Devorah Kempenny’s earliest memories were dry paper and warm ink, faint scratching and cold wind, towers of books and gentle coughing.

And Emma.

Emma was always there. They played together and napped together and wandered the dusty halls together. When Devorah became ill, as she often did, it was Emma who cooled her fever, soothed her throat, wiped her nose. Emma taught her to read and write and figure. She cooked their meals and washed their laundry. Emma wasn’t an adult, not like the Governor, but she was older than Devorah, knowledgeable and wise, and Devorah followed her everywhere.

Emma had many duties at Kempenny manor, she tended the gardens and washed the laundry and dusted the halls. It was a large house for just the two of them, and many of the halls were closed off with velvet ropes, past which they ventured only for what Emma called necessary maintence.

They lived in Devorah’s bedroom, the kitchen, and the library.

If Emma had her own bedroom, Devorah didn’t know about it. Though the room was ostensibly hers, she shared it with Emma, who slept on a kit in a corner while Devorah slept in the large, four-post bed hung with blue and gold curtains. Her room was home to an expansive wardrobe she had no use for, a toy chest she found mildly interesting, and a windowseat she adored.

The kitchen was large but they used only a small part. Devorah was forbidden to help with the cooking thanks to an incident involving several broken jars, a fire that blacked a corner of the ceiling, and two sets of singed eyebrows.

The library was three times as big as her bedroom and was stuffed with bookshelves stuffed with books. The center of the library was home to a large desk, a plain desk chair, and a large couch. It was her favoriate room in the whole house. Except when her aunt, the Governor, was home.

Governor Erin Kempenny was a strict, severe woman, tall and thin with a strong jaw, she spent her time at home in the library, reading large old books and taking neat, cramped notes. When the Governor was home, they took dinner in the dining hall rather than the kitchen, and Devorah wasn’t allowed to help with the chores, and the Governor would quiz Devorah on the history of Khulanty. Devorah preferred fiction to history, she preferred Adventures of Professor I. Jones, and The Dunes of Spice Desert, and Noblewolfe about a woman cursed to the form a hawk during the day and her lover cursed to be a wolf at night. But because the Governor demanded it, she also read Empire of the North, and History of Khulanty, and The Kempenny Offensive about a failed invasion by Swords of the Church of Khulanty against the Mountain Kingdom.

The Governor often quizzed Devorah on history. When she was slow to answer, Governor Kempenny would rap her knuckles. When she didn’t know the answer, Governor Kempenny would frown and shake her head. When she did well, Governor Kempenny would lecture her. “A stupid child is of no use. You have much ahead of you, and you must be educated. You must understand why we have chosen this course. Do you understand?”

She didn’t, but would nod anyway.

Thankfully, her aunt was seldom home.

• • •

In the summer of her ninth year, on an overcast day promising rain, Devorah found herself alone, wandering the woods surrounding the manorhouse. A delivery had arrived to provision the kitchen and though Devorah had offered to help, Emma had told her to go outside and play. Devorah preferred to stay inside and read, but she did as she’d been told and, half an hour later, was glad she had, because it began to rain.

Devorah loved the rain.

She loved the way the cool speckels made her skin shiver, made the woods around the manorhouse smell, made everything feel clean and new and fresh.

She sat in a small clearing not far from an old outbuilding when it started. She stood and stared into the shifting clouds growing steadily darker, streaks of rain dancing though the remaining light, and she took a deep breath, the smell of rain faint but growing.

She danced in the rain, spinning and skipping and singing as nine-year-olds are wont to do. And as the wind picked up and the rain came harder and the thunder grumbled against the distant Southern Mountains, Devorah danced harder. When she stopped, it was because she was hungry.

She arrived at the side door to the kitchen soaked through but happy.

Emma scolded Devorah as she shucked her from her wet clothes and dried her with an oversized towel and fed her hot chicken soup. But Devorah didn’t mind. It had been a good morning. And then she took a nap.

She woke from her nap with a cough that tore at her throat and set fire to her skin. The first was followed by a second and a third. The brief fit left her gasping and clutching at her chest. Her head pounded as though it could not hold the pressure. She squeezed her eyes closed and tensed until the pain faded to a dull reminder. She tried to breathe shallowly. Slowly, she opened her eyes. She found herself propped in bed on several pillows, covered to the chin with several blankets. The fireplace was filled with a great fire and extra firewood over-filled the box.

