Clent’s eyes were very bright. There was a vague smile on his face, and Mosca feared that he had gone insane under the pressure and might try to murder her at any moment.

“Do you see it?” he asked, holding up one finger.

Mosca looked at his finger, then back at his face. She glanced up at the ceiling, to which the finger seemed to point, then back at Clent.

“It is a glimmer of light. It is the faintest promise of escape from the dark caverns we have been walking. It is, I think, a Way Out. Give me a moment of absolute silence, and I shall find it.” He closed his eyes, and his hand moved slightly, just as if he were really feeling along a rocky wall for a crack or a hole.

Mosca bulged her cheeks full of air and held her breath, not daring to move in case her skirts rustled.

“I have it.” Clent’s eyes flicked open again. His expression was wild but jubilant. “The fissure is narrow, but I believe that with will and courage we can squeeze through it. We shall feel the sun on our faces again. Listen—a week ago you saw Hopewood Pertellis polluting the minds of children with his treasonous teachings, yes? Afterward, being a good and loyal child of your nation, you followed the villain to see where he went, and you saw him enter conversation with our friend Partridge, give him a purse of money, and walk away with him.”

“But he didn’t . . .”

“How do you know? Something like that may have happened—it probably did. If Partridge was not selling the leaden bullets to Pertellis himself, then he was probably selling them to one of Pertellis’s confederates. Have faith—this story is perfect, it ties up everything for the best. Let us say Partridge was murdered by radicals when he tried to blackmail them. The constable can preen himself on uncovering a radical plot and solving a murder at once, and we will be safe.”

“But Mr. Pertellis—”

“Is a radical. He probably spends his nights dreaming of roasting baby princesses like chestnuts.”

It did not seem likely somehow. Mosca thought back to Pertellis’s baffled, spring-blue gaze, and tried to find the words to explain her doubts.

“He tries to put squashed snails back together” was all she could say.

“Then he is clearly insane,” Clent answered confidently. “Anyway, what does it matter? The man is due to be hanged for high treason—one little murder will not make his situation any worse. Our position is too precarious to be nice about such things.”

Clent’s words did have a ghastly sort of logic. Mosca was lost for an answer, and offered no protest as Clent put on his coat and steadied his periwig.