Mosca pulled out her handkerchief, unfolded it, and shook out the seed pearl she had wrapped in it for safety’s sake. When she held the pearl to the light, it glowed like something eternal, but when she laid it on a cobblestone and ground her heel against it a few times it crushed like wax.

“We stop her, that’s what we do. Whatever she’s doing, we stop her. But first I’ve got to find Mr. Clent.”

The Cakes blinked, overwhelmed. “We’d better find Carmine.”

Carmine, the clothier’s apprentice, was no longer to be found briskly billowing silks and damasks outside his master’s shop. He was in the cellar of a neighboring chandler, his forehead as creased as his clothes, as if he hoped not to be found at all. His face brightened exceedingly when he saw the Cakes, and darkened in equal measure when he saw Mosca.

“Dormalise, what’s she doing here?”

“Who’s Dormalise?” asked Mosca. The Cakes gave her a nervous little smile. It struck Mosca too late that “the Cakes” was probably not her original name.

“She wants to help . . . She thinks you know where Mr. Pertellis is hiding, an’ she wants to talk to him about . . .” The Cakes gave Mosca a careful glance.

“Matters of Consequence,” finished Mosca.

“You should never have brought her here.” Although he sounded bitterly exasperated, Carmine was gently patting at the Cakes’s hand.

“I know who’s been running the printing press. I know where it is. Only if I’m going to tell you, Mr. Pertellis has got to help me find my Mr. Clent. I know he escaped with Mr. Pertellis, and I got to find him.”

Carmine looked surprised, but he immediately dropped his eyes and tried to hide it.

“Oh, so you think finding the crooked printers will make everything better for Mr. Pertellis, do you?”

“Yes,” Mosca declared with more confidence than she felt. “No one cares about anything ’cept the press. The Duke is just angry ’cause someone was rude about the Twin Queens, an’ the Stationers just want to have all the presses to themselves, right? An’ when they know who has really been running the press, they won’t care a bee’s pouch ’bout Mr. Pertellis or any of you anymore.”

“Who is it, then?” Carmine folded his arms.

Mosca leaned forward. She told him, and watched the color drain from his face.

The Laurel Bower coffeehouse was fastened near the Ashbridge when a fifteen-year-old apprentice approached it along the jetty, a few paces ahead of two younger girls.