Valentin had spent two nights memorizing the rhythm. Tonight, he had used it to win seven hands in a row. But Silas was clever. He had started varying his deal, trying to mask the pattern.
The room was silent. A single oil lamp swung above, making shadows dance like caught fish. faro scene crack
“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. Valentin had spent two nights memorizing the rhythm
Valentin wiped his brow. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the sour perfume of desperation. Across the table, Silas Crane smiled. It was the smile of a man who had already counted the winnings. He had started varying his deal, trying to mask the pattern
Valentin looked at his own cards. He wasn’t playing the hand. He was playing the crack.
Silas’s smile flickered. “Fold? You’ve got half the pot in already.”
“The crack,” he said, “is where the light gets in. Or the dark gets out. Depends on the stake.”