Under the old stone bridge, Mireille reads deaths for spare coppers, and her cards never lie. Tonight the river fog smells like iron. When she deals her own hand, the Drowned Queen stares up at her, the card that means your hour is near. Then the painted woman lifts her chin and steps right off the card. Wet hair, cold eyes, a real woman now. 'You dealt me,' she says. 'So sit. We play until dawn. Win, and you live.'

Mireille sits. Her hands shake, but she shuffles. 'Fine. We play,' she says. 'What are the stakes?' The Queen smiles, water dripping from her sleeve. 'Each hand you lose, I take a year from you. Each hand you win, you take one from me. Reach dawn ahead, and you walk free.'

They play three quick hands. Mireille wins two with careful, cold bets. The Queen's painted skin cracks at the edges, and Mireille suddenly feels stronger, younger. 'You're good,' the Queen admits. 'But I have played this game for two hundred years.'

Mireille pushes her luck and bets all her remaining years on one hand. The Queen's eyes gleam. They turn their cards over together. Mireille's heart pounds as she sees the result.

Mireille's hand wins by a single point. The Queen ages two hundred years in a breath, until only dust and river weed sit where a woman stood. Mireille has won decades she never lived, and dawn finds her staring at her young hands in wonder.