“I just like weddings,” the Cakes said sadly. “I like watchin’ folks write their names in the register—the ones that can write. I like givin’ ’em the cakes. I like the happy ones, an’ the frightened ones, an’ even the ones in their altitudes with gin. I like watchin’ ’em in their best bits of ribbon and their grandfather’s smartest waistcoats. I like throwin’ the honesty pods over ’em for good luck. I guess I just . . . keep hopin’ some of it’ll rub off on me, somehow.”

The hand holding the brush drooped miserably. Clearly the Cakes had to be cheered up, or the wig would never be salvaged.

“Well, it might rub off. You’re not ugly or anything. You’re just sort of pointy.” Mosca had a feeling that these encouraging words had sounded better in her head, but as it happened the Cakes was too despondent to take offense.

“Doesn’t make any difference. No one’s goin’ to want me with my Base Beginnings.” The Cakes gave Mosca a narrow glance, then sighed. “Oh well, someone’ll tell you, I guess. My father meant to marry my mother, but somethin’ put it out of his mind and he went to sea instead, and when he came back my mother was dead and I was ten.”

“Didn’t he do nothin’ for you?”

“’Course,” the Cakes answered curtly, then gave Mosca another appraising glance. “Took me in, didn’t he? Gave me a position. Can’t say fairer than that.”

“Bockerby’s your father?”

“’Course. An’ he’s kind when we’re alone, treats me right and everything. I think he’s sorry he didn’t marry and can’t call me his daughter. It’s funny, really—we write out lots of marriage licenses for people, and sometimes if they ask us to, we write down the dates a bit earlier than they should be, so children look like they were born proper and legal after the wedding. But it’s too late to do that for me.”

The Cakes pushed up her fists inside the wig and turned it about, inspecting it critically. “That’ll do, I think.”

By the time Clent returned to his rooms, Mosca was waiting for him and polishing his boots. Her expression of unaccustomed innocence seemed to alarm him a little, but he passed no comment, and they walked down to breakfast without further argument.

He was unusually quiet throughout breakfast. Mosca decided that his head was probably full of Schemes, and that if he wished to share them with her, sooner or later he would. Her own head was full of Saracen and the thought of seeing him again.

From Bockerby they learned that most barges and narrow boats could be found moored on the wharf near the Dragmen’s Arches, and after breakfast they set off for the wharf.