He looked at the slug of cooled metal among the broken glass. It was dull and grey, little different from the lead we had filled it with. Of the powder which I had laboured so long to produce, there was no trace.

We had failed.

I spent the day picking through the detritus of the laboratory. I swept the grate. I filled a barrel with water and scrubbed out every cup and vessel I had touched. The chill of the water made the ache in my head worse, but I forced myself to continue until everything was clean. Then I went outside and tipped a bucket over my head to clean myself. I arranged the tools in racks and put the remains of my materials in boxes and jars. There was nothing else I could do. The day was a void, an empty space between the ill-fitting fragments of my life. I could not stay there. But I did not know where to go.

That evening, three of Tristan’s friends came to play cards. He lit a fire in the hall and fetched a barrel of wine. Normally I would have avoided them and locked myself in the tower, but I could not go there that night. Nor did I want to retreat to another corner of the house. Now that I was alive to my surroundings again, they terrified me.

I had nothing to say to Tristan’s friends. I gathered they were all younger sons of more or less noble families, idle youths with no purpose but to spin out their fortunes until their brothers inherited. I said nothing and concentrated on my cards. Not on the game – I gambled as little as I could, though more than I had, and endured the hilarious cries of ‘Alms, alms’ every time I reached out my hand. But the cards themselves entranced me. They were beautiful: a wild menagerie of birds, beasts, flowers and men that flitted in and out of my hands with the firelight. In the ashes of my soul I felt a small ember begin to glow again. Twice I lost games I might have won by holding on to cards just because I wanted to examine them more closely. The creatures were drawn with rare skill, delicate lines so sharp they almost seemed to be carved into the paper. They reminded me of the figures I had incised in gold at Konrad Schmidt’s workshop.

That thought stirred a memory, though not one I could quite grasp. I worried at it while I lost the next two hands, then decided to concentrate on the game.

It was not complicated. The goal was to husband your cards until you held either five consecutive numbers from the same suit or four identical numbers across the five different suits. On each turn a player discarded one card in his hand and took another, either the one the previous player had discarded (which he could see) or one from the deck (which he could not). When he had taken the card he could raise his bet, and if he did the next player had either to match it or to forfeit the round.

All night I had been playing in the most perfunctory way, offering tiny bets on my own account and then surrendering at the first challenge. The others had quickly noticed, and made a separate game of offering derisory bids, clapping and cheering me to match them and then abusing me when I refused. And yet now, as I looked at my cards, I saw that fate had dealt me a tantalising hand. Three eights – beasts, birds and stags – and the ten and Jack of stags.

I bet my usual pittance and watched the other players, wondering if I should pursue the set of eights or the sequence of stags. Tristan took the two of birds and discarded the five of stags – a good sign. His friend drew a card from the deck I could not see, made a sour face and discarded the nine of stags.

‘No bet.’

I tried to be calm. I pretended to study my hand, to hover between the deck and the discard pile. I took the nine. Now I had the eight-nine-ten-Jack of stags, but also the three eights. The thought that one more card could win it was like liquor in my blood: not for the money, but for the joy of beating Tristan and his friends. Just once would be enough.

But I could not pursue one path without sacrificing the other. The cards were hard to read: I counted and recounted the images to be sure I had the right numbers. Somewhere around the table were two eights, either one of which would complete my set. Equally, the seven or the queen would complete my run of stags. The decision paralysed me.

‘How long does he need to decide to give up?’ asked the player to my left. His name was Jacques; the deck was his. I longed to find out more about it, but could not bring myself to ask him.

I looked at my hand again and noticed that one poked slightly above the others. The eight of birds. I pulled it out and threw it down on the table, followed by a quarter penny. On such fine quantities do the balances of our lives tip.

The other players reacted with predictable hilarity to my bet. They made great sport of rummaging in their purses, scratching their heads and crossing themselves in mock distress. All except Jacques beside me, who had stiffened the moment I played my card. I would not have noticed if I had not been so alive to the possibility of winning myself. While the others were still distracted he smoothly palmed the eight of birds and raised my bet to a penny.

The game went round the circle. On my next turn I drew blind from the deck, praying for the seven or the queen. I cupped the card in my hand and tilted it up to the firelight.

Eight wild men leaped out at me, brandishing cudgels, exposing themselves, making cruel mockery of my hopes. If I had not given away the eight of birds on my previous turn I would have won.

I threw the card back on the table, not even pretending to consider it. Despair took hold of me: out of pure devilment, I tossed another penny into the betting pot. It prompted an unguarded glance from Jacques as he swept up the card. Now he had two eights thanks to my mistakes, plus whatever he had originally been dealt.

I sat and watched the other players, wondering if they held the cards I needed. Two of Tristan’s friends clearly had nothing, and soon threw in their hands. Those were shuffled and returned to the deck. With Tristan I could not find the pattern in the cards he chose to take or leave; he never raised the bet, but met every increase with a cool stare. As for me, I drew blind every time and prayed. All I got were a succession of birds and flowers. My only consolation was that Jacques seemed to do the same. He never took the card he could see, but tried his luck like me in the deck. And I knew that so long as I held my two remaining eights, he could not get the four he needed.

My small pile of coins shrank to nothing and still I did not have the card I wanted. I drew another and threw it back almost without looking. Jacques drew from the deck, made a pretence of shuffling it into the cards he held, then threw it back. A piece of silver followed it onto the table.

‘Anyone to raise?’

Tristan swore and put down his cards. I looked at mine – a run of four stags, including the eight, and the eight of beasts. I had no doubt Jacques meant to raise me out of the game. It was as close as I had come to winning all night. And I had no more money.

‘Here.’

A second silver coin landed on the table, rolled across the varnished wood and fell onto the pile. I looked at Tristan.

‘That is for you. Now no more bets. Play to see who wins.’

I loved him more that moment than ever before – though afterwards I thought he did it to annoy his friend. They were a pack of wild dogs who would tear into each other at the least sign of weakness.

But for now it was just the two of us. Jacques moved to the other side of the hearth so that he sat facing me. Half his face glowed in the firelight; the other half was lost in shadow. The others sat on the sidelines and made bets among themselves – what suit the next card would be, how many turns it would take to win, whether the card I threw down would be higher or lower than Jacques’. With no gambling of our own to do we played quickly. Our hands darted over the table like flies on meat, peeling off the cards and getting rid of them almost in one movement.