is it her? his knuckles are adorned with gold so deep it is brown. it doesn’t even glimmer: it glummers. the overcoat he wears is creaking black, his scraggly moustache ends in two fine points. he wears a hat upon his head, and the peak is just long enough to shield one half of his ghostly face in velvet darkness. her hair is different. her face is softer, brighter, shinier. is it her? “it’s about the risk. you’ve to make a bet.” finnbheara says it roughly, insistently. sniffs his rough finger, twirls his moustache. “that’s how it works. you bet something important. i do too. you guess which card is the queen of hearts.” he’s brisk. pulse burning. eyes lighting. but - his hands are sure. this is his barrel, his pub, his galway. gaillimh. they’re speaking in english now. funny how things change. “and when i win, you’re dead. you owe me the forfeit.” is it her?
@mayveh
