And that was the story Radegar told. How the wild Mountebank floated downriver on his boat, selling cures that were certain to work, absolutely certain, if only applied right and in the proper dosage, though nobody ever bothered to do that. How he was welcomed into homes all over the bayou, and how he welcomed himself into homes when nobody else was there. Never to steal nothing, mind you, but to sleep in a real bed, with covers and a top sheet, under an old quilt someone’s beloved grandma had sewn. To sit at a chair and drink a cup of water, pretending that it was his chair and his cup of water, that he had a loving wife to draw it for him, that his boy came to sit in his lap, grateful he was home. The Mountebank was just lonely, he was, out on the wild waters looking for love, for family, for a place to call home. It was a sad place, the Mountebank’s Wayward River, where every bit of freedom just made him wish to be tied down by something good, something permanent, some kind of home.

What a load of hogwash.

But it seemed to connect with a lot of the Parsnit regulars. I mean that. Wasn’t nearly a dry eye in the entire room. Old men in ratty clothes shook their heads sadly, the lines grew on sad ladies’ smiles. Everyone seemed older and more alone, like all this rambling and card playing wore on a body. Some of the oldest and most bedraggled folks even clapped. That kind of junk made me mad. Who didn’t love the Wayward River? Of course it isn’t a real house-and-a-yard home, that’s the whole point. Who in the world gets all the freedom they want and winds up whining about having it? A durn fool, that’s who. I was about ready to stomp Radegar and his pitiful woe-is-me Orating into the dirt, if you wanted to know the truth about it.

My turn was up, and I was ready.

Please give me the Bramble, or the Long Way Round. Heck, give me the durn Cold Dark City. I been there. I could make a story out of it.

I took a deep breath and drew my three cards.

It was a disaster. I drew the Moanful Ghost, the Dolly Witch, and the Corpse Laugher. Not a single one of those was a Home card.

I lost. I lost already. My deck blew it for me. I didn’t even get a chance to try.

I just sat there, my face gone blank, staring at the three dead cards in my hand.

“Go on, boy,” said Radegar. “Play your card.”

I laid them all faceup. The whole room erupted in laughter. I had lost, and lost spectacularly. Only the worst Parsnit players—the ones who don’t know their decks, the ones with not a lick of magic in them, the ones with hexed durn blood—don’t draw a single Home card when it’s time. I’d shamed myself and shamed the deck and shamed Pop too. My head hung so heavy I couldn’t bear to lift it and look a single Parsnit player in the eye.