“We have every faith that you will find the culprits,” whispered the twin voices, “and when you do, arrest them without hesitation. The law is your lance and you may wield it as fiercely as you see fit in order to crush the evildoers . . .”

“Yes . . .” For days the Duke’s thoughts had been circling giddily like tea leaves in a cup. Now at last they were settling, and soon they would form a pattern which would spell out destiny for Mandelion and everyone in it.

L Is for Lockpick

L
IS FOR LOCKPICK

To Mosca’s delight she was granted the next morning off without even having to ask.

She left the marriage house and immediately turned her steps toward the Plumery. Perhaps there would be a chance to take her own letter back. Perhaps there would be a response from Lady Tamarind. In truth she was not sure where her hopes lay.

Again she walked between the desolate feather lawns, again she knelt before Goodman Claspkin. She pulled up the message feather, and could instantly see the dark roll of her letter through the translucent yellow horn. She was safe, she was in time, she was bitterly disappointed. She pulled it out . . . and discovered that it was not her letter.

“You have done well,” it read. “Keep me informed of your employer’s doings and let me know when you have found a place in a Stationer school.” A tiny object rolled out of the letter into Mosca’s palm. It was a seed pearl.

With the pearl wrapped in her handkerchief and hidden deep in her skirt pocket, Mosca sleepwalked back through the streets. She would never sell the pearl. She would keep it forever. She had a piece of Lady Tamarind in her pocket.

She was roused from her trance by the cries of the “chapmen,” peddlers who carried cheap books for sale. It was hard to part with the little money she had slyly won, but she could not resist the sight of a stack of chapbooks, with their rough-cut pages and bright cloth covers.

“You got anything ’bout what happened to the Ragged School?” Mosca asked one chapman, who stooped to search his pack.

“You want something on the Book Riots, do you? Who you buying it for?”

“Me.”

The chapman did not look as if he believed her. “Bit bloody for a lass—wouldn’t you like a nice ballad about Captain Blythe like the other girls?”

“I don’t mind blood. I like books with gizzard and gunpowder in ’em.”

“Right you are, then, here’s ‘A Report on the Tumultuous Disorders of the Year of the Dead Letter.’” A yellowed, well-traveled chapbook was placed in Mosca’s hand.

Soon Mosca was squatting on the grass of a pleasure garden and chewing her way through a penny loaf, eager to devour her new chapbook on the Book Riots.