Reading, writing, his voice and tongue on separate occasions. Every poem he ever learned, dancing. Pleasure in food and pleasure in sex. Smell. Fear, color, sleep. And, once, a pair of expensive-looking leather shoes. Naomi has no way of knowing what first brought him under-the-hill, if he came seeking a favor from the folk or just out of reckless curiosity. If he ever had a purpose here, Naomi can’t imagine it’s survived his ever-deepening spiral of sunk cost. Every night she’s seen him play, he’s gone full-tilt. Sometimes he wins a piece of himself back from a returning player, but never enough to justify the risk and usually less than he loses. If he ever won the favor, though, he could ask Magpie to restore him to himself, and maybe this is just enough hope to keep him from finding his better judgment. Or maybe that too was bet and lost before Naomi even encountered him. He isn’t the only gambler she’s seen haunt the game this way, but he is one of the worst off and seems unable to keep himself from returning.

Months ago, Naomi won his dancing. She can waltz very well now, do a half-decent tango and foxtrot. She also won his fear, which she joined another round just to get rid of, and all the poems he’d ever memorized, which she will keep because she likes poetry. It wouldn’t do any good to feel guilty about this, and Naomi presses her heel firmly to the emotion when something under-the-hill does coax it out of her. Worse things have been bet and lost here. She once saw a pregnant woman gamble and lose her firstborn child. Blame the fairy tale that put that in her mind. We are shaped by our legends, Naomi thought, and then wrote that line down on the ride home. The game under-the-hill may be awful, but it shines with fascination. Say that Naomi is like a war photographer. Doesn’t someone have to be loyal, first, to the preservation of the record?

Cupbearer’s companion Naomi has not seen before. He’s shorter than Cupbearer, broader in the shoulders, and more mundane in appearance, almost jarring in this setting. He’s wearing a plaid button-down and his head is capped with curls that remind Naomi of a Jazz Age pinup girl’s.

Menagerie shuffles the cards again, like snapping your fingers at a dog. “With what have you come to play?”

“With you,” the boy says, confused and as if the answer is automatic. Cupbearer shakes his bare head, and shoulders past his friend. He performs a sweeping gesture, from his feet to his face.

Menagerie considers him. Naomi theorizes that the fair folk, much like apes, smile mainly to show their teeth. “With your own body and soul?”

Cupbearer nods.

“Seat thyself and fare thee well.”