Hadrian concluded that he liked the nights even more than the days in Tur Del Fur. In the daytime, the sun was just a bit too bright and the weather too hot, but at night amid all the twinkling lights, the city took on a romantic atmosphere that the days lacked. At least it seemed that way to him as he and Millificent LeDeye walked up Berling's Way. There was little traffic, so they traveled side by side up the middle of the road that was built of flat, interlocking stone. She walked beside him, placing one foot in front of the other, her hips swaying side to side, which in turn made the gown swing. Hadrian didn't want to stare, but at the same time, he did.

"So, tell me, Hadrian Blackwater, if that is your real name, what are your dreams? What are the goals for a man such as yourself?"

The two had reached Tier Four, where traffic was less congested and the city quieter. In the dark and muffled hush, the world became a more intimate and personal place where delicate starlight made the ordinary byways magical.

"Can't say I have any," Hadrian replied.

"You have no dreams at all?"

He shook his head.

"Oh, that's so sad. Everyone should have something to hope for and work toward. Otherwise, why are any of us here?" Her speaking voice was similar to how she sang: sultry, enticing, playful. She whispered more than talked, just as she sashayed more than walked.

"So, what are your dreams, Millificent LeDeye — if that is your real name."

"It isn't." She spun and fixed him with a pair of wicked eyes and an incorrigible grin. "That's my stage name."

"Then what is the real one?"

She looked him up and down, then turned and sashayed off once more. "No, no, I don't think I will tell you. Don't know if I can trust a man without dreams. There's something disreputable about that, practically dishonest — if you're not lying to me, then you are to yourself."

They reached Pebble Way, where if it were daylight, Hadrian could have seen the bright blue dome of the Turtle. With everyone at the Parrot, the house would be empty and remain so for at least another hour. He considered inviting her in and wondered if she would agree.

"All right then, at least tell me your dream," he said as they crossed Pebble Way and left the Turtle behind.

"I want to be the greatest performer who has ever lived. I want people to come from all over the world just to see me — to hear me sing." She did a pirouette in the middle of the street, her arms and dress flying out gaily. "And I want to be rich enough to buy my own venue — not a lousy eat-and-listen place, but a real theater with velvet curtains, one designed so that the sound of my voice would carry even to the cheap seats. And I want my own band who plays what I say, and how I tell them to play it. I suppose what I really want, Hadrian Blackwater, is liberty and freedom. Freedom to be whoever I want and the liberty to change my mind if I so choose."

Millificent was absolutely not a typical woman, but as it turned out, Miss LeDeye wasn't all that much older than a girl. She had seemed mature and worldly on stage, but up close he guessed she was no more than seventeen. The dress, the makeup, that voice, and the dark all conspired to hide the child behind sophisticated curtains. But when she moved those hips and rolled her shoulders, Hadrian conceded that no — Miss LeDeye was not a child.

"Are you and Andre . . . you know?"

"I don't see how that is any of your business." She scowled at him.

"So, that's a yes?"

"I suppose he certainly thinks so."

"But you don't?"

"Andre sees me as a tool to achieve his goals; as such, he views me as property. It's never occurred to him that I see him in much the same way. Not that I view him as property, but more a step on my staircase, an unpleasant puddle to wade through. I wasn't always the glamorous lady you see before you." She grabbed the sides of her gown with both hands and swished it. "This, dear sir, was all earned. You see, I'm not from here; I wonder sometimes if anyone truly is. The entire population of Tur Del Fur has been transplanted from afar, you know. Lunatics and stargazers all come hoping to be reborn as geniuses and visionaries. We're all dreamers looking for acceptance among our kind in this magical place where — if you are dedicated enough — fantasies come true."

"Where are you from?"

She dipped her shoulders and peered at him as if he were up to something devious. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you that. I was one of eight children living in a small, disgusting flat above my father's tailor shop in a frozen, dirty northern town called Eckford; that's in the province of Asper, way up in the kingdom of Melengar."

"Melengar? Really?"

"You've heard of it? I know, it's hard to believe anything good could come from there. And I would have suffered a miserable life as the wife of some ignorant dirt farmer or brutish tradesman. Then I'd have died, becoming just one more wooden marker stuck in a field until that, too, would one day rot and take away all evidence I had ever lived. If anyone did remember me, it would be as that poor daydreaming girl with the lovely voice."

"How'd you get here?"

"One of my father's customers, Lord Daref, put the bug in my ear."

