. My pulse beats faster as I walk to my cottage, and I can’t tell if it’s excitement or the feeling of having done something I shouldn’t have.
The next morning,I wake early and pull on a dress before walking back through the palace halls.
The chessboard is exactly where I left it, tucked into its corner, with morning light streaming through the nearby windows. But my pawn isn’t alone anymore because there’s another one now positioned in a countermove that mirrors mine.
And next to the board, face down on the table, there’s a small piece of paper.