Emma entered bearing a tray laden with a pitcher and a steaming bowl. “Oh, thank God you’re alive. I was so worried.”

Devorah didn’t like the phrase, ‘thank God’; deities of all flavors existed in stories. The Mountain Kingdom, she had read, differed from the Church of Khulanty, with dozens of deities who got up to all kinds of mischief and adventure instead of just one who sat in the sun all the time and watched. Thanking God was like thanking an imaginary friend, and she’d given up on imaginary friends when she was three.

“Here, Baby, I brought you some soup. It’ll help warm you up.”

Devorah tried to tell Emma she was warm enough, too warm in fact, but trying to speak induced another coughing fit.

The broth eased her throat, so Devorah drank it even though it made her sweat. When she was done, even spooning broth to her lips had become exhausting. She leaned against the pillows and tried not to move. Not moving kept the ache in her muscles and the throb in her head to a minimum.

She closed her eyes.

Though she wasn’t sleepy, she began to relax as the pain receeded, and a tingle tickled at her toes. The tingle spread slowly, wrapping around her ankles before creeping up her calves and swallowing her knees. When the entire lower half of her body had gone tingly and numb, Devorah became concerned. Emma sat to her right, Devorah could hear her turning pages in a book under the roar of the fire. But when Devorah tried to open her eyes and tell Emma about the sudden numbness, she found she couldn’t turn her head, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move at all. The numbness spread up her torso to her shoulders. It touched her fingertips at the same time as her nose.

And, in her mind’s eye, Devorah could see a place.

While around her was sweltering heat, aching muscles, and a dull roar, the place in her mind was dim and cool; it smelled of books and felt of relief. Devorah reached for the place. Her arms did not move under the too-hot covers, but she reached nonetheless, and when she reached without reaching, the place in her mind came closer. Devorah pulled it to her and let it swallow her.

Devorah blinked away the shadows and found herself in a small, stone room much smaller than her bedroom. It had no windows and no doors, but Devorah was unconcerned. She knew this place wouldn’t trap her; she knew she could come and go whenever she liked. The room contained a small bookcase, a cushioned chair upholstered in soft, silvery, grey, a table at just the right height if one was sitting in the chair, and a simple work desk. It was comfortable, not too hot, just a bit cool.

Devorah examined the bookcase. She recognized the histories, but the law and philosophy were foreign to her. It held none of the adventure tales she loved.

Carefully, she ran her hand along the smooth fabric of the chair arm. At her touch, black angles and swirls appeared on the chair as though they’d been poured.

Surprised, Devorah pulled her hand away. “Magic,” she whispered.

The books she loved were filled with magic and, like deities, Devorah had thought it wasn’t real. But this felt real. It felt like something of her very own, like something left for her to find and had been waiting for her ever since, and she was not afraid. She sat upon the chair and felt at ease, a strong contrast to her too-hot bedroom.

Thought summoned awarenes, and she knew she was in both places at once. In a far-off way, Devorah could feel the blankets covering her, the roar of the fire, Emma’s gentle snoring.

But here she was comfortable, so she ignored the other place and curled in the chair, letting her body relax into sleep.

• • •

“Wake up, Baby. There’s someone here to see you.”

Devorah awoke and blinked against the brightness. She was already sweating. The room hadn’t gotten any cooler. She didn’t move afraid of exacerbating the pain or summoning the cough.

Emma put a hand to her forehead. “Are you all right, Baby?”

Someone murmured outside Devorah’s field of vision. Emma disappeared and a new face appeared. It was lined, but not old, as though the face was too thin for the skin. He had short, smooth brown hair and sharp, dark eyes.

“I am Doctor Thomas Wilson. Does it hurt when you breathe?” His tone was clipped, perfunctory.

Devorah nodded as best she could.

“Can you sit up?”

Devorah shrugged.

“Try.” he commanded.

Devorah tried to sit up. It was a struggle, but she managed. By the time she was sitting, sweat slid down her face to her chin. The doctor set a black, leather bag upon her bed and opened it. He withdrew from his bag a long, black tube capped at either end by concave metal discs.

Devorah looked around at her bedchamber, well lit by the bright, clear summer sky, and squinted. Emma stood nearby, watching anxiously. When she saw Devorah looking at her, she gave her a small, encouraging smile.

