There were other faces in the throng as well, child faces with tight mouths, and eyes that followed her. Word of Mosca’s part in the arrest of Hopewood Pertellis had traveled fast. Grim-faced and grimy-locked, the children of the Floating School left their mops and their marbles and followed her to the doors of the cathedral, first at a trot, then at a jog, then at a run.

Darkness was kind to the cathedral, and hid the scars left by flames, war, and time. Mosca saw only rich hanging tapestries and pillars of rose-colored marble, whorled in whisker-fine gold leaf. Until now she had seen the Beloved only in their wooden, workaday faces, but here they were languorous in marble, some indolently holding a sword or a set of scales in a drooping hand. High in the dome above were arches where more Beloved appeared in attitudes of mild surprise, as if they had opened the wrong door by mistake and found themselves above a perilous drop.

In the middle of the main aisle stood a mighty marble font, full of dried rose petals. An inscription on the side explained that this was the last resting place of the Little Goodkin, three children who had been abandoned in the woods and starved to death, but whose skeletons returned to their village church a month later to shame their parents. Even Mosca had heard the tale that when a child was lost in a dark and lonely place the Little Goodkin would come to them and guide them home. The Little Goodkin had doubtless been responsible for keeping countless children from harm, for there is nothing like the prospect of acquiring three well-meaning but skeletal companions to persuade one out of dark and lonely places.

Despite her haste, Mosca took a moment to snatch a handful of the petals and rub them against her face in the time-honored manner, before letting them fall back into the font.

“Fenfenny,” she whispered, the common corruption of the old prayer “Friends defend me.”

. . . where is she is that her this way . . .

The whispers were not far behind.

The nearest wall was covered from floor to roof with the arched mouths of tiny shrines which in turn led into other shrines behind them, all part of the same interconnected warren. Most were too small and inaccessible to be visited easily, and rich worshippers generally paid a priest to carry their offering up to the correct shrine, while those of modest means were reduced to flicking coins up at the little arches that appeared in the front facade and hoping for the best.