"He what? Did you say he put a bug in your ear?"

She laughed. "Yes. Never heard of that? I guess it means he gave me the idea in such a way that I couldn't ignore it any more than you can ignore an insect buzzing in your ear."

"I — ah, yes, suppose that's true."

"Anyway, while Lord Daref was getting measured, or waited for his new suit, I would complain about how cold it was, and he would tell me tales of  Tur Del Fur in the far south. A place where it was always warm and there were palm trees and aqua waters, and where they had stages where people sang and danced before an audience — and got paid for it! So, at the age of sixteen, I ran away from home. I went to Roe — that's a little harbor town. There I stowed away on a southbound ship called the Ellis Far. I realize now it was a little crazy. All I had was a note of introduction written by Lord Daref to a lady named Zira Osaria here in Tur Del Fur, someone Lord Daref said could help me."

"You made it all the way from Roe to Tur Del Fur hiding on a ship? That must have taken several days, at least. What did you do for food? What did you drink? How did you avoid being seen?"

"Actually, I was discovered on the first day out! I was brought before the captain, who was inclined to drop me in Aquesta until I showed him the note. I pretended that Lord Daref had hired me to be a maid at his winter home, but I lacked the funds to travel. I told him that if I didn't make it on time, I would lose the job. Captain Callaghan showed pity and saw me safely to Tur Del Fur. Of course, the crew assumed I was sleeping with him. And to be honest, to get here I would have, but the captain was a strict and religious man. He kept his word. Then, when I stepped off the Ellis Far onto the docks of  Tur Del Fur on that glorious morning . . . " She closed her eyes and sighed. "I knew I had found paradise." She opened her eyes and frowned. "I thought so, anyway. Turns out paradise is a bit of a fixer-upper."

"What happened?"

"I found Zira Osaria easily enough. She's a small innkeeper who lets out rooms for cheap. I thought the note would grant me free accommodations, but that was the dreamer in me walking into the first imperfect wall of my fixer-upper paradise. I had to pay rent, but I had so little money and no means of getting more. But again, the kindness of strangers stepped in. Zira helped me get a job in a scullery at a local danthum — the Hoot Owl — which was a terrible attempt to imitate The Blue Parrot. Employees had to wear hideous masks that made them look like birds, but they only served to make it hard to see straight. I worked myself to death. My hands shriveled up and turned red, my feet blistered, my back ached. After only a few months, I felt like an old woman who ought to be quick about picking out that wooden grave stick. And all the money went to rent."

She displayed an overacted pout and followed it with a drawn-out sigh. "I was edging dangerously close to giving up my dream when one of the girls who worked the cabaret heard me singing in the kitchen. Her name was Vida Rider — well, that was her stage name. I never knew Vida's real one. All performers, I discovered, have professional names. Then one day when an act didn't show up, the master of ceremonies — that's the guy who hires the performers and organizes the show — was desperate. So, Vida told him to put me on. She gave me one of her crazy outfits, shoved me out, and told me to sing. I nearly died — no actually, I did die, sort of, because I was someone else afterward. You see, the crowd loved me, and when the master of ceremonies asked my name, and not knowing better, I told him my name was . . . "

Hadrian waited as she peered at him, and then she shrugged.

"Millie Mulch. Yes, that was me. Millie Mulch of backwater, backwoods, backward Eckford Gulch. Millie Mulch, the poor tailor's daughter with the big voice and matching dreams." She waited a heartbeat or two for Hadrian to react. He didn't, so she went on. "The poor man probably thought I was making it up to mess with him or something. But anyway, he just rolled his eyes and when he turned back to the audience, he introduced me as Millificent LeDeye. No idea where he pulled that from. Some prostitute he frequents up on one of the high tiers, I suppose. Regardless, good old Millie Mulch the tailor's daughter died on that stage at the Hoot Owl. She perished in the roar of applause that followed. I've been Millificent LeDeye ever since."