The doctor put his hand on her forehead as Emma had done moments before.

“How old are you?”

Devorah took a breath, coughed a few times, and tried again. “Nine and a half.”

The doctor sat upon her bed and took up the flexible tube with the metal discs. He drew the covers back and rearranged her night dress so he could put one of the discs on her back. The metal was smooth and cool against her skin. He put the other disc against his ear.

Emma gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Quiet,” said the doctor in his collected tone. “I’m trying to listen.” To Devorah he said, “Breathe deeply.”

“But it hurts,” Devorah rasped.

“Breathe,” he insisted.

Devorah breathed, and it hurt, and she coughed.

“There, now see what you’ve done?” Emma demanded.

But Doctor Wilson ignored her. He listened at Devorah’s chest and then peered into her eyes, ears, and nose, then felt at her throat. Eventually he pushed her back down onto the bed.

“You, child, will be very ill.”

And she was.

She was always too hot and too cold. She shivered and sweated and Emma had to change her bed sheets daily. It was difficult to eat, to swallow, to breathe. Emma fed her medicine and broth and, on her better days, porridge. On her worst days, Devorah dreamed while waking.

She dreamed giant, thousand-legged bugs were swarming over her bedroom floor, making slow but certain progress to the bedposts. She screamed when they peeked over the edge, and then they were on her. She couldn’t get away, she was tangled in her blankets and sheets and their tiny, sharp legs dug into her skin. Where they touched, her skin burned. Their long, dry antennae stroked her face, slowly pushing into her mouth, her nose, her ears, her eyes. She recoiled and her head exploded in pain and light.

She dreamed shadowy, hulking creatures lurked at vision’s edge, behind the curtain, under her bed. She had visions of strict, hard-eyed women who beat her. She watched giants tear at each other with swords and spears and axes.

And then, in a moment of clarity, the chaos parted and she saw the Governor, resplendent in blue and gold, surrounded by a glorious halo. She had never seen her aunt looks so serene, and Devorah was certain she was saved from the nightmares. But then the light faded and Devorah could see the Governor’s wrists were shackled, her throat bound by a collar attached to a leash, and holding the leash was a large man in red armor.

But sometimes she could escape to the room in her mind with its bookcase and table and comfortable chair. Soon, as often as she could, she waited out her sickness there, reading all the books on the bookcase.

• • •

“Happy birthday, Baby.”

Devorah took a slow, careful, ragged breath.

“Birthday?” Summer, it seemed, had been yesterday.

“You’re ten now. You were sick a long time.”

“Half a year.”

“How are you feeling, Baby?”

Devorah sat up and felt a great relief when her body did not shriek in protest. But it did leave her tired.

“Doctor Wilson said you would be weak. He said you shouldn’t strain yourself.”

Devorah remained in bed all day and the next. For several days thereafter she only managed to walk as far as her couch where she took meals, all of which were either thin soup or porridge. At her request, Emma brought her books from the library, and as she got stronger Devorah made the trek to the library herself. But the long walk from her rooms to the library left her tired and shaking and she often fell asleep on the library couch.

She took meals there sometimes.

On nights when she couldn’t sleep, or when dreams of violent battles and chaotic storms snapped her from sleep, she would wander the library, running her fingers along leather and cloth bound bookspines, her bare feet cold on the polished wood floor. Despite her illness, she still liked the cold.

All her time in the library led to a wonderful discovery. While reading Martin and the Pairo’Docs, Devorah suffered a coughing fit that left her throat raw and her head pounding. She easily shifted to the room in her mind to escape the pain. She could still feel her body reclining on the couch in the library, but the pain was kept distant. It only took a moment to realize she’d brought the book with her.

Devorah never questioned the room in her mind. It was part of her, part of what made her special, like black hair or being related to the Governor, but now wondered what she could do with it. She began stocking the mental bookshelf will all her favorite stories: Sky Wars: An Epic in 9 Episodes; and Dawn of Souls; and The Wolf Princess and the Cursed Soldier; among many, many others, and whenever she needed it to, the bookcase grew larger.

• • •

Deep in the autumn of her twelfth year, Devorah lay on the couch in the library reading The Immortal Highlander, while Emma, sitting on the floor at her feet, read a book called Silly Little Love Poems, when the door to the library burst open and Governor Kempenny strode through.

