In my rush, I neglect to identify a crucial factor: the pint glass in Costello’s path. Seemingly in slow motion, the toppled beer spills an unhurried wave that spreads over the table, splashing the chessboard, drowning the cards.

It takes but an instant for me to grasp the situation, the disaster about to unfold.

Instinctively I lunge for the cards, but Costello holds me off, insisting all is fine. As an amends, surely more for his comrades than on my account, he swipes a linen napkin from the table and proceeds to dry off the casualties.

Trepidation mounts in my chest, not only from a vision of the cards peeling at the corners—revealing their markings of cities and towns, rivers and borders—but from the weight of a stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the captain tilting his head, studying me as if I’ve struck as familiar, but from where?

I angle my face away, as much as I can without increasing suspicion.

Amid the quiet, flames crackle in the hearth. The rising heat permeates my skin, sending fine beads of perspiration from my pores.

At last Costello hands over the cards, and I smile, genuinely grateful, until I recall Orpo, who may very well demand I finish the trick. I turn to him, gripping the rigged deck, not knowing how it—or I—will survive another act.

“If it’s all right with you, sir, with their being damp and, well, harder to maneuver—”

He huffs in annoyance. His decision could go either way. He could order a couple more tricks. Five. Ten. Not that the cards could last that long.

After an excruciating pause, he shoos me off in a pestered manner. “Go.”

I fight the impulse to dash for the exit. With a quick bid of good night, still dodging the captain’s gaze, I turn to leave as the men engage in their own conversation, my presence already discarded.

“Halt.” The word, projected in my direction, pulls me to a standstill. I stare at the door an arm’s length away, rooted by dread. Behind me come the sounds of a limping approach.

The captain remembers me.

Granted, any related details could be vague. And besides, I tell myself, there’s nothing to connect me directly with the agents.

Unless any of them lived, that is, and confessed.

I need to keep calm, steady. Arranging an impassive face, I force myself to pivot back. I gauge his eyes for an awareness, but they give away nothing as he continues closer, one boot brushing the floor in small sweeps. Drops of sweat grow along my hairline. One of them slides slowly along my temple. I fight an urge to wipe it.