Birdie spread a rolling pin back and forth across a large circle of raw piecrust, humming softly to the kitchen. Sable leaned into her own rolling pin, trying to copy Birdie’s technique. She was always useless at cooking.

“There’s been a development,” Birdie began.

Sable raised an eyebrow at the older woman. “A development? What do you mean?”

Birdie smiled, excited. “Have you noticed Mister Torell hasn’t had an incident in almost a month?” Sable thought for a moment and nodded. It’d been close to a month since Sable had arrived at Rosemanor, and in fact Cristofer Torell hadn’t suffered a psychotic episode since. “Our doctors think it may be time to see if Mister Torell can be reincorporated into the general population. Oh it’s so exciting!”

Sable smiled at Birdie’s enthusiasm. “That’s wonderful! But how can they be sure?” she asked.

“Well, Mister Torell has to continue without incident,” Birdie said. “It may be a long shot, but if he can do it, he will be on the road to recovery. Hopefully, at least.” She grabbed a jar and used it to twist circles into the piecrust. “Nurses—and ourselves—will sit with him one-on-one, see if he can behave normally, and if all goes well…”

“He’ll be out of solitary,” Sable said, and Birdie nodded. It sounded like a fluke, but Sable smiled along with Birdie.

Over the next few days, not one of the nurses trusted Cristofer Torell without a straightjacket. As comfortable as they felt as a group around him, the nurses were as jumpy as Sable when left alone with him. Only Julien refused the assurance that Cristofer be restrained, though he sat tensely at the edge of a chair in Cristofer’s room, ready to spring forward into action. But as Birdie had hoped, all was so far, so good. Sable, however, hadn’t had a turn yet with the man in solitary, and was nervous about it.

“I’ve got an idea,” Julien said, bounding up to Sable on his long legs. He held something behind his back. “For your shift with him.”

“Oh? What’s that?” Sable asked. Julien grinned, revealing a flat box from behind him. Sable read the box in Julien’s hands, arching an eyebrow. “Chess?”

“You could try it,” Julien said, handing it to her. “Might make him feel like a person, eh?” He winked at her, and she laughed, nudging him in the ribs.

Sable steeled herself, holding the chess box close to her chest. She’d thought about what Julien said, and refused to have Cristofer restrained. He couldn’t very well play chess in a straightjacket, could he? She nodded to Birdie, and the older woman opened the door to Cristofer’s room.

Sable walked slowly into the room; Cristofer sat cross-legged on the bed, his spine straight and arms unbound. He looked up at her, his blue eyes soft. His hair was slightly cleaner, unkempt but combed out. His shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, his pants loose over his legs and his feet bare atop his bed sheets.

“Hello, Cristofer,” Sable began, her tone gentle. “I brought chess.” His eyes followed her as she pulled the bedside table from its spot next to the bed. She set the box atop it, opening the lid. “Do you know how to play?”

Cristofer looked up at her and nodded. She sat in the chair before the table, setting up the board and pieces. Cristofer watched her hands as she arranged the pieces on the board between them. When she finished, she sat back in her chair. Might make him feel like a person.

“Well, ladies first, I suppose,” Sable began, and moved a pawn forward. Crow watched the board, and moved a pawn of his own. Sable smiled softly at him.

They traded moves for a long while. Cristofer watched the board and Sable watched him. His eyes flickered to and fro, moving from piece to piece, focused and alert. She could almost hear the gears turning and clicking into place in his head. She noticed a faint dusting of freckles across his nose, surrounding the small mole that marked his right cheekbone.

His hands, she noticed as they gingerly moved the pieces, were broad and lined with bluish veins, the fingers long and knuckles knobby. His forearms were laced with wiry muscle that sloped up his biceps and connected to the downward curves of his wide shoulders. His blond hair curled at the back of the column of his neck. Sable could see his pulse fluttering in his throat if she stared closely enough. More than once, he caught her eyes, and she quickly averted her gaze, her face growing hot. Neither of them spoke, only traded moves back and forth for what felt like hours and hours. Eventually the game came to a stalemate, Cristofer’s rook, queen, and knight trapping Sable’s king. She frowned at the board.

“That’s checkmate then, isn’t it?” she grumbled. Her voice sounded almost too loud after sitting in silence. When she looked up, Cristofer’s eyes met hers, his bright blue staring into her stormy grey. She smiled at him.

“You’re good at chess,” she said. “You’ll have to teach me a thing or two.” The corners of his mouth twitched in what looked like the ghost of a smile. Might make him feel like a person.

Sable began to pack up the board and pieces, fitting them into the box. She barely heard when he croaked out a sound: “Crow.”

She stared at him. She was certain she’d imagined it.

“What did… what did you say?” she whispered. But she’d heard him. She recognized the gravel of his voice, the sound low in his throat. He didn’t answer her question, only stared at her with unwavering focus. It was as if he was saying, you heard me.

“You… crow. You said crow,” she stammered. He raised his chin in approval. “Crow, what does that mean?”

Cristofer raised a hand and pointed at his chest. Sable furrowed her brow, confused.

“Crow,” she repeated, and he pointed to his chest again. “You’re… is it a name? Are you Crow?” He dropped his hand and nodded.

“A nickname?” Sable pressed, smiling widely. He nodded again. “Crow is your nickname,” she breathed, and he smiled crookedly at her, his joy reaching his eyes. After a moment, his smile faded, his expression becoming serious. She met his eyes as he raised a finger and pressed it to his lips.