“I’ve got a headache,” Valentin lied. He stood up, and the chair scraped. Every eye followed him. He walked to the faro case on the wall—the ornate box where the house kept the spare decks—and ran his finger along its brass hinge. It was a nervous habit, they thought.
“No,” Valentin whispered. “It’s the house’s. The real house. The game you’ve been playing isn’t for coin, Silas. It’s for what’s left of your soul.” faro scene crack
Three nights ago, a disgruntled dealer named Molesey had sold him a secret: the faro table had a hairline fracture in its rosewood surface, running from the "Queen of Spades" box to the edge. If you knew the crack, you could feel the slightest tug on the cloth—a tell from the table itself. The dealer, when sliding the losing cards into the box, would unconsciously avoid the crack’s rough edge. The card that never crossed the crack? That was the one that stayed. “I’ve got a headache,” Valentin lied