Even Brackle and Grabspite, however, were afraid of Saracen.

The throaty roar of distant waterfalls was now audible. Another faint trickle of sound could also be heard, a dismal, whimpering string of words.

“. . . starved, robbed of my dignity, and laid bare to the ravages of the elements . . .”

The greatest boulder on the shingle plain was known as the Chiding Stone. It stood ten feet high and was shaped somewhat like a saddle. Over the centuries, countless nagging wives and willful daughters had been chained there and mocked. Their names were etched into the stone by the magistrate of the time, along with a description of their crimes: “Mayfly Haxfeather, for Reducing Her Husband to Shreds with the Lashings of Her Tongue,” and, near the main dip of the saddle, where centuries of bottoms had worn a rounded hollow, “Sop Snatchell, for Most Willful and Continual Gainsaying.”

The Stone’s sides were pockmarked with strange dimples and bulges, and easy for Mosca to clamber up. From the top of the Chiding Stone the moonlight showed her a clear view of the rocky pedestal five yards beyond, and the man sprawled upon it.

He was plump, in a soft, self-important way. His puffed-out chest strained the buttons of his waistcoat. They were fine buttons, though, and much polished, as if he took pride in his appearance. His coat was a little crumpled and disarranged, but this was hardly surprising since he was suspended upside down, with his feet locked into a set of moss-covered stocks. A beaver hat and periwig lay sadly in the stream below, sodden and weed-strewn.

Since there was little he could do about his situation, he seemed determined to strike as picturesque and dramatic a pose as possible. The back of one hand rested despairingly across his forehead, while his other arm was thrown wide in a flamboyant attitude. The only part of his face visible, therefore, was his mouth, which was pursed and plump, as if the world were too hot and coarse for his palate and he felt the need to blow it cool. The mouth was moving, spilling out long, languorous sentences in a way which suggested that, despite his predicament, the speaker rather enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

“. . . before even the Travesty in Three Acts had seen print . . .” The speaker sighed deeply, and combed his fingers through his disheveled hair before placing his hand back across his eyes. “. . . and this is to be the end of Eponymous Clent, left out in the wilderness to be devoured by the savage geese and weaselly-faced imps of the forest—” The flow of words stopped abruptly. Cautiously he uncovered his eyes once more. “Are you human?”

It was a fair question. Rust, grime, and lichen covered Mosca’s face like war paint, and dove feathers still clung to her hair and arms. The unlit pipe in her mouth also gave her an otherworldly, young-old look.

She nodded.

“What do you want?”