A donkey-drawn, open-air wagon, whose facing bench seats hauled eight very drunk revelers, clip-clopped slowly toward them. The wagon riders were all swaying in unison, more or less, and singing the old northern folk song, Calide Portmore. Millie didn't hesitate. She joined in; but she didn't so much join as take command. Hadrian knew the song. He'd heard it since childhood and had sung it himself in taverns all over Avryn as it was a grand drinking song. Only that wasn't how Millie sang it. She didn't perform the piece as a rollicking ditty. Instead, she raised it up with sincerity and heartfelt passion. Millie Mulch didn't merely sing the words, she believed them. And through her, everyone else did, too. She let loose on the impossibly high notes, adding an emotional range to the lyrics and hanging on to the words beyond what a single breath should allow. And just when it seemed she could rise no higher and would need to breathe, she pushed up another octave, reaching a soaring, quavering beauty that staggered all who heard. The drunks went silent. The wagon driver pulled his donkey to a halt. They all stopped to listen as Millie Mulch of Eckford took them all to another place and time, a land known as Paradise — a world of broken-down dreams that a young girl had fixed up.

The DeLur Estate was just as opulent as Royce had expected, which was to say beyond anyone's expectation. Cornelius owned what had to be the best property in Tur Del Fur, and very likely all of Delgos, and possibly in the entire world. His home was off by itself on the southern side of the harbor, where he had his own private docks that were nearly as large as the commercial ones. Tied up to his piers were a pair of massive pleasure ships as well as several smaller craft. Pratt had been truthful but modest when he stated the estate was on Tier One. The sprawling villa was also on Tiers Two and Three. In truth, the blond stone structure stretched out over a wide plateau and extended several stories up the facing cliff. Far from ostentatious, the DeLur Estate was almost austere, even simple, with its sleek lines of unadorned horizontal buff-colored stone that blended into the rock wall but not quite so much that it disappeared. Instead of forcing itself on the scenery, the architecture exemplified and promoted the landscape around it. In some ways, it completed it, showing nature where it went wrong.

That said, this was true dwarven design. Unlike the humble rolkins, the DeLur Estate exemplified the more familiar excesses of the diminutive race to build unnecessarily massive things. Passing through the three-story stone doors carved with stunning geometric patterns that suggested a mountain near the sea, Royce felt small. He also felt crowded as he was now surrounded by a group of escorts — two on each side and in back, and one out front. Most were new acquaintances, and they were armed: two with swords, two with pikes, and two with crossbows. The one out front was Pratt; he guided them up wide, shallow steps into a massive reception room with a near-panoramic view of the city and the bay. Cornelius DeLur waited for him, sitting on what could only be described as a giant stone throne.

While never having met or even seen Cornelius, Royce identified him immediately. The man was huge, dwarfing even his son, Cosmos, in his quest for physical size. It was said that Cosmos believed in four things: that a man's wealth and power is demonstrated by his amassed bulk; a poor man could never have enough funds for food to put on any substantial weight; fearful of being assailed, a despot couldn't allow himself to bloat; and most importantly, that only a truly wealthy and powerful individual had the luxury to wallow in his achievement. It was easy to see where he got the philosophy, and Royce knew Cosmos would forever be playing catch-up to daddy.

Cornelius DeLur didn't so much sit on the chair as puddle in it. Thigh-sized arms extended out to either side, lying on wide rests. His head, a massively jowled pumpkin of a thing, appeared tiny in comparison to the rest of him, and he appeared as a man on a bed peering down over his massive stomach at Royce.

"Mister Melborn, how kind of you to visit." Cornelius sounded exactly like a talking kettle drum: deep, loud, but with a little tinny ring.

Royce took a moment to glance at his escorts. "How could I refuse?"

"How indeed." Cornelius smiled. "Tell me, are you enjoying my city?"

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"Yours?" Royce didn't bother to look. "I've heard you described as just a humble banker."

This made the big man chuckle. Royce expected to see his mounded belly jiggle, but it didn't move. The man's head barely stirred. Seeing him speak and laugh was like watching a ventriloquist without a dummy.

"Yes, yes indeed I am. A simple coin collector who, because of the size of my accumulated collection, requires an entire country to store it."

"I was also under the impression you weren't alone in running this place. You have a couple others who share the burden. Isn't that right?"

"You refer to Oscar and Ernesta? They are my right and left hands, certainly, but I am the head."

"I see," Royce said.

Cornelius lifted a finger, and immediately a pair of servant girls — two of the many who waited in the shadows of the massive chamber — brought forth a gold cup and a silver pitcher. The two were dressed identically in lavish robes of shimmering cloth with elaborate headdresses imitating tropical birds. One put the cup in the big man's meaty hand, then the other poured what appeared to be wine, although it was best not to jump to any conclusion. Knowing Cornelius by reputation and now seeing him in person, Royce thought the scarlet liquid might just as well have been the fresh-squeezed blood of puppies or unicorns. Cornelius had that sort of reputation.