Devorah sat up quickly and hid her book under a pillow on the couch. Emma tucked her book under the couch before she scrambled to her feet. Emma bowed to Governor Kempenny. Devorah had been repreimanded when she’d emulated Emma, so she just stood instead.

Governor Kempenny snaped her fingers and pointed at Emma.

“I have an important guest for dinner, prepare something suitable.” Then she pointed at Devorah, “And get her cleanded up and presentable.”

In her bedroom, her skin scrubbed, her hair pulled into a tight bun, clad in a pale blue dress with golden trim and the golden unicorn of House Kempenny prominent upon her chest, Devorah fiddled, still hours away from dinner, with nothing to do. She wished she’d thought to grab her book before leaving the library.

Emma had warned her not to wrinkle her dress before dinner, so she couldn’t sit on the floor and play as she somtimes whiled away an afternoon. Instead, she sat in the windowseat, arranged her dress carefully, opened the window just enough, and drew the heavy curtains, encasing herself in a cushioned alcove, cut off from the rest of the world, an observer upon the front of the manor. She knew from experimentation that from the outside all anyone would see was the sky’s reflection. From here, perhaps she’d catch a glimpse of the important visitor.

So she waited.

For several minutes Devorah stared out the window, waiting for a wagon or carriage with a full team of horses to come galloping down the graveled pathway. But the minutes passed and no one came, and Devorah grew restless. She fiddled with the fringe of a pillow upholstered in blue and gold, she swatted at a lazy fly, she shifted from sitting to kneeling to lying to sitting again.

When, eventually, the clatter of hooves did sound upon the road, Devorah had dozed off. She snuffled and rubbed at her eyes before peering out the window. The sun had receded behind the house, leaving the front in shade. The man who dismounted from the restless stallion was tall with a big chest and big arms and big hands. His hair was cut short. He wore dented red armor and a big sword on his back.

Governor Kempenny went out to meet him as he tied his horse’s reins to the hitching post.

Governor Kempenny, too, had dressed for the occasion, her pale blue dress with golden trim a match for Devorah’s. She carried two glasses of wine and offered one to the man.

“General, it’s good to see you. I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.”

The Governor’s voice was small at this distance, but clearly audible.

The General took the proffered wine and drank it quickly. With a satisfied sigh, he handed the empty glass to Governor Kempenny.

“I must admit, Erin, I was surprised when I got your invitation. I thought insurrection wasn’t your style.”

Governor Kempenny laughed. “It isn’t Freddy. Insurrection is more what they would expect of you, which is why I sent for you.”

Quicker than Devorah could follow, the General grabbed Governor Kempenny by the arm and drew her close. Shocked, the Governor dropped the empty glass and gasped. Devorah echoed her. The General took the other glass and slurped at the wine while holding the Governor close. He dashed the empty vessel to the driveway when he finished.

“You haven’t called me ‘Freddy’ in many years, Erin.”

Governor Kempenny put a hand on the General’s scarlet armor and pushed at him. He did not move. With as large as his arms were, he could have held her there as long as he wanted, no matter how hard she pushed.

“Perhaps I long for times past,” the Governor said.

The General laughed then, a loud, raucous sound that echoed off the woods surrounding the manor house.

“No, I don’t think so. I think you long for your sister’s place and for the bed she lies in. Don’t think I’ve forgotten you abandoned me for the chance at Sean Loreamer’s loins and Khulanty’s crown.” One of his hands moved to her breast and squeezed so that the Governor grunted and winced. Then he spun her so she faced him and put his lips to hers and kissed her hard.

Governor Kempenny did something Devorah couldn’t see, but the General grunted and released her. The Governor moved several steps away. A long silence stretched between them. The shade of the east side of the house grew deep and velvet as afternoon stood on the brink of evening.

“I’ve been trading with the Mountain Kingdom, avoiding Kinswell’s tariffs,” the Governor said, her voice a trifle higher than normal, a bit breathless. “I’ll soon have an alliance with King Haland. I have plenty of money, a legion of local soldiers, and will have twice that in mercenaries. They’re yours to command if you want them.”

The General nodded. His smile made Devorah’s skin crawl.

