Conditions, constraint. 

Helena observes as another witless dvoryanstvo loses his hand to Feodosia, skin roiling with sweat and unease as the Dowager’s cards dance and shapeshift, illustrated with wild imaginations––a Knave of Horns in lapis lazuli, a Queen of Hearts doused in wine-dark crimson.  Each gilded vignette glimmers on the gambling table, crowded with silver chalices and coin purses relinquished by the woman’s string of deficient opponents: each one believing himself worthy of laying a bet, of challenging the Dowager’s fortitude.  They were no match for Feodosia’s expert hands, her flurry of royal flushes, and crumbled like the gritty wings of the sphinx with each reveal of her card.  Forked over fortune flies into Feodosia’s palms like flocks of starlings: gilded hair pins and repoussaged badges and filigreed plate and holy reliquary.  Her eyes hungered over the banquet of grave goods.  Helena watched, head askew, her eyes the depth and darkness of a moonless night.  The despoina’s intrigue blends with enchantment as a new game begins.

Helena’s own purse had thusly remained in the hands of her lady; standing innocuously beside Helena, an unremarkable dichotomy to the Princess’ radiant gleam, flushed cheeks, and the onyx prisms of her watchful eyes.  Her purse swelled and quickened, trembling to be used and gambled and ventured with caution thrown to the wind, for her riches exceeded threefold of what any Russian lord had since wagered.  It chimed heavily with Bezants: rounds of the purest gold, minted with the likeness of Emperor Augustus.  She was not likely to part with her precious coins; for few dared to challenge Helena––partly in fear of invoking her ire––and even fewer managed to best her.  The iron of Helena’s mind grew hot as another opponent lowered himself before the Dowager and began to shuffle through a deck of cards.  She whisked to the side of the newest challenger––a portly boyar, with the meaty, unskilled hands of a blacksmith––and lounged her arm across his shoulder.