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“This,” Bridgers said, lifting the knight from the board and ignoring her, “is your best warrior. It moves in L shapes, so you’ll need to use some mathematics while playing.”

“L is a letter, not a number.”

“And this handsome fellow is your bishop.” He indicated the piece and Maggie briefly considered hurling the board at his head.

“She knows how to play chess,” Tom said from the other side of the parlor, not looking up from the newspaper he was perusing.

“I’m helping her improve her playing!” Bridgers said loudly. “It sharpens the mind and quickens reflexes!”

She picked the rook back up. “And this is the king, correct?”

“That’s the queen,” Tom clarified.

“I’ve never liked either of you,” Bridgers said flatly. “I was always afraid to say it, but no longer.”

Tom was about to offer a rebuttal—something devastating, surely—but whipped his head around at the sound of the doorbell.

“Someone braving the pariahs,” Bridgers said, moving Maggie’s chess pieces around the board for her. “Goes to show you the loyalty good-quality work will get you, reputation-wise.”

The reputation that had most concerned any of them was Maggie’s, now that her relationship with Theo had been brought into the light, at least in rumor-form, but the shop was also suffering from a dip thanks to Sam’s additional meddling, which Deacon Harpe had failed to put an end to.

According to Margie, when confronted, Sam simply clammed up, refusing to answer questions or even look the Deacon in the eye. Lou, in particular, seemed baffled by this response, sure that if anything, Sam would have risen to defending himself wildly. Although, the Deacon had passed along with some amusement, Sam had flushed a rather remarkable shade of magenta when the pamphlet had been mentioned. Deacon Harpe had suggested, with a resigned sigh, that perhaps Sam would be more amenable to speak to someone higher up than him, and Bridgers had written to his Uncle Jack the same afternoon, pleased as anything to be of use in a scheme.

The doorbell sounded again, and Tom grunted off the chair, stomping towards and down the stairs. A loud trill of greeting wafted up to the apartment, and Maggie and Bridgers both leaned towards the excited noises. Tom did not rush back up the steps, instead taking them slowly, and he reappeared in the kitchen with a wide grin and trailed by a short, wiry woman with grey curls poking out of her bonnet.

“I say, this is a strange way to greet your family, Matthew.”

Bridgers shot out of his seat and ran to the woman, practically toppling them both over in the crush. “Aunt Pearl!” he cried, lifting her off her feet. “I only wrote to you a few days ago!”

“Your aunt was very eager to see you,” came a gruff, wheezing voice from the stairs. Jack Monet shuffled over to his wife and dropped their bag. “You forgot your satchel, dear.”

“Oh, Jack, don’t be so silly.” Pearl shoved Bridgers towards his uncle, who embraced him in a tight hug before turning his attention to Tom and Maggie; Jack’s hugs were as warm and snug as Bridgers’ were, and Maggie couldn’t help smiling.

“We left as soon as we got your letter, pigeon,” Pearl said, immediately strutting to the stove to start some more tea. “We had never heard of this man, of course, but your uncle thinks he can flex some muscles to get him to behave.” She let out a giggle, and Reverend Monet sighed. “Oh!” She exclaimed. “Who was playing chess? Tom, were you beating Matt? He needs to be humbled every so often, you know, or his head gets too big and he falls over.”

“Gin, Maggie?” the reverend whispered to her slyly, and Maggie didn’t even try to resist the grin that broke out on her face.

It had rained the night before, and the worn trail along the river was muddy. Maggie hitched her skirts up slightly, letting them swing around her calves, and Theo tucked his hands into his pockets, toeing at a puddle every few feet. Their walk had been spontaneous—she had spent the previous day doing back-breaking stitching detail on some pieces, and Tom had insisted she go for a stroll when Theo showed up on his lunch—and she absently wished she had brought a shawl. The weather in early September had taken a sharp turn towards the chillier, a shock to the villagers who had so recently been sweltering.

Theo nodded towards a dry spot under a large oak tree. “Fancy a sit?”

Silently, she crossed in front of him and sank to the ground, propping herself up against the trunk of the tree.

“Any news on the new home front?” she asked, resting her head against his shoulder when he sat beside her, wiggling his bottom into the dirt.

“I found a few listings, but Lou has dismissed most of them,” he said easily, sliding an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close. “She’s being very particular.”

“What a surprise.” Maggie knew she was being dry, but she couldn’t help it. Theo laughed. “What are her objections?”

“She wants a large garden, despite never having grown a single thing in her entire life. She always wants a minimum of four bedrooms. And a kitchen big enough for everyone, come Sunday dinners.”

“Who knew Lou was so invested in entertaining?”

She felt Theo grin. “I was also somewhat surprised. But she wants what she wants and that isn’t unreasonable.”

“Why four bedrooms? Is Jake moving back in?”

Theo sighed. “No. I don’t think so. How did Reverend Monet’s meeting with Sam go?”