A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

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librarian_7
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A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

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Disclaimer: Really, about the only thing in this chapter I don't own is Josef.

A Game of Chess

Chapter 8

At 5 a.m. it was an hour yet until dawn would light the docks, but as ships’ captains frequently pointed out, the moon governed the tides, not the sun. The docks were already busy, and the quay where cargo loaded and unloaded for Night Wind Trading was no exception. The late June heat had only abated slightly, even through the night. Only alcohol and the brute exhaustion of hard physical labor had enabled many of the men to snatch a few hours of restless sleep.

Some of them had managed to gulp mugs of bitter, hot coffee with their breakfasts, and the jolt of the strong brew might have dragged them out of sodden slumber, but it did nothing to improve tempers, and in truth, did not add so much alertness as twitchiness.

A ship had arrived, warping in to the dock sometime after midnight, and the captain was impatient to have the cargo off-loaded into the principal warehouse as soon as possible. He had a contract to take on cargo from another shipping company, and stiff headwinds, as well as riding out an unexpected gale, had delayed his arrival. If he didn’t turn around and ship out as quickly as possible, he stood to lose more money to penalties than he could easily afford. This was it. From now on, he’d stick with Night Wind exclusively. Fitzgerald expected a lot, but he wasn’t impossible to deal with. And the rumors about Night Wind being driven out of business? Gossip was for landsmen. He had more important concerns.

Right now, that would be getting this godforsaken cargo unloaded, bringing on the supplies he’d been promised from the chandlery, and getting reloaded for the return trip. He’d hoped to give his men a few days in the city, but business was business.

The dock was all noise and bustle, the ship’s supercargo doing his job, shouting orders at the men as he directed the unloading, and the creak and sway of the ship as the pulleys hoisted pallets of crates. Good Spanish sherry, they’d brought safe all this way, and he didn’t want to see a single bottle smashed now. In addition to the sherry, bottled and labeled in Jerez, there were casks of fiery Spanish brandy, and barrels of various wines.

His attention was drawn at the sound of a slipped rope, and men swearing. One of the casks rolled free on the dock, catching a workman from behind. The captain frowned, watching from the bridge, as two other workers rushed to move the crumpled man, who was screaming with the pain of his injured leg. The captain’s knuckles tightened on the rail of the bridge. He pulled in a deep breath, ready to puff it out again in frustration, when he caught a sharper tang of smoke in the air. Not the ever-present miasma of coal fire, but something different. Cleaner. About the same time, his narrowed eyes caught a flicker of movement at the back of the warehouse loading area, a light from within that should not have been there.

“Oh, damn,” he muttered, then lifted his voice into a bellow at the nearest seaman. “Jenkins! Check the warehouse. Now!”

The man looked up, startled, then scrambled to comply. Within seconds, the cry of “Fire!” had been raised, and all hands fell to, battling the blaze with buckets of the dirty harbor water.

They were lucky; the fire hadn’t taken deep hold, yet. The efforts of the men soon had it damped, but not before dawn began to light the sky. From down the wharf, now that the immediate danger of fire had ceased to command all attention, the workmen heard shouts, and the sound of a brawl in progress.

The supercargo shook his head, wiping a sooty hand across his brow. “Seems a bit early for the gangs to be mixing it up,” he commented to the nearest man. “All right,” he continued for the group, “you’ve had your break. Now back to work.”

The men, sailors and longshoremen alike, grumbled, but the shore-side boss seconded the command, and they all got up slowly and swung back to the tasks at hand.

At the narrow entrance to the pier, when the last of the dozen Blood Hand gang members had either fallen or fled, one of the Eagle Boys grabbed the arm of a skinny boy, one of the hangers on who’d been with them this early morning. The boy flinched as the older man took hold of him, he had no reason to expect a blow, but you never knew.

“What’s your name, boy?” the man demanded. “I’ve seen you about, but I forget.” He looked fierce, in pale dawn light, blood dripping from a cut under his eye. The boy knew who he was, of course. He knew all the Eagle Boys, especially the Eagle’s top men, like this one, Teddy Flood. But they would never have much noticed him, he thought. Not yet, anyway.

