The attack looked clumsy and gentle, like a child touching another in a game of tag; but as Saracen steadied himself Mosca saw a red spot the size of a farthing bloom above his shoulder. It had been a long time since she had seen Saracen hurt by anything.

Mosca struggled her way through the yelling crowd to the wooden stairway. She had to tug the tavern spokesman by the sleeve several times before he noticed her.

“Hello, miss—you want to stand on the steps to see better? All right, but only the second step . . .”

“No, I . . . that’s my goose down there. I want my goose back.”

“Well, now, can’t go interrupting mid-fight, can we?”

“I can give you another sixpence . . .”

“Can’t be done. Now look, I have to . . . ’ere, Carmine, come and take care of this, will you?” A youth stopped sweeping sawdust and pigeon bones across the floor and hurried over, wiping his hands on his apron. “This young lady’s getting a bit excitable—take her back to the trainers’ rooms and let her out when the fight’s done, all right?”

Carmine already had one firm hand on Mosca’s shoulder, and Mosca already had one foot drawn back to kick him in the shins, when the two of them bothered to look each other in the face. They froze as they recognized each other. Carmine was none other than the clothier’s apprentice who had knocked Mosca over in the street, four days before. Clearly he had an evening job.

Mosca took a step in the direction of the pit, which turned into four steps away from the pit as Carmine dragged her into a clear space.

“What are you doing here? More spying?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking ’bout. You’re daft, you are—moths ate your wits instead of your waistcoat.”

“I saw you, snooping around after Mr. Pertellis. And now he’s gone missing. You can’t hear it, but the whisper’s out about you. We’ll spot you wherever you go in this city.”

Mosca’s face went hot. She felt scared and confused, and she decided to be angry. Anger was easiest. She was just trying to shape words around her anger when the tavern door swung open again and two Stationers shouldered their way in, flanking a constable in a black-and-green tunic embroidered with the heraldry of the Twin Queens.

Carmine turned his head to follow Mosca’s gaze, and his grip tightened on her arm. When his head snapped back to look at her, his face was pale with terror and seemed in an instant to have become painfully young.

“You told on me,” he whispered. He sounded startled and almost hurt. “You really did—you told on Mr. Pertellis, and now you’ve led ’em to me, so they can take me away and put out my eyes . . .” He turned and plunged into the crowd.