Magpie calls and produces a small glass object from a fold in her feathered garment. She holds it up between two hooked black nails, lets the candlelight spark off it. “A vial of my own blood.”

Naomi stares into the center of the table as Menagerie deals another round. The vial is the size of her thumb, and Magpie’s blood in it is black as her feathers, with the same oily sheen. The plan had been to lose this game, then fold early in the second and third as if spooked into caution. This way she could observe most of the game without distraction. But the need for secrecy has made it essentially impossible for her to collect biological specimens from the folk. What could a chemical analysis of that blood reveal? A DNA test? Naomi’s mouth waters. She picks up her cards.

Blood Changeling, White Death, Blood Serpent. Changeling and Serpent can both fill out the Sorceress hand. There is still time for Naomi to play toward that instead; she’s done nothing to indicate a strategy yet. And she has a real chance at a mixed-suit Sorceress, which has a real chance at winning.

Is this a mistake? Is it a mistake that it is acceptable to make? Naomi presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She could always lose in the second round.

“Bets.”

They will start with Magpie this time, and go the other way.

“Bet.” Her voice is fascinating, a rustling susurration. Naomi would love to see Magpie’s vocal cords. She sets a basket of shimmering fruits on the table, not too apparently different from the ones already laid out, except perhaps of higher quality, glittering with dew. Sweeter than honey from the rock, stronger than man-rejoicing wine. Fairy food won might be fairy food safe to eat. How many people taste something like that and ever get to go above the hill again? Naomi might be the only one living.

Next.

There is Hound’s shaky intake of breath, uncertain. Cupbearer, beside him, begins to lean over, and Oracle says, without lifting her eyes from her cards, “Immediate forfeit.”

Cupbearer sits back.

Naomi wonders about Oracle, whose name was not quite random. Of any of the humans, excepting, perhaps, Naomi herself, she seems to have the best idea of what’s going on, and a composure even Naomi envies.

“Bet.” Hound looks down at his cards. “My first kiss.”