The boy looked around nervously for his older brother, but Kevin was busy, helping one of the others up from the wooden planking of the wharf. “Rooney,” he replied. “Dermot Rooney. I ain’t done nothing.”

“Kevin’s brother? Good. Now shut up and listen. I want you to run back to the Aerie. Tell the Eagle what happened. The fire, everything. You got that?”

“Y-yes.” He tried to straighten, proud of the responsibility, and Flood jerked his head in approval.

“Listen to me, laddie. Keep in the shadows and the alleys, and watch out for those Blood Hand bastards. They’re likely to try and stop you, you know?”

Dermot nodded, wide-eyed.

“Then be off with you.”

Twice on the way, Dermot spotted men he was sure were Blood Hand, and faded into the gloom that was giving him less and less cover as the sun advanced.

At this hour, the Aerie was locked and deserted, but Dermot pounded on one of the back doors until he heard someone inside undoing the locks, and the door swung open a crack, revealing a tousled girl clutching a shawl over her shift.

“And what are you doing here?” she demanded. “Trying to wake the dead?”

“I got a message for the Eagle. Teddy Flood sent me, from down at the docks.”

“Dermot Rooney, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Flood said, talk to the Eagle.”

Cat sighed. “He’s dead asleep, he is. He won’t be happy.” But she stepped aside to let him in, picking up a candlestick to light his way. “Give me a minute, and I’ll fetch him.”

Dermot waited, twisting his cloth cap in his hands, peering around him in the darkness at the crates and barrels in the back hallway. He couldn’t hear words, but the sound of voices carried out to him, Cat’s placating tones, and soon the lower growl of the Eagle, as she roused him from slumber. He heard the meaty slap of flesh on flesh, and Cat cried out in surprised pain. A minute passed, and another, before the door into the meeting room opened, spilling a long yellow rectangle of light into the corridor. The Eagle almost blocked it, when he stood in the doorway and beckoned Dermot forward.

“Tell me your message, Dermot Rooney,” he said, scowling as he shrugged the braces of his trousers over his powerful bare shoulders. Behind him, Cat was silent, nursing the red mark left by his heavy hand, the split lip that had been her payment for waking him.

Dermot stuttered a little at first, but soon enough lost himself in the tale and the pride of holding the attention of someone as important as the Eagle. When he had related all the events of the morning, Sullivan nodded and dug in his pockets for some coin. Pulling out a handful of silver, he picked out a silver dollar and tossed it to the boy, the silver eagle on the back flashing in the lamplight.

Dermot caught it with a dexterous flip of his cap, then dug it out, his eyes wide at the sight of more money than he’d ever had in his hand before. “Thanks, Eagle.”

The Eagle smiled crookedly and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good lad, Rooney. We’ll have use for you.”

The cloth cap went from twisting in Dermot’s hands to back jauntily on his head. “Whatever you need Eagle, I’m your man.”

“All right, head back to the dock and tell Flood you reported as ordered.” The boy was dismissed, and he took the hint and faded out of the corridor at once. “Cat, cover yourself. I need you to take a message.”

A few minutes later she was out on the street, heading for what she sincerely hoped was the residence of Oliver Madigan. She sauntered down the street, as if she had not a care in the world. Certainly not as if she were on a mission, at any rate. She smiled and chattered to people she knew, although she kept her progress through the streets steady, even turning down an offer, laughing, “Wait until a girl’s had her breakfast, can’t you?”

“Long as you’ll be back by, Cat.”

She batted her eyes at him. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss a chance at you, big man,” she replied. But her feet kept moving, and her mind was running faster yet. It hadn’t taken long, to prove herself useful, after all.

The Eagle had been furious, when the men he’d dispatched to follow Oliver Madigan had come back with a story of being thwarted so easily by a crowded streetcar. He’d dressed them down and sent them on their way, much chastened.

And the following night, when Cat came in the Aerie, looking for work, and a dram of rum, he’d called her over with a careless jerk of his head. He’d used her, casually, roughly, but afterwards, as he was rearranging his clothes, he’d come to the point. “I’ve got a job for you, Cat.”

