“I like War. It’s a game of chance.” Penthesilea drums her fingers against the table. She looks like a Monet.
“If you don’t want to play poker, I know Blackjack or literally—”
“You challenged me, so I pick the game,” Penthesilea practically sings. “And I’ve picked War. Let’s play.” She doesn’t give Jacqueline another breath to push back. She begins to deal the cards, throwing each back and forth. “This game can get long, so let’s not screw around. We throw down the cards. Unseen. A battle. If the value matches, we start a war. Highest valued card wins the lot. We check the unseen declarations for aces. When they’re revealed, put them to the side—they’re out of play. And then we shuffle. Whoever collects the most aces wins.”
“Fine,” Jacqueline says. She gathers her cards to her chest and makes an aborted move to look at her cards, only stopping when she remembers, this isn’t the game she’s used to. She sets them down and stares at Penthesilea with contempt that’s meant to disguise her fear.
“Let’s begin,” Penthesilea says.
Within seconds, it’s clear that while War is a child’s game, the pair don’t play as kids. They slam down cards one after the other. It goes on for five regular hands. Penthesilea seems to be at an advantage at first, having an overwhelming number of the face cards. She does snatch a win by collecting the first ace on the sixth hand, though—the ace of spades, having had it in her own deck. Jacqueline hisses at that.
And then there’s a match.
Two nines. One is a spade. The other is a club.
“I. De. Clare. War,” the pair call together.
And then Jacqueline slaps down a seven of diamonds. And Penthesilea—a six of clubs. Jacqueline pumps her fists, and Esme begins to clap, an applause that’s swiftly joined in by her other lackeys. When I look back, Third looks amused. Pierce does not.
“It’s a game of chance,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “It doesn’t take much skill.”
“Maybe,” Saint says, eyes narrowing on the table, like she’s searching for some hidden clue. “Maybe not.”
“That pile’s yours, then,” Penthesilea sighs. “Check the cards for any aces.”
Jacqueline flips them all overeagerly, and she gasps triumphantly when she finds the second ace. The ace of clubs is from Jacqueline’s own hand.
“Better be careful, Pen. We’re evenly matched now,” Jacqueline crows as she sets it to the side, preening.
Penthesilea’s mouth pulls into a taut smile. “Yes, it seems so. Shuffle your deck. Let’s begin again.”
She shuffles her deck and then there’s only a brief moment before they’re slapping cards down again, going back and forth, until finally—another match.
“I. De. Clare. War.”
On the fourth card, Penthesilea lays down a queen of hearts. Jacqueline only has a four of clubs.
“Guess this round’s mine, then,” Penthesilea muses. She plucks the cards from Jacqueline’s grasp before she can even react, and she shuffles through them, checking for an ace. There are none. “I haven’t played this game since I was a little girl. I forgot how gratifying it is.”
Jacqueline shuffles her deck again, and Penthesilea meets her. “Ready?”
And then they’re slapping down cards fast and hard.
The match comes faster this time.
Two threes.
“Well, then,” Penthesilea hums. “Jacqueline, I do wonder… how did you get here?”
“What?” Jacqueline snaps in frustration. She cracks her neck, a loud rippling sound that makes Hannah G cringe.
“Who nominated you?” Penthesilea asks.
“First, I’m the Northeast junior poker champion, that should earn a nomination by itself,” Jacqueline mutters. “And as for who nominated me—I don’t know for sure, but probably one of Mr. Remington and my father’s mutual associates. My dad works at Goldman. He’s one of the Remingtons’ investment managers.”
“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.