“Money and men, now that’s something I’ll believe in. Show me some hospitality, Governor Kempenny, and then we can discuss my style of insurrection.”

When Emma came to fetch her for dinner, her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, her voice shaky.

“You must be very careful tonight, Baby,” Emma said, kneeling before her and holding both her hands tightly. “Remember your lessons, speak only when spoken to, don’t draw attention. Understand?”

She didn’t, but nodded anyway.

Dinner was in the dining hall. Governor Kempenny sat at the head of the table. The General sat at her right. Emma led Devorah to the seat at the Governor’s left.

The General had changed out of his armor. He was clad in an old, worn, red and white uniform, a uniform of the Swords of the Church. He broke off conversation with the Governor when Devorah entered and watched her as she crossed the room and took her place.

“This is her? She’s too young. She’s a foal; the Heir is a filly.”

Dinner was thinly sliced mutton with peppered potatoes drizzled in light gravy. A small glass of pale-yellow wine sat by her plate. Though she was hungry and the dinner was inviting, Devorah did not reach for her silverwear. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at her plate.

“That won’t matter to the rabble. Once she’s installed, no one will notice the difference.”

“And her hair’s black. The Heir has silver hair.”

“That’s just a nonsense rumor. Her hair is dark, like Devorah’s.”

The General grunted. Devorah snuck a look at the Governor. The Governor smiled, but it looked forced, like she was pretending unconcern.

The General pounded the table and Devorah jumped.

“And she’s skittish. Look at her. A secret weapon can’t be skittish.”

Despite herself, Devorah looked up at the General, who gestured at her roughly.

“She’s not fit for this job, Erin.”

“She will be. I’ve a few years more to train her.”

“Give her to me. I’ll train her.” The General fixed Devorah with a hungry look and smiled. His tongue darted to his lips and he swallowed.

“That’s enough of that, Frederick Vahramp.” The Governor’s voice cracked like a windowpane, catching them both off guard.

Devorah slumped in relief when the General’s eyes were off her.

“She’s a child, but she’ll do her part when the time comes,” Governor Kempenny said. Then she snapped her fingers and pointed at Devorah. “Off to bed, girl. General Vahramp and I have much to discuss.”

Devorah pushed away from the table and hurried from the room.

• • •

In the winter of her fourteenth year, Devorah still thought about that dinner. As autumn faded into winter, shrouding them in greyer days, falling leaves, and darker nights, Emma would catch her staring into nothing, thinking. She thought about the General, who she hadn’t seen since, and the soldiers, who she’d never seen at all. She thought about the Governor and her demands that Devorah study history. And she thought about her role in it all, too young, too dark-haired to look like the Heir.

“And why should I look like the Heir?”

Winter found Governor Kempenny snowed in, unable to leave the manorhouse for weeks. She spent long nights in the library, writing and researching, sometimes not waking the next day until noon-hour. Devorah avoided her as best she could.

But three weeks into the Governor’s forced stay, in the midst of a blizzard, Devorah sat alone in her bedroom. Most of Emma’s time was spent keeping the boiler for the hot water pipes going, leaving Devorah lonely, bored, and restless. She wanted to go to the library, but the Governor was in the library.

Devorah paced her bedroom.

“Why should I look like the Heir?” she asked herself again. Devorah had always accepted she was Governor Kempenny’s niece and had never thought what that meant. Was she the daughter of the Governor’s brother or sister? And what position did her parents hold? Were they Governors too?

“Stupid,” she chided herself.

In a pique she hurried through dark hallways to the library and, before she could change her mind, pushed open the door.

“Why should I look like the Heir?”

The library was warm, though without fireplace. Emma had told her when the boiler was installed in the basement, the fireplace had been bricked over as it had always been a concern in a place meant to store dry, leather-bound paper. The library was filled with shadows, lit by a single lantern at the desk.

But the Governor wasn’t sitting at the desk in the center of the library. Devorah took several minutes to carefully catch her breath lest she induce a coughing fit.

“Um, hello?” Devorah called.

“Who’s there?” Governor Kempenny poked her head from behind a bookshelf. Her hair was disheveled and she blinked from the shadows. “Devorah? What are you doing here? What time is it?”

“I… um… It’s near midnight? I think.”

“Oh.” The Governor emerged from behind the bookshelf with a small stack of books. She droped them on the desk and sat with a thump. She rubbed at her eyes and yawned. “Why aren’t you in bed? What do you want?”

