Chapter 36 Card Games
Morning came up wrong.
Bruised purple and sour red, like the sky had been drinking all night and hadn’t paid the price yet.
I woke tangled in the blanket, one leg half off the bed, the comb I’d forgotten still buried in my hair. It had shifted sometime in the night. The teeth bit into my scalp when I moved, a thin, sharp line that made me wince and go still again.
For a second, I didn’t open my eyes.
My arm stretched out, an icy chill replaced the usual warmth of Fisk's presence.
The space felt not merely vacant, but distinctly cold, as if untouched by warmth for many hours. The mattress remained firm, offering no indentation. No lingering heat. No slow, steady breath to match mine.
My hand lingered for a beat, a tangible pause in my attempt to grasp the emptiness I sensed. I pulled it back and pushed myself up and got ready for the day.
—
Downstairs washed over me like a powerful wave, a torrent of noise and oppressive heat. The air was thick with the stale odor of spilled ale and the acrid scent of sweat, both clinging to the aged, worn wood.
As men packed the tables, their shoulders brushed and their voices competed to be heard. Someone laughed too loud. Another person let out a string of angry words. With quick, greedy movements, the coins snapped and clattered in rapid succession.
The one-eyed sailor had claimed the room.
Two tables pushed together, the worn cards, slippery with the oils from countless games, lay waiting. The dice clattered on the wooden surface, ricocheting off fingers adorned with rings. In the middle was a growing pile, not just of coins, but also chains, trinkets, a knife with a bone handle, and perhaps someone's last shred of sanity thrown in with everything else.
Positioned at the forefront, he had his sleeves rolled up high, his coat discarded somewhere. His arms bore scars that appeared as uneven, pale lines when struck by lamplight, contrasting with his weathered skin.
He laughed like a man who didn’t believe in losing. And when he did, he cursed like the world had cheated him personally.
With a cloth in hand, I took my spot behind the bar. Cup after cup, I dried them, stacked them, turned them, and repeated the process, all while moving slowly enough to avoid attracting attention. Steady enough to watch them.
Patterns always showed themselves if you gave them time.
The man on his left rubbed his jaw while he was bluffing. The one across from him took long slow drinks when his hand was bad, but put his drink down quickly when it was good. A third tapped the table twice before every lie.
I observed the sailor most intently; his left hand was always reaching for a drink, while his right remained close. It snuggled against his chest, as if distrusting the rest of him. He must know his tells and was trying to hide it.
The map was sticking out of his coat pocket as he leaned backward. He flashed it often enough to keep the story alive. Never long enough for anyone to get a proper look.
The map never strayed far from his reach. I dried another mug and waited for my opportunity.
The day stretched out like a thin, tight thread of time. The crowd thickened. These men had nothing to gain from the situation but could not disengage. Looking over their shoulders, they yelled unwanted advice and grumbled as the pot was passed along to the next winner.
—
Fisk was late returning, not at the usual hour when the lamps were lit, nor when the first dishes were served, nor even as the gathering swelled, diminished, and then swelled once more.
I kept looking anyway. Every time the door opened, my eyes went there first. Every time, it wasn’t him.
The innkeeper slid the note across the bar like it annoyed him. I wiped my hands and picked it up.
“Running errands for the crew. Back late. Don’t wait up.”
I read it twice. Turned it over like the lie might be hiding on the back. I recognized his handwriting from all the times I looked at his paper work on his desk. I knew it was his, but something in the words didn’t sit right with me. They felt as cold as his side of the bed was when I woke.
I folded it once and slid it into my pocket. I didn't look at the door again.
—
My shift concluded with the same steady pace I began it with, Dry Stack Turn. Once the final mug was cleaned, I put the cloth away and counted the tips without paying close attention.
One silver caught between my fingers.
After slipping it free, I moved. The moment I stepped forward, the table became quiet enough for them to observe me.
Their eyes turned to me, some with curiosity, others already amused, and a few lingered, as if they had already judged my value before I even spoke.
The sailor grinned.
“You here to deal,” he said, voice rough as rope burn, “or to play?”
I held up the coin. Let the lamplight catch it.
“I want in.”
A snort from somewhere to my right.
“Didn’t peg you for a gambler,” he said.
I tilted my head. “Didn’t peg you for a man who’d lose to a girl.”
Laughter cracked across the table, loud and eager. Someone slapped the wood hard enough to rattle the cards.
“Sit,” another voice called.
I did, the bench was still radiating warmth and felt slightly sticky to the touch. I ignored it.
The cards came fast. Greasy edges, bent corners, the deck telling its own history if you knew how to listen.
I lost the first hand.
Then the second.
Playing at being a girl with fake confidence, I let my fingers stumble once, then twice, and a smile I shouldn't have shown slipped out.
They eased up, their defenses lowering, not entirely but enough.
The threads tugged at them by the fourth hand, with a twitch here and a breath there, leading the sailor to drink and laugh more intensely.
I Won when it suited him. Lost when it didn’t matter. Each time everyone let their guard down, they began to focus less on me.
I let his confidence swell like a tide that didn’t know it was about to turn. The pot climbed higher. Coins stacked into small towers. Jewelry glinting between them. Someone added a ring and didn’t look at it again.
My pulse matched the rhythm of the game, but I didn’t let myself get caught up in it. I watched the others. They were at a lost to the throws of the game.
The one with the map finally let his fist down. He was lost to the throws of the game as well. He laughed when he was on a high of a winning streak and slammed his fist when the cards didn’t go his way.
It was time for the next round and his laugher stopped. He ran out of coin. He dug through what he had left with a frown that cut deeper each second. The others leaned in, hungry now.
“Fold,” someone muttered.
“Call it,” another said.
He didn’t, Of course he didn’t. That was what I was betting on. He was stubborn. Especially during a losing streak.
His hand went to his coat. The rolled up parchment came out with a soft, familiar whisper.
He slapped it onto the pile.
“Map’s worth more than your silver,” he said.
My chest tightened once.
“But if you’re so keen,” he went on, eye fixed on me, “it’s yours if you win.”
“Don’t bet your ghost stories,” someone laughed.
I didn’t look away from him. This is what I wanted. I smiled.
“Deal.”