Only three weeks after playing Blindman’s Bluff, I sat with Hamlet in the tunnels below the castle, where light looked medieval and I could picture treasure buried beneath the floor.
The points of the metal jacks dug into my palms as I grabbed them to the beat of the bouncing ball.
Hamlet had only picked up seven before he lost the beat.
I held seven now.
“Beetle-faced clown,” he said as the ball rose and I scooped up another jack. His eyes followed my hand.
The points slipped, then held. I grabbed tight and the jacks didn’t fall. I won!
I laughed and squeezed my handful of treasure. Hamlet picked up the last remaining jack and tossed it at me. When I opened my hand again, blood coated two of the metal points where they’d pierced the skin.
My laughter faltered. What right had I to l
