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 studies the Queen instead of the cards. 'You're not death,' she says slowly. 'You're trapped. Someone painted you into that card, and you can't get out unless you win.' The Queen's smile freezes. 'Clever girl,' she hisses. 'Too clever to last the night.'