She set a hand to the rim of her mug, to the handle, brought its lip to her mouth. The beer tasted flat and bitter, nothing like the clear spirits she’d grown accustomed to in the laundry. She pictured Kaia passing her a bottle, an ever-present lock of blond hair dangling over her eye. Libby giggling on her cot, the three of them nursing sore heads and sharp words from Matron in the early hours before their shifts. Anji doubted she’d see them ever again. Her bottom lip twitched at the thought, the loss like a weight settling deep in her chest.

Here in the tavern, her drinking had started in seclusion. She’d polished off three mugs of cloudy beer like they’d save her from the Senate’s headsman, then had the audacity to look into her coat pocket. Empty save for a stray button and eleven measly Celdia—enough for a few more drinks, perhaps, but Conifor was still days away on foot. She needed more money. Gulping down beer on an empty stomach, wondering what she would do, she’d been on the edge of tears when the man in the seat across from her now had begun shuffling cards. She couldn’t help herself. She’d had to do something.

Seven, eight … no, nine …

“Piss drunk,” the man said, dragging on a greasy cigar. He stabbed a pudgy, dirt-stained finger at her mug. “How can someone with so much booze in them win this often, eh?” He exhaled a blue plume of smoke and barked out a sticky cough.

“Ale’s got nothing to do with it, Jom,” said the wispy, middle-aged woman to Anji’s right. “Hot streaks come and go.”

Jom wrinkled his bulbous nose. “Hot streaks,” he murmured.

Anji darted a glance at the deck, counting as best she could despite the fuzzy cloud nestled where her brain had been. She did a quick mental dance, keeping her face still, and tossed two Celdia into the pile. She rubbed a thumb at the heavy circle of bronze pulsing in her pocket. The tension in her shoulders eased.

The chair groaned as she sat back and sipped at her mug. The thought that she really should stop drinking made an appearance, but was quickly dismissed. The buzz felt nice, and though this man Jom had a murderous look in his eye, there was no chance he suspected her.

Eleven, twelve … right, and the next one … Suns?

Jom flipped a card off the deck: Suns. The woman cursed and threw her cards facedown onto the scarred wood. Her scuffed brass earrings shook as she slumped back in her seat, arms crossed. She clicked her tongue and snapped bony fingers at the barkeep. “I think it’ll be a nightcap for me and I’ll be getting home,” she said, still glowering at her hand.

“Not alone you won’t,” Jom grunted, glassy eyes still on his cards.