She looked up from the couch where she lay, and twitched her skirts down over her naked thighs. “You already had a job from me.”

Sullivan ignored that. “You remember that man you brought in here last night?”

“Depends. Which one?” As if she had any doubts.

The Eagle grunted. “Called himself Madigan.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Paid well, and don’t ask a girl to do unnatural things.”

Sullivan raised his hand, wanting to deliver a blow for her impertinence, but thought better of it. “You take it the way you’re given it, m’girl, and no lip.”

Cat gave him back a wide-eyed blink. “Thought you liked the lip, Eagle.”

God, but she was provoking. He felt an urge to bend her over that slick horsehair sofa and give it to her until she fully understood who she was dealing with, but he needed her for another task. And there’d be time, later. “Shut up. Do you remember his face, or only his pocketbook?”

The look she gave him was level. “I’d recognize him again, Mike. No worries.”

“Good. I know where he works, now I want to know where he lives.”

Cat waited.

“You know where Night Wind Trading is? The offices, I mean, not the dock.”

She shook her head, slowly, and the Eagle cursed, then gave her the address.

“I want you to watch for him, Cat. Don’t let him see you, but follow him home. Then you come tell me where he lives.”

“What’s in it for me, Eagle?”

He reached out swiftly, and Cat flinched, expecting a slap. But he only caressed her cheek with a rough finger. “It’ll be worth your while, Cat. It’ll be worth your while.”

So the next morning she’d gone to the address Mike Sullivan had given her, expecting to see Oliver Madigan arriving for his day’s toil. And to her surprise, in the mid-morning, he’d appeared, dressed like a proper gent. No worn vest and workman’s cloth cap today, but a fine black broadcloth suit expertly fitted to his broad shoulders, and a glossy beaver hat. A well-turned out carriage with matched bays and an attentive driver was waiting for him, but as he approached it he gave a sharp look around, as though he’d spotted something in the crowded street. Cat faded back further into the sheltering shadows on her side of the avenue, as Madigan waved the driver to go on without him. She wasn’t close, but one of those odd lulls in the roar of the city sent his words to her ears. She was not believing her luck.

“It’s a fine morning. I think I’ll walk.”

She followed him, then, strolling along a dozen paces behind him, always ready to dodge behind a street vendor’s barrow or up an alley, should he turn to look around him. He’d stopped a few times, pausing with a gloved hand to the brim of his hat, as though shielding himself from the glare, but he never turned back.

It was a funny thing, how quickly the neighborhoods changed character. From the commercial district where the Night Wind Trading offices were located, a few blocks and a few turns, and they were in a quieter area, among the brownstones and townhomes near Washington Square. Businessmen were replaced by strolling ladies, nursemaids out with well-dressed children, and Cat felt out of place when they stared at her. She’d worn her good blue dress, and it wasn’t flashy or cheap-looking, but she knew as well as these ladies with all their tucks and ruffles that she was not in her own neighborhood. She ignored what she interpreted as disapproving glances and held her head up. It was a public city sidewalk, and she’d as much right to be there as anyone, hadn’t she?

When they turned onto Waverly Place, Madigan quickened his gait, and Cat had to hurry to keep him in sight. When he disappeared into one of the townhouses, she was a little too far behind to see if he knocked on the door for admittance, or if he used a latchkey to let himself in.

She hadn’t meant to linger, but the summer morning was so mild, and the street so pleasant, that she couldn’t bring herself to move on. She stood for awhile, noting how the upstairs curtains moved gently in the mid-morning breeze, and admiring the distinctive arch over the doorway. She wondered what it would have been like, to grow up in one of these houses, with a family to protect her and keep her safe. What it would have been—

When the hand closed on her arm just above her elbow, she jumped.

“If you wanted to know where I lived, Kitten, you could have just asked.”

“M-m-mister Madigan,” she stammered. “I—”

“I can’t believe a girl as friendly as you would be so formal with a client. Madigan will suffice. Now, you want to tell me what brings you here?” He paused and gave her arm a little shake for emphasis. “And to save time, let’s start with the truth. It’ll be such a refreshing change.”

