The crack in the case widened. A cold draft poured out, smelling of wet stone and old graves. The faro king on the table began to bleed—red dye seeping from its printed edges.
“Fold,” Valentin said.
The sound was not the table. It was the case. A thin, sharp splintering, like ice breaking on a winter pond. The wooden case had split from age, revealing a hollow compartment behind the velvet lining. faro scene crack
In truth, he was listening.