“Ten to one he holds like an ox,” I say.

What I meant was, I sure as shit hope he hangs on to her. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t trust my friend, but I’m betting with coin I don’t have. I’m not saying I’m not good for it, because I am. Just, you know, my pockets are empty today.

So I sit and watch between the legs of elves and hope he keeps her off the tavern floor.

I nod at the barman for another drink and slide him some coin while the good bard Pussywillow balances the poor girl on his shoulders, his knees vibrating like lute strings.

“Nay, Milo,” Bertrand says. “Make it twenty to one,” and he’s got his hand held out to make our simple gentleman’s agreement into a done deal—a slit-your-throat-if-you-don’t-pay-up sort of bet. It’s not the sort of bet I want to make, yet I’m shaking Bertrand’s hand, allowing the ale ravaging both my innards and inhibitions to make the decision for me.

I can see it in Pussywillow’s dour face. He knows he’s going to drop her dumb.

I slap Bertrand on the back, pleasantly surprised by the absence of his usual musky odor, and hand him my last coin.

“Next round is on me,” I say, and slip out the door, noting the unmistakable thud causing the crowd to crow is not from the door slamming behind me, but the poor girl falling—and perhaps my luck.

“You asshole,” I say.

Pussywillow lounges in his chair.

“What?” he says. “You’re the one who bet in favor of me in matters regarding a feat of strength. I’d say that makes you the asshole.”

“Because I believed in a friend?”

“A foolish asshole.”

“Bertrand isn’t going to let it go this time,” I say. “How much coin do you have, by the way?”

Pussywillow leans forward, his brunette coiffure still flattened from the tavern fiasco.

“What—why?” he asks. “I’m not bailing you out.”

“Well,” I say, making sure I’ve given myself room to dodge whatever he’ll throw at me once I tell him. “Because you’re…well. Sort of roped into this too.”

He grabs an apple from the table.

“How? Explain to me how I am responsible for your financial misgivings?”

“I mean, you dropped her,” I say, and I’m flat on the ground while the apple zips past my head. Better than the last time. I still have a scar from the cat.

Pussywillow chases me around the room while I create obstacles for him from chairs and end tables and various decorative baubles.

“How much?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I said ten to one…”

He’s slowing down, giving up.

“But then he raised it twenty to one,” I say. “But I don’t remember the initial wager. Honestly, I’m not sure how gambling works. I’ve never been much of a betting man.”

I pick the apple off the floor and take a bite.

“Oh no,” Pussywillow says. “There’s that look.”

I’m more of a thinking man.

“I have an idea,” I say.