Their Vicious Games(40)

“Oh, of course,” Penthesilea says placidly. “New money. Ready?”

Jacqueline jerks back in her outrage, but Penthesilea doesn’t give her time to process.

“I. De. Clare. War.”

“Damn it!” Jacqueline snarls.

Another match. Two kings.

“Oh. How fascinating,” Penthesilea murmurs, like she actually means it. “You know, Jacqueline, to be invited to the Finish, one must be above reproach. One must be a young woman of grace. And talent. And ambition. Of the right stock, that’s what they say.”

“What are you getting at?” Jacqueline snarls.

“I’m only thinking aloud.”

Another bout of War.

Penthesilea gathers her spoils after a win with a five over Jacqueline’s two. She flips over her cards and lets out a shuddering gasp.

“Oh, I nearly gave you my ace of diamonds.” She pauses, brushing her fingers over Jacqueline’s cards. “I do thank you for losing.”

“Fuck you,” Jacqueline spits.

“Careful, Jacqueline. You don’t have many cards left,” Penthesilea says, dipping her head toward her hand. “And only the heart is in play. We’re getting close.”

Jacqueline throws down a card in answer. Penthesilea meets her.

The play slows now. Jacqueline measures each card.

Eventually the match comes. A pair of eights.

“Let’s get this over with,” Jacqueline says, lifting her small stack.

“By my count, I have two of the aces. That means we’ll either draw or I’ll win,” Penthesilea says. I’m not sure if it’s for Jacqueline’s benefit or her enraptured audience’s. She slides them to the side, all facing upward, all out of play. Club. Diamond. Jacqueline’s spade. “And I think I know what I want now if I win.”

“What?” Jacqueline demands. As she spirals, her voice gets deeper. Unhinged.

Penthesilea leans in. “I want your saddle.”

Jacqueline falls back, eyes wide. “What?” Her question is repeated, but it’s different now—lost.

“I want your saddle,” Penthesilea repeats, folding her hands in her lap. “For the Ride. You know how we all get saddles. I want yours.”

“But you already have one! They’re all the same—”

“I don’t care,” Penthesilea says gently, fiddling with her skirts, smoothing them out over her thighs. “I don’t want to swap. I want yours.”

Jacqueline falls back, one hand over her mouth as she looks up and over. The Remingtons are all staring at her with distaste. With pity.

She’s been losing this whole time and at more than just a game of War.

“Fine,” she whispers, gathering what’s left of her dignity and her cards in her hand.

Penthesilea lifts her own hand, over her mouth, like she’s hiding a smile. And then it begins.

I hold my breath, despite how stupid I feel. It’s just cards.

“I. De. Clare. War.”

They slap down their cards and Jacqueline is dealt a six of clubs.

And there, in front of Penthesilea, plain in white and red, is the ace of hearts.

Jacqueline flips over her hand, searching it, despite the ace of hearts being right there. Nothing can help. A six, a two, and two face cards, a jack and a king. It’s over for her. Jacqueline jumps up and glares down at Penthesilea, who is still ethereal and smiling.

“You can deliver my saddle at the Ride,” Penthesilea says. She gathers the cards together, neatly settling them in a stack and then sliding them back into the box before she gets to her feet. “Third, Aunt Leighton, I’m very tired. May I retire for the evening?”

Third smiles, self-satisfied, and strangely enough, he turns to Leighton as he says, “Have a good night, my dear.”

Penthesilea walks past the Remingtons and stops in front of Pierce, looking up at him. She rocks up onto her toes and kisses him once, at the corner of his mouth. She whispers something in his ear, something that makes him wince, and then she slips from the room, which erupts into chatter the minute she leaves.

“Holy shit,” Esme breathes, a wild look of exhilaration on her face. In contrast, Jacqueline looks devastated.

I turn to Saint. “She can’t ride without a saddle,” I hiss. “She’s going to fall off and hurt herself. Or worse, die.”

Saint swallows. “Yeah… I think that’s the point.”

It makes me look at Penthesilea in an entirely different way. It’s when I realize—she’s not above the game at all.

She’s the most masterful player.

Jacqueline crumples at the tea table, her forehead pressed against the warm wood. Hannah G and Hannah R slide off their chairs, flanking her. But Esme stays on hers, Hawthorne tucked neatly against her, whispering in her ear, as she stares down at her pawn, utterly unimpressed.

Third and Leighton are still staring each other down. Leighton has lost somehow. And when Third looks at me and snorts, I know somehow I’ve lost this round too.

“Where are you going?” Saint calls. “Don’t get involved.”

“I’m not. I just want to know…” I trail off, and then I hurry from the room after Penthesilea as I call behind me, “Excuse me. Restroom.”

Leighton doesn’t lower herself to calling out my name, but I can feel her disapproval like a throbbing tattoo. I step out to find Penthesilea standing in the middle of the corridor, her long billowy sleeves trailing past her fingers. Her back is toward me, her head tilted up to the vaulted ceilings. I look up, wondering what she’s staring at.