"So, to what do I owe this honor?" Royce asked.

Cornelius managed to carry the cup to his mouth and drink. "Oh, come now. Must you pretend innocence? I didn't ask you here to play games."

"That's good. I'm not a fan, either. But that doesn't change the reality that I don't know why I'm here. Although if I were to guess, it has something to do with what a certain dead courier was carrying — a book, I believe. I suspect this because it can't be anything else, and because Pratt busted up the Turtle looking for it. Sorry for the mishap, and the loss of your boy. That wasn't me, by the way. Auberon dropped him. Things would have gone better if you had just politely asked."

"Not to worry, not to worry. I'll deal with the old freedom fighter in due time. He's an annoying sliver that needs to be pulled."

"Well, in Auberon's defense," Royce said as another peacock-dressed servant arrived with a tray of fruit, "you did trash his home, then showed up the next night and pointed a bow at his guest. How would you feel if I ran through your cupboards?"

Cornelius lost his smile and handed off the cup. "Enough of the prattle. You stole the book — my book — and I want it back."

"What makes you think I took it?"

Cornelius frowned and made a harrumph sound. Around the room, all those present — the small army of servants as well as the small army — responded with expressions of dread.

"Let me rephrase," Royce said. "Do you know for a fact that I took it? If you do, someone is lying."

"My son was the one who hired you to pilfer it from the Hemley Estate."

"The Hemley . . . Lady Martel's book? Is that what we're talking about?"

"What else?"

"I don't know. Up until now I always figured there was more than one book in the world."

"So, you admit to having stolen it?"

"Not if you're going to arrest me for it or plan some other more inappropriate entertainment. Besides, I can tell you that Lady Martel's diary was delivered to the client. I don't have it."

"Yes, I know. You delivered it to Lady Constance of Warric. Cosmos hired her, and she in turn approached Albert Winslow with the job. You and the Black Diamond have some sort of territory truce going on. My son didn't want to send his own agents, so he hired Riyria."

"Interesting," Royce said. "Then you ought to know that we don't have the book in question. Now, if it didn't get back to Cosmos, you might want to talk to Lady Constance. I hear she's in town."

"My son received the book just fine, had it for two years, kept it in his vault."

Royce paused, looking around him at the many faces. In such an assembly, he'd expect some glassy eyes, even a few yawns — not here. Every last one watched the proceedings like cats with a dog in the room. The only question was, who were they more concerned with? Regardless, Royce searched their expressions — not so much for sympathy exactly — but for acknowledgment that what the fat man just said was evidence of Royce's innocence and Cornelius's insanity. "So, if you have the book, what's all this about?"

"While in captivity, the merchandise got hot. The church came sniffing. Since I don't allow the church in Delgos, Cosmos sent the book to me."

"And the courier never arrived."

"That's correct. And now I find Riyria on my doorstep — a pair of accomplished thieves and one of a handful of people who know of the book's existence. I don't think that's a coincidence. Now, if you have it, I want it. If you delivered the package to a client, I want the name and location so I can collect my belongings. Mind you, I understand you are a businessman, so am I. This doesn't need to get personal. It doesn't have to become messy. All I want is the book."

"Wish I had it or knew where it was."

The big man frowned again. He made another harrumph, and this time one of the girls took a barely noticeable step back. Royce couldn't imagine why. Cornelius might be the most powerful person in the room, but he wasn't about to leap off his chair and attack anyone. Royce doubted he could stand, much less walk, and wondered if he slept in that chair or had a special detail of handlers who carried him from place to place like worker ants with their queen. Cornelius couldn't have always been like this. He had a son after all, and there was no doubt Cosmos was a blood descendant, as the two looked like bookends on the same shelf of massive volumes. But the recoil did answer one question . . . the dog in the room wasn't Royce.

"Look, we're down here to do a job for Lord Byron. He works for you, so you can verify that easily enough. As for the diary, we haven't seen it since it was delivered to Albert Winslow, but . . . " Royce hesitated to say more. He was trying to make a believable case to a skeptical man.

Cornelius's eyes narrowed. "But what?"

He won't let me leave without something.

Royce made his own harrumph sound, which no one noticed. I'm definitely not the big dog here. "There's another interested party who knows about the book. A fellow who made the same mistake you did in thinking I had it."

