What exactly was it that Clent did for the Stationers? Was it just spying? Or were there times when a quill was not enough, and a knife was needed? Was that why they used him? Perhaps Partridge had bullied his way into the marriage house to find Clent, and found him in the middle of doing something very terrible . . . the way Mosca herself had just interrupted him.

“Now,” Clent whispered at last, “take his feet.” The jetty was too low to let them stand, but somehow amid the rocking and struggling there was a splash, and suddenly there was nothing left of Partridge except a circle of foam, and his loosed cravat tracing a question mark on the water’s surface. Tiny bubbles fizzed for a few moments. Silence followed, and then Clent gave a croak of alarm.

“There!”

Something had surfaced, ten yards downstream, and was gliding away with its wet shirt ballooning on its back.

“Slice the moon, the fellow has shed ballast!” Clent struggled with the paddles, but in his haste one handle became wedged between the planks of the jetty. By the time he tugged it free, the sodden shape had been swallowed by the mist.

Without a word, Clent abandoned their pursuit; he pushed away from the jetty and rowed in silence for some time. At last a bank crept into distinctness, and Mosca saw the marriage house loom into view with a mixture of relief and confusion. Why had Clent returned? Was he no longer trying to escape Mandelion?

She followed Clent up the ivy with Saracen. Obeying Clent’s silent signals, she helped him carry the chest back to their rooms. Although it was now empty, her legs trembled, and twice she almost dropped it. When they reached their rooms, they found the candle low in a mess of tallow.

“Why’ve we come back, Mr. Clent?”

Clent gave a bitter little shrug, and dusted off his lapels with a shadow of his usual manner.

“That fellow will be found. If we vanish the same night, the hue and cry would be after us. I fancy we have little choice but to brazen the matter out.” He pulled off his wig and stretched himself out upon the bed without bothering to remove his boots. His lids drooped for a moment with an air of utter exhaustion, and then flicked open once more. “Where are you going?”

“I . . .” Mosca had taken a few steps toward the door without even thinking. “I got to see to Saracen. The civet hurt him, an’ I got to rub the place with brandy. The Cakes got some.”

“Very well. But do not go far, and be sure not to wake me when you return.”

Mosca took up Saracen’s leash in one slack hand, and led him away.