“I, um, I just wanted to know… that is… why should I look like the Heir?”

The Governor frowned, then sighed, then frowned again. “Right. Well, I suppose it’s time you knew. Sit down, Devorah.”

Devorah hadn’t allowed herself to consider the Governor’s reaction or she’d have turned back, but this measured response was at odds with the knuckle-rapping taskmaster she was accustomed to. She sat on the couch and pulled her knees to her chest.

The Governor sat a little straighter and turned up the lantern so the flame grew and graced the library with more light. Devorah squinted.

“My sister is Margaret Kempenny Loreamer. She’s married to Sean Loreamer, and together they’re the Royals. You are their other daughter.”

“Other?”

“There were two. There must have been two. Twins, I suppose. Which is why… why you live here, quietly, out of the way. Twins make succession… messy.”

Devorah was confused. The Governor sounded as much like she was trying to convince herself as Devorah.

“But, that man, the General, he said I was too young.”

Governor Kempenny pounded the desk with her open palm, and Devorah jumped.

“You, child, are the true Heir. Frederick knows little of such things. You will listen to me, not him. Understood?”

Devorah nodded.

The Governor stood, looming in the harsh shadows of the lantern. “You must do as I tell you. The time for action is nearly upon us. You mustn’t defy me.”

Devorah shrank into the couch.

The Governor dropped back to her chair, breathing hard, and as she collected herself, she pulled a wooden case from a drawer, opened it, and withdrew a thin board covered in a black and white checkered pattern. Upon the board she set figurines carved of black stone and white stone.

“Devorah, let’s play chess.”

“What’s chess?”

“Chess. Come now, don’t be stupid.”

Devorah looked from the board and its carved figures to her aunt and back.

“I don’t know how.”

“Of course you do. I taught you when you were a child. You’ll be white. The opening move is yours.”

Devorah decided not to argue. Instead, she pulled up a stool, sat across from the Governor, and made an opening move with a figure shaped like a castle.

“No, no. By Gods you’re dim. Only the knight can pass over other pieces.” She pointed to the horse, so Devorah moved her knight, but she moved it too far and the Governor rapped her knuckles.

“Really,” Devorah said, “I’ve never played this before.” She flexed her fingers against the sting.

The Governor moved a small black figure in the lead. “A pawn’s first move may be two spaces forward, otherwise it may only move one space forward. It can only capture other pieces at a diagonal. If it reaches the last rank, it may be traded for a captured piece.”

Devorah stumbled through her first game amidst narrowed eyes and exasperated sighs. She lost handily. She made fewer mistakes her second game, and fewer still her third and despite her losses began to set the board for another game. She needed to do a better job protecting her cleric pieces, she thought. They were deceptively useful.

But her aunt shook her head.

“I have research to do.” She patted the books on the desk with a sigh, but when she looked at Devorah, she smiled.

Devorah felt a funny sort of tickle at the back of her throat. Her aunt had never smiled at her before, not that she could remember. But the tickle made her cough and by the time she recovered, the Governor was frowning at her again.

Devorah had many questions. The game hadn’t distracted her from her goal in coming to the library. Though she knew now who her parents were, why she was here instead of with them, and what her role might be, she couldn’t help but wonder at the motivations behind it all. Twins made succession messy? So what? Why was her sister chosen instead of her? How could they have abandoned her, sent her away?

But what she said was, “Can we play tomorrow?”

The Governor shrugged. “Perhaps.”

But the next day, the blizzard lifted and the Governor was gone.

• • •

Her aunt came home less and less. Devorah whiled away her days ghosting though the halls, reading in candle-lit corners, and lying abed, too ill to get up. She didn’t help much with chores anymore. She spent much time in the room in her mind, reading books she’d taken there and books she hadn’t.

One lonely night, sitting in the library, staring at the chessboard, she happened upon a wonderful idea. What if the chessboard was like the books? What if she could take it to the room in her mind?

So she put her hand on the board and imagined it in minute detail, each black and white stone square, each piece meticulously carved, and when she opened her eyes in the room in her mind, there was the board on the short table.

She played against herself, moving a piece first for white, then for black. But after that first game, she no longer had to move the white pieces, for when she returned to the room, a white piece had moved on its own.