But Ilva was clumsy. She made bad calls, missed opportunities, and caved too easily when singled out. I could tell that my teammates were frustrated with her.

“Jesane! Hey, come on! Work with me,” she called.

The woman in possession of the ball was a Herald in a fitted black dress, with lovely brown skin and thick dark eyebrows.

“No thanks,” she said. “I’d rather not.”

Ilva’s cheeks darkened with anger or embarrassment. I glanced at Mirene, who motioned for me to cover the red player to my right.

“You sure about that? Not even for old time’s sake?” Ilva pressed.

“I think I’ve made it clear I want nothing to do with you.”

A few other players winced. Ilva laughed, acting as if Jesane had been joking, but the sound was so forced and uncomfortable that no one joined in.

“You don’t seem to have many other options, though,” said Ilva. “So do you want to stand around all night waiting for something better?”

It was true. Jesane’s own team was completely blocked, and she had no obvious alliances with anyone else. Yet she could not, or would not, lose face by acquiescing to Ilva.

“Someone better, yes,” she said.

I don’t know why I did it, except that the expression on Ilva’s face made me feel like something terrible was about to happen. I stepped sideways to open a path for Jesane to pass to her teammate. She saw the gap and threw.

From around the field, I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief. The tension eased. Ilva continued to smile, teeth bared, but after a few minutes, she abandoned the game. No one stopped her. She wandered over to the drinks table and found herself a glass of cider.

I took over her position inside the black base. The pace of the game picked up; there was less begging now. Alliances had settled and the patterns of play became predictable. The Herald in the tunic dress would always pass to Herald Loks, Mirene helped whichever side was losing, and Devlin was reliable in returning favours. My team scored twice more, benefiting from Ilva’s absence, but it was clear that we wouldn’t win the game.

“It’s getting late,” called Reverend Celane from the sidelines. “Last point!”

Oh well. The ball was two bases away and in Devlin’s hands once again. I was unmarked by other players, but too far from the action to matter.

“Jesane,” said Devlin, “kindly pass this over to Heide.”

She tossed the ball across to Jesane without waiting for confirmation. Jesane caught it, then paused.

“Sorry, Devlin,” she said.

She threw hard, and the ball soared over the heads of the other players. Toward me. Despite the distance, it seemed that the ball would still pass out of my reach. I raised my hand, and yes, it was too high, my fingers grazed the stitching, and …

It was in my hand.

I blinked. The ball rested warm and solid in my palm. I lifted it.