I recognize the scheme right away—a Kenettran gambling game where the operator places twelve colorful stones before you and asks you to choose three. He’ll then mix the stones underneath cups. You often play as a group, and if you are the only one to guess where all three are hidden, then you not only win back your own money, but everyone else’s bet along with the operator’s entire purse. One look at the operator’s heavy purse tells me he has not lost a round in a while.

The operator bows at us without a word and motions for us to choose three stones. He does the same to the others gathered beside us. I look on as two other revelers pick their stones enthusiastically. On our other side is a young malfetto boy. He is marked by the blood fever with an unseemly black rash across his ear and cheek. Behind his thoughtful façade is an undercurrent of fear.

Mmm. My energy turns toward him like a wolf drawn to the scent of blood.

Violetta leans in close to me. “Let’s try a round,” she says, her eyes also pinned to the malfetto boy. “I think I sense something.”

I nod at the street operator, then drop two gold talents into his outstretched hand. He bows at me with a flourish. “For my sister and me,” I say, pointing at the three stones we want to bet on.

The operator nods back at us silently. Then he starts to mix the stones.

Violetta and I keep our attention on the malfetto boy. He watches the cups spin with a look of concentration. As we wait for the operator, the other players look in his direction and laugh. A few malfetto jeers are thrown out. The boy just ignores them.

Finally, the operator stops spinning the cups. He lines up all twelve in a row, then folds his arms back into his robes and signals at all the players to guess which cups their stones are in.

“Four, seven, and eight,” the first player calls out, slapping the operator’s table.

“Two, five, nine,” another player replies.

Two more shout out their guesses.

The operator turns to us. I lift my head. “One, two, and three,” I say. The others laugh a little at my bet, but I ignore them.

The malfetto boy casts his bet too. “Six, seven, and twelve,” he calls out.

The operator lifts the first cup, then the second and third. I’ve already lost. I pretend to look disappointed, but my attention stays focused on the malfetto boy. Six, seven, and twelve. When the operator gets to the sixth cup, he flips it over to reveal that the boy had chosen correctly.

The operator points to the boy. He whoops. The other players cast him an ugly look.

The operator lifts the seventh cup. The boy has guessed correctly again. The other players start to look at one another nervously. If the boy gets the last one wrong, we all lose to the operator. But if the boy has guessed the third one correctly, then he gets all of our money.

The operator overturns the final cup. The boy is correct. He wins.

The operator glances up sharply. The malfetto boy lets out a surprised shout of joy, while the other players glare angrily at him. Hate appears in their chests as sparks, flashes of energy that merge into black spots.

“What do you think?” I ask Violetta. “Do you sense anything about his energy?”

Violetta’s gaze stays fixed on the celebrating boy. “Follow him.”

The operator reluctantly hands over his purse, along with the money that the rest of us bet. As the boy collects the coins, I observe the other players muttering among themselves. When the boy leaves the operator’s stand, the others trail behind him, their faces tight and shoulders tense.

They are going to attack him. “Let’s go,” I whisper to Violetta. She follows without a word.

For a while, the boy seems too happy with his winnings to recognize the danger he has put himself in. It isn’t until he reaches the edge of the square that he notices the other players. He keeps going, but now at a nervous pace. I sense his inkling of fear grow to a steady trickle, and the sweet taste of it entices me.

The boy darts out of the square and onto a narrow side street where the lights are dim and the people are scarce. Violetta and I settle into the shadows, and I paint a subtle illusion over us to keep us hidden. I frown at the boy. A person as notorious as Magiano surely wouldn’t be this tactless.

Finally, one of the other gamblers catches up with him. Before the boy can lift up his hands, the gambler trips him.

A second gambler pretends to stumble over his body, but kicks him in the stomach as he goes. The boy yelps and his fear changes to terror—now I can see the threads of it hovering over him in a dark, shimmering web.

In the blink of an eye, the other gamblers have surrounded him. One grabs him by his shirt and shoves him up against the wall. His head hits it hard, and in an instant, his eyes roll back. He collapses to the ground and curls up into a ball.

“Why did you run away?” one of them says to the malfetto. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself, cheating us out of all our money.”

The others chime in.

“What does a malfetto need all that money for, anyway?”

“Going to hire a dottore to fix your markings?”

“Hiring a whore so you can find out what it’s like?”

I just watch. When I first joined the Daggers and witnessed malfettos being abused, I would go back to my chamber and cry. I’ve seen it enough times now to stay composed, to let the fear of such a scene feed me without feeling guilty about it. So as the attackers continue to torture the boy, I stand by and feel nothing but anticipation.

The malfetto boy scrambles to his feet before the others can strike him again—he dashes down the street. They pursue him.