"I can’t do this," Dalliance said, his voice a raw whisper. Topaz was there, a silent, glittering presence.

  "I didn't say you could," she said sadly. "You have three months. Just three, before the beginning of the next hunt. You've made it so far, and I'm so proud of you." He could feel a sob coming and choked it back. "But I can't provide for you, any more than I can keep you safe. What I can do for you, I am already doing."

  She had never lied to him. Never once.

  "Think about your options," she suggested. "There are a few that exist. Seek out your brothers, perhaps. Your uncles. You’ve put up with being a part of this family for so long; you might as well get something out of it. Earnest's family might be willing to take you in for a time," she speculated.

  "I can't do that," he told her. The place where his fingers had been throbbed, a deep ache under it all. "His folks might even allow it, but I don't want to start trouble there."

  The wind whistled through the trees, a hollow sound like the feeling in his chest.

  "What do I do?" he said, sounding to his own ears younger than he had in months.

  "We do what we must," she said, her tone firm but gentle. "And right now, you must see to your wound, and you must get out of this house."

  And there it was. He left his shack, wondering whether it would be the last time. There wasn’t anything in it worth the trouble of carrying with his hand hurting as it did. He might come back later. His father was many things, but not a thief.

  He walked across the barren fields to the house of Industry Rather.

  Industry opened the door on the fifth knock, a wood chisel in one hand, shavings clinging to his apron and his short mustache. "Dalliance," he said. "What in the hells is wrong? What happened?"

  His brother pulled him inside and produced a scrap of clean linen cloth, with which he quickly bound the place where Dalliance's fingers had been. "The bastard," he swore under his breath. "I never thought he would go this far."

  "I won't be a [Wizard], will I?" Dalliance said sadly.

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  His brother looked at him, worried. "A [Wizard], huh?"

  "I was going to get max ranks in Wit and become a wizard," Dalliance told him.

  His brother's eyebrows raised at the knowledge. "How close did you get?"

  "Two points away," he said miserably.

  "Is that so?" Industry’s expression was unreadable. "I can't speak to the class," his brother said, "but I can get you the rest of the way to ten Wit."

  "I don't understand," Dalliance admitted.

  "It's really easy," his brother said. "Getting that last couple of points. You ever hustled pool?"

  Dalliance’s first two games were a complete disaster, due in no small part to the mitten of linen binding his left hand.

  "How are you related to me?" his brother asked him, disbelievingly.

  "Through Ma," Dalliance joked. "She probably can’t shoot pool either."

  The stick didn't feel natural in Dalliance's hands, the point of it all inscrutable. But after playing a few more games against his brother, he succeeded in sinking a few balls and was declared ready to try his luck with the farmhands.

  The men who worked the corn and hay were largely free this season, the ice on the ground a cheerful sign that their hard work was over, and it was time for playing. They crowded the pub, most of them with short cigarillos from the market street or the cob pipes of the rustic, creating a sour and smoky atmosphere.

  When Dalliance engaged his [Prediction], it ceased to be a game at all.

  In the first round, he won, but barely. He could see where he wanted the ball to go, and he could see how he had to angle the stick to get it there, but there was no obvious way to read how hard to hit from the prediction. So he began to standardize his hits. Every shot had to have exactly the same force as the previous one, because otherwise, it introduced too much variation into his game.

  The second game was an absolute slaughter. The black eight-ball sank into the indicated pocket, and Dalliance again turned down the thaums offered by his opponent. He wasn’t playing for stakes.

  "You’re a good sport," the farmhand told him approvingly and ruffled his hair.

  A notification flared in Dalliance's mind's eye.

  [Good hustle! For your victory against a more experienced opponent in the game of pool, you have been awarded one (1) experience point.]

  Dalliance grinned so hard it hurt, never mind the pain. This was going to be his last night as a [Scamp].