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.'
On the final hand, Mireille lays down a perfect run. The Queen screams as her painted body crumbles into wet paper and river water. Mireille is left alone, young and whole, the cards plain again. She gathers her coppers and never reads under that bridge again.