Faille’s actually in the dark but she can see Baize just fine, laughing, shaking dice, making it work. She can’t find the other one, until she looks straight down. Shifting in her perch, Faille spots the red cocktail and grins–she must hate that.

“Check,” she mutters. “Baize and Taffeta in view.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but the mic picks up on subvocal. “What kind. Fucking codename. Is Taffeta.”

“Cheer up,” says Faille. “I can see down your dress.”

“I hope you fall.”

“You’d break it.”

What is it with spies and casinos, she wonders. Shouldn’t they feel more at home?