She sat staring at Kohlrabi while the bells’ clamor waned. When Goodman Boniface’s deep chime signaled the passing of the Hour, she took her hands from her ears and stood up.

“I got to go back to Mr. Clent now, Mr. Kohlrabi.”

“Mosca . . . if you learn anything of Clent’s plans, or if you need my help, then for Daylight’s sake come and find me at my coffeehouse, the Hind at Bay. Do not try to ride this out alone.”

Mosca could not look into Kohlrabi’s face. The secret of Partridge’s murder seemed to have bound her to Eponymous Clent more surely than if Bockerby had wed them. She walked out of the tavern in silence.

O Is for Oath

O
IS FOR OATH

For three whole days after her conversation with Kohlrabi, Mosca felt less alone. It was a strange and shiny new feeling, and she decided not to think about it too hard, in case she wore the paint off it.

It was a difficult time. Clent seemed uncomfortable in Mosca’s presence, but unwilling to have her far away from him. He sent her on countless errands and snapped at her to hurry back quickly. If she was gone for long, he would be pacing by the time she returned. If she came back before he expected her, he would look annoyed, and his fingers would start playing rapid sonatas on imaginary harpsichord keys at the table edge.

Mosca had nothing sharp to say to him now. She lived in fear of him, and slept with Saracen on her chest for safety. Hour by hour she thought of running away, but she was sure he would come after her to silence her, or somehow blame her for the death of Partridge. Furthermore, she could not flee without Saracen, whom Clent now kept in the closet during her errands “for safety’s sake.”

“We will lie low here for now,” Clent said each day, “and wait for Her Ladyship’s response.” And Mosca, who secretly knew that no letter would arrive, was sent out into streets that fizzed and buzzed with gossip about the Locksmiths’ arrest and Goshawk’s escape—excited, frightened, doubtful, and scandalized by turn. She brought back broadsheets so that Clent could scan them for signs of the guild war.

One morning, every sheet roared of a fire that had broken out at the Papermill the night before.

“Aramai Goshawk’s first move,” muttered Clent. “It is a warning shot over the Stationers’ bows, I fancy. As I thought, he blames the Stationers for the Locksmiths’ arrest—and he means to frighten the Stationers into arranging their pardon. Fruitless, fruitless.”