The card was dealt. The second man stood pat and Malone's green tinge became obvious to the veriest dunce. The cowboy, on Her Majesty's right, asked for a card, received it and sat back without a trace of expression.
The Queen said: "I'll try one for size." She'd picked up poker lingo, and the basic rules of the game, Malone realized, from the other players—or possibly from someone at the hospital itself, years ago.
He wished she'd picked up something less dangerous instead, like a love of big-game hunting, or stunt-flying.
But no. It had to be poker.
The Queen threw away her seven of spades, showing more sense than Malone had given her credit for at any time during the game. She let the other card fall and didn't look at it.
She smiled up at Malone and Boyd. "Live dangerously," she said gaily.
Malone gave her a hollow laugh.
The last man drew one card, too, and the betting began.
The Queen's remaining thousand was gone before an eye could notice it.
She turned to Boyd.
"Sir Thomas," she said. "Another five thousand, please. At once."