It was at an early hour on the second morning after the prison break that she turned her attention to the dressing table and mirror. There was a bone comb with nearly all its teeth, a brush with a cracked enamel back, a little pot of face powder, a block of rouge and all sorts of strange little brushes, patches, and pincers. There were jars of wig powder colored white, creamy yellow, lilac, and pale peach, respectively. She spent half an hour fiddling with her bonnet, and succeeded in arranging the ribbons as the lavender girl had shown her. Then, remembering Lady Tamarind’s marble pallor, Mosca dipped one of the brushes into the face powder and dabbed it experimentally on her face. She moved the candles nearer to the mirror and leaned forward so that she could examine her face more closely as she did so.

How strange it was to see her face reflected so clearly in a real mirror! Tiny candle flames were reflected in her eyes, which pleased her. She was even more delighted to notice that her eyebrows were starting to grow through, black at the roots. Saved at last from the Chough water, they were turning the same color as her hair.

Mosca pulled off her bonnet and cap to extract a lock of her black hair so that she could hold it against her eyebrows and compare. She lifted a candle to let more light fall on her face, then set it down abruptly with a jolt.

Faint creases ran down each of Mosca’s cheeks, as if twin tears had worn grooves in them. They joined in a red crease under her chin. They were almost identical to the marks she had seen on the face of the dead Partridge.

Maybe all dead faces looked that way. Maybe death crumpled you up like a ball of paper. Maybe she was starting to die and hadn’t noticed, and maybe the creases would become deeper and deeper and her skin would turn blue and . . .

. . . and perhaps there was a quite different explanation.

Mosca fumbled in her pockets for her new pipe and then, gripping it between her teeth, went to sit on the bed. The stem waggled as she chewed on it, frowning all the while into space. Then, still frowning, she swung herself off the bed again, scooped up her bonnet from the top of the wig stand, and went back to the mirror.

She put the bonnet back on her head and fastened the ribbons in the fashionable style that the lavender girl had shown her. The ribbons rested neatly against the creases in her cheek, and the knot rubbed against a red dent under her chin. Yes, there was no doubt about it, the marks on Mosca’s face had been caused by the bonnet ribbon. But in answering this small mystery she found herself faced with a larger one.

Why would Partridge have been wearing a woman’s bonnet?