Cal shook his head again, unable to form words. His face had turned a peculiar shade of grey. Travers gestured with one elegant hand, then unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves.

“Come now, Mr. Hotchkiss. Cal. Let’s not waste time. Your friend is waiting, after all.” He finished rolling up his sleeves, then checked to make sure they were of equal lengths. That done, he snapped his fingers. Cordelia entered, holding a domed silver tray. She did not look at Cal as she passed by. She set the tray on the gaming table near where Travers stood, where he could reach it without moving away from the window.

“Thank you, Cordelia, darling.” Travers smiled at her with warm eyes. She smiled back, tentative. He nodded to the door, still smiling, and she left, ignoring Cal’s desperate attempt to catch her eye on her way out. After she’d disappeared from sight, two massive men stepped in from the hall—Travers’ security. They turned away from the room, so their backs filled the doorway. Cal let out a strangled sound like an aborted whimper.

“Mr. Hotchkiss,” Travers said. “I don’t have all day. Do not make me ask you again.”

Cal crossed the room with slow steps. Sweat beaded on his brow as he watched the covered tray. The only sounds in the little gaming room were his shaky breathing, the creak of the steamboat wheel, and the lapping of the Harriet.

Travers uncovered the little silver tray. There, on top of a folded maroon napkin, lay a gleaming, curved hunting knife—Cal’s hunting knife, taken from his room on the boat. It had been cleaned and honed since he had seen it last. The edge of the blade was so fine that his eyes couldn’t quite rest on it.

Travers picked up the cards from the felt-topped table and laid them down in a neat row on the square of silk he’d laid across the windowsill. He rested the tip of one manicured index finger on the center card.

“Are these your Queens, Mr. Hotchkiss?”

Cal swallowed hard, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He nodded. Before he had finished nodding, Travers’ hand flashed out, and Cal’s face slammed into the windowsill. His right cheek was pressed against the three Queens. Travers’ hand was smashed flat against the left side of his face, holding him against the sill. The corner of the top card pressed against the right corner of Cal’s lower lip, sharp. The tips of Travers’ fingers dug into the flesh of Cal’s face, his grip as firm as bone.

Travers slowly bent his head until his eyes were level with Cal’s. The heel of his hand ground painfully against Cal’s jaw.

Travers picked up the knife.

“Are these your Queens, Mr. Hotchkiss?”