In February 1932, Cerydra sailed into the River Thames aboard the Italian royal cruise ship “Augustus.” London’s winter was like a damp, cold grey cloth, wrapping around every sharp edge of the city.
The river water was lead-grey, the sky was lead-grey, and even the cranes and warehouses on the docks were covered in a layer of soot that could not be washed away, as if someone had used a charcoal pencil to paint a base layer over the capital of this industrial empire.
Cerydra stood on the deck, gripping her cane, watching the silhouette of London Bridge gradually emerge from the morning mist.
She was three months shy of seventeen; her short white hair lifted slightly in the sea breeze, the touch of blue at the tips even colder than the London sky.
Her deep blue coat billowed in the wind, and the crystal Chess piece atop her cane shimmered with a faint, ghostly blue light in the lead-grey illumination.
Virginia stood two steps behind her, her grey-green eyes scanning every figure on the docks.
Martini stood further away—he had boarded under the guise of an “attendant,” dressed in civilian clothes, silent, the scar on his face turned pale by the cold London wind.
“Your Highness,” Virginia said softly, “there are people at the docks to meet the ship.
They are from the British Ministry of Foreign Affairs, along with a counselor from the Italian Embassy.” “Is there anyone else?” Virginia took another look.
“Behind the third pillar on the left, there is a person wearing a dark grey coat; they aren’t holding an umbrella, and their posture doesn’t look like that of a diplomat.” Cerydra did not turn her head; she simply tapped her cane lightly against the deck.
“Understood.” The crowd on the docks was sparse; the British Ministry of Foreign Affairs had sent an undersecretary, who stood under a rain shelter, his leather shoes splattered with mud, his expression one of undisguised fatigue.
In 1932, Britain was in no mood to host any foreign royalty, not even the apple of the Italian King’s eye, the queen of Chess.
The pound sterling had just abandoned the gold standard last September, which was the most humiliating page in British financial history—the credit anchor of the British Empire had snapped under the frenzy of a multi-year bank run.
The Ottawa Agreements were about to be signed, and the British Empire was attempting to bind all its colonies into a closed trading bloc.
Unemployment rates were climbing, hunger marches were spreading everywhere, and thousands of unemployed people were gathering on the streets of Birkenhead; every foreign visitor hosted required an additional expenditure for hospitality.
“Your Highness.” The undersecretary took off his hat and bowed slightly.
“Welcome to London.
On behalf of His Majesty the King, I extend my greetings to you.” “Thank you.” Cerydra’s voice was not loud, but the wind over the River Thames did not drown it out.
“London is quieter than I imagined.” The undersecretary’s expression stiffened for a moment.
“Yes, Your Highness.
There are relatively fewer tourists this season.” Cerydra did not expose the lie; she walked toward the car, her cane tapping against the rain-slicked cobblestone road, making a faint yet resolute sound.
She noticed a row of red-brick factories across from the docks, their windows plastered with newspapers, the chimneys emitting no smoke—abandoned factories were not uncommon in this city, but for such a prime location along the River Thames to fall into such a state, it showed that the Depression had truly gnawed its way into the heart of the empire.
The motorcade passed through the streets of London; the journey from the docks to the Italian Embassy was not long, but it was the first time Cerydra saw the true pulse of the empire.
In Trafalgar Square, there were soup kitchens with queues that snaked around Nelson’s Column and stretched all the way to the steps of the National Gallery.
In a corner of Hyde Park, a few tattered tents were pitched, housing unemployed workers—they were called “the homeless,” though that term had not yet been coined.
A newsboy ran past the car window holding an evening paper; the headline read “Disarmament Conference Deadlocked Again”—the League of Nations disarmament conference still underway in Geneva had made no substantive progress since opening in February.
Cerydra withdrew her gaze.
Her first game of Chess in London was against Sir George Alan Thomas.
The British Chess champion, in his early fifties, was gentle and refined, wearing an old tweed suit with cuffs worn white.
The match was held in the main hall of the London Chess Club, and the spectator seats were filled with celebrities from the British Chess world and several officials temporarily drafted from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
The chessboard was set up; Cerydra played white.
Sir Thomas’s opening was as steady as a textbook—Queen’s Gambit, Orthodox Defense; every move was within the rules, and every move was a standard response found in Chess manuals.
Cerydra played thirty-one moves against him, and she understood all of this man’s strategies—his strength lay in his rigor, and his weakness also lay in his rigor.
He made no mistakes, but he took no risks; he was protecting himself.
She did not take his Queen; she simply made every one of his pieces retreat to the squares from which they had started.
It was not forcing a retreat, it was inviting one.
It took her thirty-one moves to make Sir Thomas discover for himself—not a single one of his moves had gone forward.
On the thirty-second move, Sir Thomas’s hand hovered over the board, not descending for a long time.
Then he reached out and gently tipped over his King.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice devoid of resentment, filled only with a complex astonishment, as if he had discovered a rare treasure.
“I have played Chess for forty years, and this is the first time someone has made me feel, upon resigning, that I have only just begun to understand what Chess is.” Cerydra looked at him.
“Every one of your moves, Sir, was correct.” “But Your Highness won.” “Being correct and winning are sometimes two different things.” Sir Thomas was silent for a moment, then he smiled—it was a smile of genuine being moved.
“Your Highness should meet Alexander Alekhine.
He is currently touring Britain; I can arrange it.” Alekhine arrived three days later, this Russian-born French Chess world champion, tall and broad-browed, his gaze as sharp as a freshly honed blade.
He had won dozens of international championships in his career, and since snatching the world championship from Cuba’s Capablanca in 1927, no one had yet shaken his throne.
They played in a private study, with no audience, no reporters.
Cerydra played black.
Alekhine opened with the King’s pawn—a variation of the “Alekhine’s Defense” he himself had pioneered; it was a provocative opening; from the start, the black knight was chased by white pawns, fleeing all over the board; an average player might have had their rhythm disrupted by such provocation.
But Cerydra watched that advancing white pawn without retreating; she let it advance, and advance again, letting it penetrate deep into the black territory; Alekhine’s white pawn rushed forward so fast that his own queenside defense had not yet had time to catch up.
It might not seem tempting right now but who knows what the future holds?
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”