This brightened the pumpkin face a bit. "Who?"

"I don't know, exactly. I bumped into him up in Melengar, and by bumped, I mean I stabbed him in the throat. Figured I killed him. Most people would make that assumption, I suppose, at least until he showed up again in Kruger. He also thought I had Lady Martel's diary. I found it a little disturbing since, as I said, I was fairly certain I'd killed him."

"What happened?"

"That's the strange part. He said he wanted to hire me to bring him the diary."

"And did you take the job? Is that —"

"No."

"No?" Cornelius showed his disbelieving, disappointed, frown face again. "Why not?"

"Three reasons. First, I was already working on a job — the one for Lord Byron. Second, I thought it risky to work for a guy so eager to hire me after I tried to kill him. And third, he didn't have any money."

"Did he expect you to work for free?"

"Oh, he was going to pay me. Promised to grant me eternal life."

Cornelius stared at Royce, shifting his comparatively tiny lips. They were normal, perhaps even big, but anything sensible looked much too small on that bloated face.

The big man stared, clearly perplexed, and Royce knew why. Despite both professing a distaste for playing games, they were engaged in a very high-stakes one. Cornelius was a shrewd man experienced in dealing with dishonest characters, and he knew Royce was deceitful. He also knew the thief would do or say whatever was necessary to escape. Making up a story about a vague someone else was as old a ploy as a child saying, "I didn't do it; it was some other kid."  The problem sprouted from the bizarre nature of the tale Royce spun.

He's not surprised that I made up a story. He's baffled as to why I would create something so unbelievable. He knows I'm not an idiot, and I wouldn't try to lie. So, there is only one explanation for why I would tell such a bizarre tale.

"I don't suppose this persistent potential client gave a name?"

"Actually, he did. And it might be a name you know."

Again, Cornelius's eyes brightened, and Royce imagined he might have sat forward if such a thing were possible. "And what is that?"

"He called himself Falkirk de Roche."

As Gwen led Tim toward the casino, Albert and Constance were still on the floor, lost in the crowd, and the band had shifted to another rollicking tune, this one featuring the horns and drums. Gwen had Tim by the hand; he was pulling back a bit. "I'll never turn this into a hundred gold. Like I said, I'd have to win too many times. If you gave me fifty gold, I'd only need to win once."

"I don't have that much, Tim."

"But this won't work."

"It will if you do as I say. You need help, and I'm giving it."

The casino was reached through a wide, peaked archway made to look like a Calian palace, or perhaps more accurately, what the local northerners thought a Calian palace looked like. To either side, short, fat-trunked potted palms grew out of huge urns, and in between them stood the guards like a pair of ancient giants in blue vests and loose pants.

"Men only," the wall of muscle told them.

Gwen stopped and rolled her eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Do I look serious?"  The guard on the left glared down at her as if she were an unruly toddler.

In the sleeveless vest, the man's folded arms displayed biceps bigger than her head. His face was misshapen and misaligned, one eye higher and bigger than the other, and his nose appeared flat and blunted, as if having once been crushed. She imagined whatever cruel event mangled his nose also took out his front teeth, causing him to speak deeper in his throat and making his voice more cavernous. This was neither a happy nor a pretty face but rather a weapon of intimidation, a visage of violence, and it was aimed at her.

Most people would have fled in terror, or at least backed away. Tim tried, but she held tightly to his hand and refused to let him go or to budge from her spot. Tim's only chance to save his wife was for the two of them to get into the casino. If poor old Tim Blue tried without her, he would lose. Gwen had seen that in Tim's palm. The read had been short, taking only a few seconds because there wasn't much future to see. Tim's life was scheduled to conclude in only a few hours. The next morning Tim would watch as they sold Edie, manacled her wrists and ankles, and put her on a ship. Then, as the slave trader set sail, consumed in grief and guilt, Tim would leap to his death from the coastal cliff. While quite the romantic ending for Tim, his wife would go on to suffer for the rest of her life.

Gwen couldn't allow that, not if she could do something.

The real question is, can I?

Her mother had the gift of foresight, a talent that passed to her daughter, and before Illia died, she had trained Gwen to read palms. But there were two ways to see a person's life. The palm was the safe and easy method because it could be read like a book, whereas peering deeply into a person's eyes, with intent to seek answers, also revealed the past, present, and future. However, the viewer, unlike the reader, had no control. They saw, even if they didn't want to. When Gwen looked into a person's eyes, she didn't just learn events in a person's life, she experienced them. Gwen knew there was a story within the eyes of the casino guard, just as there was a story behind every face. The preview to this particular tale, however, advertised a tragedy, perhaps even a horror story, that she'd rather not experience.