Cat pursed her lips slightly and regarded him through narrowed eyes. He didn’t seem angry, and those eyes of his, a brown like fine whiskey in the morning sun, held only a trace of mild amusement. She had no doubt, however, that his words were dead serious. She moved her arm experimentally, but his grip was like steel, and she knew she wasn’t going to be going anywhere until he allowed it. Her distress must’ve shown in her face.

Josef watched her, and quirked one corner of his mouth in a smile meant to reassure her. “Come on, Kitten. Spill.”

Cat wanted to equivocate, but she didn’t know what to say. “The Eagle—“ she started.

Josef took a breath. The girl carried the scent of many men on her, but he recognized the strong musk of the gang leader over all the rest. “Ah. The Eagle. I should have known.” He looked down at her. “I’m going to let go of your arm, and you’re not going to run away, are you?”

Cat shook her head, and Josef released her. She had the oddest feeling that if she did choose to run, no knowledge of alleys and backstreets, no tricks of misdirection, would keep her safe from him.

“Good. Now we can negotiate.”

Cat looked confused. “I don’t know that word.”

“Deal. Now we can deal.”

“You let me follow you, didn’t you?”

“Now why would you think that?”

“Sending your carriage on—I should have known.” Cat looked disgusted.

Josef laughed at her. “Possibly. Now what are you going to tell Sullivan?”

Cat shrugged. “As you said, we can negotiate. I like that word.”

“What, Sullivan doesn’t inspire your loyalty?”

“Money inspires my loyalty. And I haven’t seen a thin dime from the Eagle, yet.” Cat, Josef thought, looked stubborn, standing there in the slanting sun, her faded blue dress painfully plain. Not what he’d expect from a young doxy. Not at all. And the unexpected always interested him.
“But he’s promised you something.” A statement, not a question.

Cat shifted her gaze down and away. All she had to do was open her mouth and name a sum. She was pretty sure whatever she named, that Madigan would believe, he’d match. Still, she found herself almost incapable of thought to formulate a lie. “Worth my while, Madigan,” she said. “He’s going to make it worth my while.”

Josef pulled his lower lip between his teeth, for a few moments, watching her, then spoke with an abstracted air. “These houses—this block is almost new. I don’t think anyone has put up numbers yet. I know I haven’t. Look at me, Kitten.” He paused and waited for her to fasten on his face. “I can’t stop you from telling Sullivan what street I’m on, but you can honestly say you don’t know the exact address.”

“And why should I do that?” She glanced up at his face, and stopped, completely arrested by the chill that had pervaded those brown eyes. The warmth was gone, and it was almost as if there were a glint of silver there she’d never noticed before.

“One of the choices you have, Kitten, is not going back at all. In fact, you could choose never to go anywhere, ever again.” His voice was quiet, and all the more menacing for that. Then his face changed, the sunny smile returning. He produced a five dollar gold piece from his vest pocket. “However, I think we’d both prefer a cash transaction.”

Cat reached for the coin, and he moved it out of her reach.

“Tell me what you’re doing for this, Kitten.” His lips smiled, but his eyes were implacable.

She tilted her head to one side. “I tell the Eagle street, not number. And that you never saw me.”

He dropped the coin into her outstretched palm, and then, in an odd gesture, ran the tip of one gloved finger up the skin of her throat. The soft, dove gray kid felt cool against her neck. And before she’d recovered from the surprise, he was gone. Only the hard reality of the coin remained, and the passing rumble of wagons in the street.


Now, the morning was brightening rapidly, the June heat beginning to rise from the sidewalks. It was getting hotter every day, and every minute. Even with the cooling influence of the trees in the nearby park, the summer was making itself felt.

As she turned onto Waverly Place, she brushed a hand over the spot in her bodice where the five dollar piece was hidden, sewn into a discreet pocket inside the worn boning of her corset. It was a start, the promise of a better life to come.

She’d been watching behind her, as best she could, and she had not seen anyone following her. She thought she knew all of the Eagle Boys, and the hangers on around them, well enough to spot anyone he might have set after her. Especially now that she was out of her usual neighborhood. She didn’t want to be giving up that one bit of special knowledge when she didn’t have to.

