After he had disappeared into the closet, Mosca perched on the edge of the bed with her pointed chin resting on her hands, thoughts intertwining behind her black eyes to become a plan. Perhaps a sly, buzzing whisper in Mosca’s brain told her that she had a chance to make a useful ally and put someone in her debt. Perhaps, however, a part of her had heard the Cakes’s story with a sense of recognition, and guessed at the other girl’s loneliness.

It was midnight when Mosca crept to the door of the Cakes’s bedroom, late enough for the other girl to be making no attempt to stifle the sound of her sobs. There was a snuffly sort of a gasp when Mosca knocked, and when the Cakes opened the door, her mobcap was pulled almost down to her chin to hide her red eyes.

“You got something of your mother’s?” whispered Mosca.

“What?” The Cakes gave up and lifted her mobcap frill to see who was talking.

“Your father, he does the marriages sacred to Leampho with the One Wakeful Eye, don’t he?”

The Cakes nodded.

“I was remembering . . . back where I come from, there’s this old ceremony they do sometimes, when you want to marry someone who’s alive to someone who’s dead—if they both wanted to marry. I mean, like, if they were just about to marry and then the man got stamped to death by a cow or fell in the rapids. I been thinking an’ I think I can remember how it goes. You got something of your mother’s?”

“Yes, a bit of lace and a wool gown. But is that sort of ceremony legal?” the Cakes asked doubtfully. “I mean, legal enough to put in the register?”

“We can’t tell anyone,” Mosca said quickly. “It’s not the sort of thing you can tell about. I mean, it’s like Leampho with one eye open and one eye closed, right? Our eyes are open to see this, but the rest of the world has to have its eyes shut.” Mosca almost believed her words herself. “What does it matter if no one else knows? You’ll know. Come on, and put the shawl around you. I got one of your father’s cravats off the back of a chair in one of the chapels.”

The little chapel Mosca chose bristled with clay vases full of dried honesty plants, the sheer shell pods reflecting the light of the Cakes’s candle like so many pale eyelids. The white lace shawl had split a few stitches but, draped over the head of the Cakes, it gave her an otherworldly look and hid her tearfulness. As soon as Saracen had satisfied himself that the cravat was not edible, he allowed it to be tied around his neck without further argument.

“You stand there, and play your mother . . . and Saracen’ll be your father.”