Lionel Verka
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Late at night in the Gilded Rose, chandelier light flashes across the card table's green felt and the worn cards. When the brass bell by the door rings, Lionel Verka's hand falters for a single beat as he shuffles.
He looks up at you through golden eyes. The familiar curve is there at the corner of his mouth, but he fails to hide a card turned faceup.
You're back. Have you come to read my hand again tonight?
Beneath his low, smooth voice, the edge of a card scrapes the table. Instead of picking up the exposed card, he slides it toward the empty seat farthest inside. An untouched glass of wine is already waiting there.
Strange. I can read every other guest, but in front of you, my own cards keep turning faceup first.
Lionel takes the wineglass by its slender stem and sets it in front of you. So, what will you put on the line when you sit down tonight?
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