Cat strolled to the end of the block and back, passing Oliver Madigan’s house without a glance at the still façade. Pretending to have no object but to enjoy the morning. Finally satisfied no one noticed her, she quickened her steps on the way to the arched doorway, and gave the door a sharp double rap.

There was no immediate answer, and Cat, shifting from foot to foot with impatience, was ready to knock again, when the door swung open and she found herself faced by a middle-aged woman in a starched dark cotton dress.

Mrs. Davidson looked Cat up and down. “I do not think,” she said, “that you have business at this house.” And started to close the door.

“Wait,” Cat said. “Madigan. I need to see Oliver Madigan. Isn’t he here?”

“What’s your business with Mr.—Madigan?”

“I have a message for him. From the Eagle. It’s important. About Night Wind.” Desperation was making her staccato, and she only hoped her urgency was compelling enough to make this woman listen to her.

Mrs. Davidson pursed her lips, and looked thoughtful. “Go down to the kitchen entrance,” she said, nodding in that direction. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” She stood in the door until Cat was halfway down the steps to the basement kitchen.

At her knock, a young man, blonde and blue-eyed, opened the door to admit her. He gestured her in with a nod of his head, and grin.

The kitchen was spacious, dominated at one end by a massive cast iron stove. Mercifully, the fires within it were banked, the surface just hot enough to keep a pot of coffee warm. The man caught her glance toward it.

“Cup of coffee?” he offered.

Cat nodded, wondering who he was. Too well dressed for a servant, too young to be a business associate. Too old to be Madigan’s son, if she’d pegged his age right. Not enough like him to be a brother. She wasn’t turning down real coffee, though.

He brought a steaming mug to the table,, and pushed a covered bowl toward her. “Help yourself to sugar.”

“Thanks.” She’d never had sugar for coffee before, and she stirred in a heaping spoonful, then looked to the young man for approval, waiting for his amused nod before adding a second, stirring it with a satisfying clink of the spoon against the walls of the heavy white mug. The first sips were a revelation. “So, do you work for Mr. Madigan?”

“Mr.—“ he paused, slightly confused, and collected himself. Fingering his collar, he said, “Yes, I do. In a manner of speaking.”

Cat had no idea what he was talking about, and her eye caught on a pair of slight wounds at his throat. She put out a hand. “I’m Cat,” she said. “Thanks for the coffee. That was kind of you.”

“Ned,” he replied, closing his fingers over hers. “And you’re welcome. The boss doesn’t stint, for guests or his swa—workers.”

There was a moment when their eyes met, and Cat thought she’d never seen anything quite so blue.

A snort interrupted. “Ned,” Mrs.Davidson said, appearing down the kitchen stairs, “save my knees, and take this girl up to the drawing room please. The master is engaged, but he said to bring her to him as soon as he finishes.”

Cat moved in to put down the mug of coffee, and Ned shook his head. “Take another swallow or two, if you like. It’ll be a few minutes before he’s ready for you.”

She gave him a grateful smile, and gulped greedily at the hot, sweet liquid.

“Besides," Ned said cryptically, “he likes the smell of coffee.”

Cat wondered about that, following him up the stairs.

In the front hallway, Ned halted outside the closed pocket doors leading to the parlor. He bit his lip a little, then cast himself down on the stairs leading to the upper floors, in an attitude of patient resignation.

“Now what?”

“We wait. He’ll let you know when he’s ready.”

Cat fidgeted, roaming the hallway, inspecting the large vase of cut flowers on a console table in the entry, a handsome landscape painting hung above it. The whole set-up reeked of money, far more than she’d assumed Oliver Madigan would have. But in line with his clothing and carriage from the other day, this seemed right, like a proper setting for him. From inside the drawing room, she could hear the buzz of voices, male and female, and a throaty laugh. The doors slid open, and a woman walked out, wearing a Chinese red silk wrapper that set off her deep chestnut hair and pale skin, over what appeared to be a white lace nightgown. She had a dreamy smile on her face, and seemed lost in her thoughts.

“Oh, my,” Ned drawled. “What have you been up to, Tessa?”