And Gwen had no idea if it was worth the trauma.

While she had the gift, as far as she knew that was all she had. She could see the past, present, and future of a person — other than herself — but didn't know if the future could be changed. If what she saw could be altered such that it didn't happen, then wouldn't that mean she couldn't see the future at all? Everyone made guesses about what would happen if someone did or didn't do something, and sometimes they were right and sometimes they were wrong. If what Gwen saw could also be undone so that sometimes what she saw didn't happen, would her gift be any different? Would she have a gift at all, or just be a good guesser? Since her readings and visions always occurred, Gwen had believed she saw what would happen after all the events played out — including attempts to alter the prophecy. As such, nothing could change the future as she saw it.

Except there was one possibility.

What if the actions of a seer are different from the actions of anyone else? What if my ability to know the future also grants me the power to change its course? And perhaps that is why I can't see my own future.

The idea was both exciting and terrible. If it worked, the power she wielded would be incredible. But then, ideas of spending the rest of her life wandering the world reading palms and fixing fates ran into reality's wall.

What would happen if I did something to alter destiny and that action caused a million other unforeseen changes to occur? What if there is a balance that needs to be maintained between good and bad? There is so much that is awful in the world, but at least I know it isn't my doing. But if I take hold of the reins and pull providence off course, if I start upending the natural direction, then it could be possible that the next time a sparrow drops dead it might be my fault.

But is there such a thing as fate? Is there a 'supposed to,' and aren't I part of this world, too? Why do I have this gift if not to use it? If a man dams a river, it's an unnatural change that by hubris could have horrible and unseen consequences. But if a beaver does it, it's fine. A flat-tailed rodent doesn't act out of pride, so the big lake it makes isn't a disaster. It's what's supposed to be — as natural as rain. So what am I, a conceited trespasser throwing the natural order into chaos or a blameless beaver?

The larger philosophical question would need to wait for another day. First, she had to prove it was possible, and this was as good a place as any to find out. Guessing that the casino guard wouldn't let her read his palm, Gwen took that opportunity to look into the man's eyes.

When the visions came, she was surprised and disappointed in herself. She, of all people, should have known better than to judge a face by its scars. Afterward, it took a moment to recover. Deep dives into another's soul were as emotionally taxing as an all-night fight with a loved one. Gwen took a breath and wiped the tears from her eyes. "Salen is alive," she said softly, her voice almost drowned out by the horns and drums.

The casino guard unfolded his arms. They came apart like the bolt of a lock whose key had been turned. His face lost its hard edge, and he gaped.

"You think she's dead because they showed you a mangled body dressed in her clothes, only that wasn't her. It was Habba. Salen will tell you what happened. I don't know when, but it can't be too far in the future; your hair is still dark, and you look pretty much the same. Salen explains how scared she was when the men abducted her. How she cried and told her captors that they would be sorry when you found them. She calls you Baba, but that's not your name — it's something she's called you since she was very young. Later, Salen will explain what the men did to her, and she will want to know why you never came, why you let it happen, and why you never tried to save her. No matter how many times you tell her, it isn't enough. It will never be enough. She was going to marry Amster. They had plans to leave the city and start a new life in Collier, but that never happened because they told you she was dead, and you believed them. When Amster discovers the truth, they will kill him, telling you he killed himself out of grief. You'll believe that, too."

The other guard stared at Gwen, then at Baba, looking frightened.

"How do you know this?" Baba asked.

"I'm Tenkin." She pointed to the swirling tattoo on her shoulder. "And I know that you know what that symbol means."

He stared at the mark.

"I also know how your face got like that. I'm sorry."  Tears welled up again. She brushed them away. "The same people who told you your sister is dead are also the ones who told you women weren't allowed in the casino. And I have to assume they really wouldn't want a Tenkin seer to go into a place where money is won or lost by chance."

Baba looked at his partner. As scary as that face had looked before, it was a true terror now. "Maybe she's just a crazy woman. If so, someone might complain that we didn't stop her. But if she wins, it will prove she's telling the truth. I'm going to let her in. What are you going to do, Amster?"

Amster smiled and nodded. "Welcome to The Blue Parrot Casino, miss."

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