The black-eyed imp in the mirror rested its chin on its hands and stared back at Mosca, champing all the while on its pipe. And then the movement of the chewing jaw slowed, and the black eyes became round, as the mistakes and misunderstandings brushed away like cobwebs, leaving the true shape of things bare before her mind’s eye. Suddenly she could see what must have happened the night of the beast fight. Which of course meant . . .

“Oh, Saracen!” Mosca exclaimed, wide-eyed. “What have we done?”

Saracen had just taken a big beakful of feathers from a pillow and was too busy snapping his beak and spluttering to share in Mosca’s moment of revelation.

What could she do? Kohlrabi might not call by for days, and she could hardly count upon poor, confused Mistress Nokes to carry a message this important. No, she would have to go back and find the Cakes herself. She would only be gone a little while; she could return before anyone missed her and worried. Saracen would be safe enough in the little room. Providing, of course, he did not become restless and start overturning furniture, and providing Mistress Nokes did not come up to investigate the sound, and providing he did not burst out upon a rampage as soon as the door was opened . . .

“You’d better come with me,” Mosca sighed.

The shop was not yet open, so Mosca could not hope to slip out through a mill of customers. However, Mistress Nokes was busy arranging satin flowers and stuffed hummingbirds in a pale green wig, and she did not notice as Mosca crept along behind the counter on all fours, Saracen’s leash wound around her wrist. At the door, as an afterthought, Mosca caught up a large, dark red wig box and tucked it under one arm.

“It’s only borrowing,” she explained to Saracen when the door was safely closed behind them. “Borrowing don’t count.”

The box’s rounded lid slid off easily. It slid on again rather less easily once the box was full of goose, since Saracen was not at all happy about the sky being blocked out, and he kept trying to thrust his beak out through the crack.

“You’re too recognizable, Saracen,” Mosca explained, pushing the lid firmly into place. There was a leather strap so the box could be tied to luggage when traveling by coach, and Mosca found that it could be slung over her right shoulder and buckled under her left armpit.

The market bell had rung, so the Cakes would be at the market.

The air was chill, but for now the wind had slackened. Mosca had half expected the streets outside to be deserted, while everyone peeped through their shutters and waited for war, but here were dozens of housewives and housekeepers, gripping their baskets and filling the air with the steam of their breath, chattered conversations and the slap of their slippers against the cobbles.