Tessa put a hand to her throat in surprise, and Cat noted that she, too, had small red wounds at the side of her neck. Her dark eyes snapped with annoyance. “Nothing you’d disapprove of, Neddie,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Oh really?” And shifted his gaze to Cat. “I expect you can go in now.”

Cat was both confused and curious about what was going on in this elegant townhouse, but she put her chin up and marched into the parlor. “Mr. Madigan,” she said, “I have a message.”
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by tucutecats »

Great story I feel like I;m right there. I always wait with great anticipation for your work and am never disapointed. You have once again made my day.
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by cassysj »

This is an amazing chapter. You have such descriptive skills I do feel like I am seeing it like a movie. I love how Josef "negotiates" with her. I look forward to more.
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by darkstarrising »

I love this story :hearts: Your descriptions of the characters and their surroundings are just so rich. The descriptions of the dock operations and the tension among the workers was so clear; I could hear the brawling and smell the smoke. The social strata and the prejudices of those that inhabit the higher echelons against those 'beneath' them also came through clearly. (Cat having no business at the Fitzgeral house and having to use the kitchen entrance.)

This Eagle bodes ill for Josef, and you've described him as something of a brute, one that Cat would do well to get away from. Yet Eagle won't be any match for Josef. Will he?

Anxious to see how Cat fares with Josef :hug:
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by LadyAilith »

It unfolds just like a movie in my mind. You are the queen of description Lucky! I can hardly wait to read the next chapter. :-)

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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by Albra »

Thank you for another feast, Librarian
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Cat is a very smart girl :yes:
I'm afraid that Tessa and Ned are a bit ... careless :chin:
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by moonlight_vixen »

You don't need me to tell you how much I love your descriptive skills! Another fabulous chapter, and I can't wait to see what happens next... :twothumbs:
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by NightAir »

You weave such complete tapestries with your words that I can feel the heat of the June morning, see the working streets give way to residential homes, feel the weariness of the longshoremen, the urgency of the Captain, the eagerness of Dermot, the menace of the Eagle.
I love how you've painted Josef from the perceptions of the peripheral characters.
Cat is ambitious ... and observant. She's noted the wounds on both Ned's and Tessa's necks. I wonder how deeply she will be drawn into Josef's world?

I love it, as always. :hearts:
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by francis »

Wonderful story. This is unfolding in my mind like a movie before my eyes. I love the negotiation and the description of the harbour work, and the little people caught in the net of the big men plotting. I'm looking forward to the next part. :hearts:
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by RangerCM »

They say a writer needs to capture the attention of the reader within the first few paragraphs of a new story. This chapter could easily stand alone as the start of it's own novel! Wonderful descriptions of setting, time and characters. I'd have gladly continued reading this if it was a story about Cat and had nothing to do with Moonlight! :notworthy: :notworthy: :notworthy:
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by librarian_7 »

Thank you for all the wonderful comments! I am really learning to love doing the historical fic...it's a challenge to try and make another time and place come to life.

All my fic is a labor of love, but the historical fic is special to me.

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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by allegrita »

And that is very obvious, Lucky. This is such a rich story. I agree with everyone who has praised your descriptive powers here: the city comes to life in your hands, and the reader can hear, see, smell, taste, and feel everything you describe. I'm really starting to love Cat (Kitten) :laugh: and I hope very much that she manages to get away from the Eagle and the circumstances of her upbringing before it's too late. She's smart and courageous, but in that era, a poor woman without family to protect her was pretty much doomed.

It's interesting to me that Cat has noticed the wounds on Ned's and Tessa's necks. She's smart enough that I wouldn't be surprised if she started to suspect that there's a great deal more to Mr. Madigan than meets the eye. Frankly,, I think Cat would do very well as a swallow... either in Rose's house or perhaps as an exclusive. But first she needs to get out of this situation alive... she's going into the lion's den right now, and she knows it.
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Re: A Game of Chess, Chapter 8 (PG-13)

Post by jen »

Ah, fabulous!

So Josef's connection to Waverly Place reaches back much farther than the days when he first met Sarah.

There are so many layers to society, each with their own objectives and players, and Josef moves easily between the strata, rather like a ghost.

Fascinating.
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