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.'

Mireille loses the first hand on purpose, watching the Queen's face. A year drains out of her, and her knees ache like an old woman's. But now she sees it: when the Queen wins, she leans left, guarding one sleeve. There's a card hidden there.

Mireille keeps losing small, learning the Queen's tells. By the time her hair has gone gray and her hands are spotted, she finally moves. 'I'll bet ten years on this hand,' she says. The Queen, greedy now, agrees at once.