Mosca had decided that she would leave Mandelion with Clent. She did not notice herself making the decision; rather, the decision seemed to have fallen into her head from the rain-laden sky. She hoped that there would be no war, and that in time Clent would bring her back. There was a throb in her mind when she thought of Lady Tamarind, but for now someone seemed to want Mosca with them, and that was too strange and new to be thrown away lightly.

She did not hate Clent for the way he had spoken. For most of her life she had been at the mercy of stronger and more powerful people who cared nothing for her. She had always been afraid, and her fear had made her angry. Now, all of a sudden, she began to understand that Clent also spent his days feeling powerless and afraid. Perhaps he too was angry at finding himself portly and past his prime with little to show for it, but still having to use every fox’s trick just to stay ahead of the hounds.

What tricks would he be pulling from his sleeve now? He did not want to wake the house, so Mosca supposed he was planning to leave with his pockets padded. Blankets from the beds, probably, candlesticks and scraps from the kitchen . . . in her mind’s eye Mosca followed Clent’s figure from room to room, and then she nibbled her knuckle as she imagined him snatching the offerings from the little shrines to Leampho, Judin, Happendabbit, perhaps even pocketing the icons themselves to melt down or sell later.

He wouldn’t.

Of course he would.

He mustn’t.

The scallop-shaped window opened inward and, by using the thick stems of the ivy as leafy rungs, Mosca was able to scramble onto the sill and tumble through, into the chapel beyond. To be sure, she had not been able to stop Clent robbing Goodman Postrophe’s shrine, back near Chough, but this time she felt he might listen to her. He wanted her to come with him, and surely that must mean that everything had changed.

She was in the little chapel of Leampho, where Saracen had married the Cakes’s dead mother. She felt her way to the door, glad that she knew her way back to her rooms despite the darkness. By each chapel door she paused to listen, but all was silent. At last she reached the rooms she shared with Clent, and gently pushed the door open. The main room was dark and cheerless, but the closet door was slightly ajar, and through it wavered a timorous hint of candlelight.

Clent had said that under no circumstances should she enter the closet, that he needed the privacy it gave him. But he wanted her to come with him, and surely that must mean that everything had changed.