When terrible things happen under-the-hill, and terrible things do, Naomi doesn’t interfere. Objectivity, but it isn’t only about that. What power is Naomi supposed to have, as guest and observer in this underworld? This casino, like all casinos, is rigged in favor of the House, and the only lever with which a human might exert a little control down here is in the favor. Which has slim odds and is not a plausible plan of action. Considering it one, even thinking about what you might do with that power sparkling in your hands, is just nibbling the bait.

Naomi took a journalism class in her undergrad, when she thought she might do more conventional fieldwork. Here is one of the things she was told: Never forget that your presence will influence your subject. Never forget that your subject is responding to you. The bias of the study is really unfortunate enough, but, furthermore, Naomi would not like to be in the way of her subject’s response.

Magpie spreads her cards flat on the table, and the bets go twisting lithely around the remaining players. Ari looks down at his cards, bottom lip folded between his teeth. “Bet,” he says. “Every song I know.”

“Undersell,” Magpie responds instantly, like a branch cracking. “What is your name?”

“My songs and my singing.” Is this canniness or determination? Naomi suspects that Ari has a lovely singing voice. There is a slight, plaintive twang to his speech. Maybe he sang and Cupbearer danced. If Naomi won both hands, she could have been a one-woman show.

“Raise,” says Oracle. “The only secret I’ve never told.”

“Call.” Magpie taps her nails against the table. “An hour of my magic.”

Naomi cannot quite help herself from studying the minutiae of Ari’s face. She sees his expression cavern inward. When the bets come around to him again, he folds.

White Queen High, White Magpie, White Serpent, White Hound, White Crow, Blood Consort, White Cat.

Naomi’s skin prickles. He is one card away from the Menagerie hand. He asked, in the swap, for the White Consort, and evidently he did not get it, but that was not even the right card to ask for. He could have gotten the White Fool or the White Steed, and, in the absence of a Full Court hand—and one of the Queens High has already been been folded—he could have won.

The game goes to Oracle, who takes back her unfeline cat and then reaches for Ari’s fingers. The severing is magical, done with no blood. It doesn’t hurt, Naomi knows from experience, but the absence is so sudden that it’s almost the same as pain.