“Sweet Violetta.” I arch an eyebrow at her as I take one of the skewers. We’ve kept our purses full so far because I can use my powers to steal coins from noblemen. That is my contribution. But Violetta’s skill is entirely different. “At this rate, they’ll be paying us to eat their food.”
“That’s what I’m working toward.” Violetta looks at me with an innocent smile that’s not innocent at all. Her eyes wander the square, pausing where an enormous bonfire burns in front of a temple. “We’re getting closer,” she says as she takes a delicate bite. “His energy isn’t very strong. It shifts as we go.”
After we eat, I follow Violetta as she practices her power, guiding us in a long, jagged pattern through the mass of people. Every night since we fled Estenzia, we’ve sat across from each other and I’ve let her experiment on me, like how she used to braid my hair when we were little. She pulls and tugs. Then I blindfold her and walk silently around the room, testing whether or not she can sense my location. She reaches out to touch the threads of my energy, studying their structure. I can tell she’s getting stronger.
It frightens me. But Violetta and I made a promise after we left the Daggers: We will never use our powers against each other. If Violetta wants protection with my illusions, I will always give it. In return, Violetta will always leave my abilities untouched. That is all.
I have to trust someone.
We wander for almost an hour before Violetta stops in the middle of the square. She frowns. I wait beside her, studying her face. “Did you lose him?”
“Maybe,” Violetta replies. I can barely hear her over the music. We wait a moment longer before she finally turns to her left, nodding for me to follow.
Violetta pauses again. She turns in a circle, and then folds her arms with a sigh. “I lost him again,” she says. “Perhaps we should go back the way we came.”
The words have only just left her mouth when another street vendor stops us in our tracks. He is dressed like all the other operators, his face entirely obscured by a long-nosed dottore mask, his body shrouded in colorful, mismatched robes. At second glance, I notice that those robes are made of luxurious silk, finely woven and dyed with rich inks. He takes Violetta’s hand, holds it up to his mask as if to kiss it, and puts a hand over his heart. He gestures for both of us to join the small circle around his stand.
I recognize the scheme right away—a Kenettran gambling game where the operator places twelve colorful stones before you and asks you to choose three. He’ll then mix the stones underneath cups. You often play as a group, and if you are the only one to guess where all three are hidden, then you not only win back your own money, but everyone else’s bet along with the operator’s entire purse. One look at the operator’s heavy purse tells me he has not lost a round in a while.
The operator bows at us without a word and motions for us to choose three stones. He does the same to the others gathered beside us. I look on as two other revelers pick their stones enthusiastically. On our other side is a young malfetto boy. He is marked by the blood fever with an unseemly black rash across his ear and cheek. Behind his thoughtful fa?ade is an undercurrent of fear.
Mmm. My energy turns toward him like a wolf drawn to the scent of blood.
Violetta leans in close to me. “Let’s try a round,” she says, her eyes also pinned to the malfetto boy. “I think I sense something.”
I nod at the street operator, then drop two gold talents into his outstretched hand. He bows at me with a flourish. “For my sister and me,” I say, pointing at the three stones we want to bet on.
The operator nods back at us silently. Then he starts to mix the stones.
Violetta and I keep our attention on the malfetto boy. He watches the cups spin with a look of concentration. As we wait for the operator, the other players look in his direction and laugh. A few malfetto jeers are thrown out. The boy just ignores them.
Finally, the operator stops spinning the cups. He lines up all twelve in a row, then folds his arms back into his robes and signals at all the players to guess which cups their stones are in.
“Four, seven, and eight,” the first player calls out, slapping the operator’s table.
“Two, five, nine,” another player replies.
Two more shout out their guesses.
The operator turns to us. I lift my head. “One, two, and three,” I say. The others laugh a little at my bet, but I ignore them.
The malfetto boy casts his bet too. “Six, seven, and twelve,” he calls out.
The operator lifts the first cup, then the second and third. I’ve already lost. I pretend to look disappointed, but my attention stays focused on the malfetto boy. Six, seven, and twelve. When the operator gets to the sixth cup, he flips it over to reveal that the boy had chosen correctly.
The operator points to the boy. He whoops. The other players cast him an ugly look.
The operator lifts the seventh cup. The boy has guessed correctly again. The other players start to look at one another nervously. If the boy gets the last one wrong, we all lose to the operator. But if the boy has guessed the third one correctly, then he gets all of our money.