“No customers!” called out one of the Bower deckhands, climbing down the wooden rungs from the roof. “Lady of the house is ill—we’re just stopping to take on food and physic. Oh—hello, Carmine.” His voice dropped to a lower and friendlier tone. “Didn’t recognize you. Since it’s you, you can nip right in, but be sharpish about it, and don’t let anyone see you.”

Carmine leaned forward to murmur into his ear, and the sailor cast a suspicious glance at Mosca before gripping the apprentice by the arm and drawing him in through the coffeehouse door. Despite a pleading look from the Cakes, Mosca slipped up to press her ear against the door.

It did not sound much like an invalid’s house. There seemed to be a lot of people behind the door, all talking at once.

“Dormalise Bockerby says she’s flash,” Carmine was saying, “and I took ’em here the long way by the Scrapes so I was sure we weren’t followed. I didn’t like it at first, but I think you’ll want to hear what she has to say.”

“That girl is clearly a pawn.” An educated, excitable voice that somehow reminded Mosca of a colt’s harness bells. “It little matters whose pawn—we can find out only to our cost.”

“Am I to understand that the poor girl is actually waiting there on the doorstep as we speak?” It was unmistakably the voice of Hopewood Pertellis, tired and patient. “Then for goodness’ sake bring her in. If there is damage to be done, I would say it has already been done—she knows where we are. Bring her out of the cold and give her some chocolate.” There was a ripple of protest. “My friends, either someone must let her in, or I shall go out and talk to her personally.”

Mosca managed to withdraw a few steps before the door was opened to admit the Cakes and herself.

Inside she had to blink a few times before her eyes grew used to the windowless dark. Daylight bored in through knotholes in the wooden walls, and a candleholder was fixed to the center of every table. Between the tables rose two wooden pillars, each the base of one of the masts above. They had been painted in genteel stripes to match the walls.

The lady of the house did not look ill. She was pale, but pale by nature, and perhaps from living in a half-light. Her vivid blue eyes were clear and calm beneath their heavy lids. A few roughly torn linen bandages hung over one arm, and the steaming bowl in her hand smelled of herbs.