Tragedy of the Gimbles

VI

"You're bluffing," James said calmly. "I can tell."

Thomas scoffed. "My friend, you wouldn't know the first thing about lying. But if you're really sure... why don't you go ahead and raise? We both know you're good for it now."

James shrugged, in an effort to appear nonchalant. However, Thomas could see through his facade easily. "Alright, I'll raise. Three thousand."

Thomas shook his head. "You're a multi-millionaire. Three thousand is all you're putting in?"

James raised an eyebrow. "Three thousand more brings the pot up to twelve thousand. In my book, that's plenty of idle money. So yes, I raise to three thousand." James leaned back in his chair, his pair of cards pinched in one loose hand. "Call or fold," he uttered simply.

Thomas smiled. "Call. Fifteen thousand in the pot." Then he nodded towards the pair of cards in James' hand. "Well? Let's see what you-"

There was an echoing crash in the distance, like something heavy had just fallen over. Thomas and James both turned towards the noise, which had reverberated from the left entrance to the room.

"Nancy," James muttered, and Thomas detected an odd measure of worry in his voice. "We need to go check on her," he continued, rising quickly from his chair. "She might be hurt or something." Thomas frowned at his rapid movement. Sure, the crash had sounded bad, but since when had James cared so much about his sister?

Thomas shook his head, throwing his cards down on the table. As he rose, however, he glanced over at the cards James had left behind. Face up, he could see the hand he had been holding. He had a straight, Thomas noted curiously. He made me think he had nothing. When did he get so good at lying?

James was already rushing down the hallway. Thomas cursed quietly, and jogged to catch up with him. James took little notice of him as Thomas fell in beside him. "Okay, what's going on?" Thomas prompted. "You're obviously worried about something other than our dear Nancy's welfare."

James didn't bother to respond. Instead, he broke into a jog. As Thomas matched his pace, he noted how direct the route they were taking was. He's not even hesitating. He already knows where we're going. At first, he figured they were headed to Nancy's room. It would certainly make sense, considering she was supposed to be sleeping right now.

But when they reached the intersection of corridors which might have led them to her room, James barely slowed his step, continuing right past the opportune turn. Thomas frowned. They were going somewhere, just not where he had thought. What game are you playing, James?

Thomas gritted his teeth, and began running as James broke into a sprint, eyes wild. He was scared. Why would he be scared? Thomas was just about to grab him and demand to know what was going on when James stopped abruptly in his tracks. Thomas barrelled forward, caught off guard by the change in pace, and barely avoided stumbling into the leather armchair.

It took Thomas a moment to orient himself. The room they had stopped in seemed familiar somehow, although he couldn't place where they were exactly. Much of the house held little interest to him, and his hedonism had kept him away from the estate for a good deal of his life. And yet, there seemed to be some deeper significance to this place.

There was an open doorway on the far wall. No, not just open. The door itself was missing. It had been taken off its hinges and left to crash onto the carpet. The crash we heard in the dining room.

Looking into the room past the doorway, he saw Nancy sitting at a heavyset desk, a series of papers in front of her. There were paintings on the walls. Father's study, he realized. That was where they had ended up. How had he not recognized the path they were running down? Surely, it hadn't been that long ago that he'd come up here.