Ari flicks his hand up, and a little of the air goes helplessly out of Naomi. She studies his face, plain and large-eyed and determined. Maybe Hound was an unkind nickname. Will you help me? Naomi thinks. Are you able? Surely it hasn’t already occurred to him to bluff, but then again, whatever else he is, he is clever enough to have picked that up. Naomi tries to keep her teeth from sinking through her skin.

Ari slides his card across the table to her. Naomi turns it over.

She does not smile at him, but she would like to.

Menagerie deals the last three cards.

Naomi needs two White court cards. Two out of three White court cards.

Black Birth.

White Knight.

White Cupbearer.

Queen High, Prince, Consort, Knight, Oracle, Horseman, Cupbearer.

Full Court Hand.

It is not good practice in poker to let oneself smile.

Oracle folds.

Naomi bets, of course. The goblin fruit and Cupbearer’s jacket she won two rounds ago, and her own pinkie finger. Why not?

Cupbearer does not fold. He bets with a sweeping motion, directed at his body like when he was betting years, but followed by no numbers, with the cockiness of a constant loser. Rage scratches up the sides of Naomi’s torso and it takes her a moment to remember it cannot be Ari’s.

It is a good thing that Naomi is going to win. The blood is celebrating in her veins, because it’s such a validation, isn’t it? A validation of the entire project of Naomi, that she learned all of this so successfully, memorized a ranked list of every hand, understood the rules well enough to win a game she was never really meant to.

Ari folds. Naomi glances at his cards. Black Cat, Blood Magpie, White Crow, Black Oracle, Blood Fiddler, pair of Fools.

Magpie produces another of those squid-mouthed smiles. “Raise. A favor from myself.”

There are conditions implicit in the favor, the most significant being that though Naomi does not believe that Magpie could refuse the winner, there is nothing to stop her or her fellow folk seeking retribution against them. Safety might be a favor of its own.

“Call.” Naomi returns the vial of blood to the table. Her stomach hurts, giving it over. She reminds herself that she will have it back. “And the boy’s memory that was won to me.”

Magpie shakes her head, slow half rotations that could be accompanied by the grinding of gears. Not enough. Naomi draws blood from her lower lip. She is going to win, she cannot fold, what has she brought with her?

“And my last name. And my right thumb.”

It is enough. It is barely enough.