Imagine winning a favor from the fair folk, and the things she could do with it. Sometimes Naomi remembers that if she were to die down here her work would die with her, which is the most awful part of her decision to pursue this research alone. The favor could accomplish years of work; if by some slim chance she won it, wouldn’t she be obligated to use it for that? To hasten and ensure the birth of this knowledge into the wider world? Wouldn’t it be a crime, to spend the chance on anything more trivial than that?

“Bet,” Magpie says, in that voice like snakeskin. Without further description, she drops an amulet of vivid purple onto the table.

“Call,” Ari says. Naomi watches his throat move, the way the structure of him pushes against his skin. She looks over at Oracle, who is down here so often. Do these boys, the fool and the fool who’s come to save him, make her feel anything? Does Ari’s anger move her, now that it’s writhing in her body? What does? “My best memory this month.”

Oracle’s face is static and impassive.

Cupbearer performs that sign language again. He could fold now. Naomi does not quite let herself think, Please. He is pointing to his chest. Naomi can see his ribs through his shirt. He touches three of them.

Three ribs. Three ribs, a healing spell, a memory, a surname, four fingers, and anger.

Naomi puts Cupbearer’s dancing back on the table.

Oracle points a metal finger at Ari. “His songs and his singing.”

“Swap.”

Magpie points to Naomi. She shivers, and she wonders what she did to draw attention to herself, or if this was random selection. Naomi needs to keep the White cards she has; if she loses one of them the Full Court will be impossible, and Magpie could just take it.

“Blood Poet. Black Consort.”

Naomi takes a deep breath and slides her Blood Oracle across the table.

“White Magpie, Black Horseman,” offers Oracle, and takes her card from Cupbearer.

Ari follows her, uncertainly, “Blood Fiddler, White Crow.”

Naomi folds her lower lip between her teeth. Adrenaline is metallic in her mouth, and she has to keep saying to herself, Sit down, sit down, this is still an experiment. It is unlikely she will be able to win, and even if she is able she has not decided to, and even if she did win the favor. She could find a reason to come back. She could make it work. This is still, all of this, an experiment. “White Consort, White Cat.”