I enclose the first stanzas of your epic, and hope against hope that their humble worth summons your smile for at least an instant, if only in magnanimous pity for my efforts and struggles of the soul.

My lady, I must trespass further upon your goodwill. The payment you have so generously offered I do not claim, but rather ask that you may find occupation and accommodation within the Eastern Spire for myself and my secretary. Our situation has grown precarious, and my lodgings ill-suited to one blessed with your patronage.

In the name of gratitude I implore you to consent, knowing as you do how this fickle world can knock both high and low onto their axles, and leave them reliant on the assistance of strangers.

Yours in awe and admiration,
YOUR SERVANT EPONYMOUS CLENT

Mosca watched as the hot wax sealed the letter, her heart beating in her ears. As soon as the letter was in her hand she made for the door, blowing on the wax to cool it.

She stepped into a world washed clean, full of newly woken smells. A nervous wind of stammering gusts broke the clouds like bread. The rain had varnished every street sign. Everything promised newness.

Mosca ran. She ran to outpace her ill luck. She had to reach the spire before Clent had time to guess at the treachery in her head. If she could only use the letter to get inside the Honeycomb Courts! Once there, by hook or by crook she would find a way to speak with Lady Tamarind. She would tell the noblewoman the truth about the events at the Gray Mastiff, and beg to be hidden in the Eastern Spire, safe from the Locksmiths . . . and from Eponymous Clent. If only she dared tell Lady Tamarind about the murder of Partridge! But Mosca herself was steeped too deep in that.

The slouching shops of the riverside yielded to square-shouldered houses with gleaming porticoes. Tall windows arched as if raising their eyebrows to see Mosca run past.

She reached the edge of a broad and busy thoroughfare. On the far side, a row of tall, iron railings held off the curious crowds. The wrought-iron gates were decorated with the outlines of two young women who seemed to be holding hands at the place where the bolt fastened the gates. The Eastern Spire rose from a broad, square sandstone building, braced with columns and teetering with statuary.

When she approached and tried to speak to one of the guards at the gate, he nodded her in the direction of the tradesmen’s gate.

The tradesmen’s gate merited only two footmen, who saw no reason to stop playing cards as Mosca approached.

“Letter for Lady Tamarind from Mr. Eponymous Clent. I was told to come in and wait. Lady Tamarind’ll want to see me.”

One of the footmen took the letter and used it to scratch his ear as he looked Mosca up and down.