@bailheap / cont.
the conversation has the comfortable shape of abstraction— mathematics, chance. subjects that become considerably less abstract once money is involved. mister lome had spent the better part of the evening lamenting supply shortages and transport delays along the river. and yet. the cuff peeking from beneath his jacket sleeve had fresh stitching and the links looked new, likewise the shine on his boots.
“the mathematics remain sound, naturally. a fair throw is a fair throw,” annis had waited for her turn to interject, flowing into michael’s ebb, “but you’re discussing probability as it exists on paper. my … companion, here, is discussing probability as it exists in a room full of people.”
she picks up one of the small ivory cubes sitting in the middle of the table and turns it between gloved fingers.
“though i suppose that's the difficulty,” annis lets the die roll from her palm, “one in thirty-six … provided no one's tampered with the dice, and that we're certain they're the dice we think they are.”
