“No.” Clent looked a little embarrassed, as if he had been caught out in a weakness. “When you denounced me in the watch house I saw myself reflected in your eyes as a monstrous mankiller, and I realized that you truly thought I was guilty. I suppose I could have exposed your petty little crimes and dragged you to the gallows with me, but . . . what would have been the point?”

“I came back to sort it all out,” said Mosca, after an awkward pause.

“Ah,” Clent responded without the faintest trace of hope.

“Thought I’d better. No one else cares ’bout you at all, do they?”

“No, I suppose not. Have you been rubbing ashes into your hair as a sign of penitence?”

“That’s just powder. I’m in disguise.”

“As a wig seller?” Clent nudged the wig box with his toe.

“The box is just borrowed,” Mosca explained quickly. “Had to put Saracen somewhere, didn’t I?”

“Of course.” Clent lowered his face into his hands. “The sad and weather-beaten violins of my existence are tuning up for the coda of my life’s symphony, my hopes and dreams are preparing to drain into the forgetful sands like so much rain—and my last and darkest hours would not be complete without the presence of The Goose.”

While Pertellis and his fellow radicals tried to make sense of what Mosca had told them, Miss Kitely, who had withdrawn through a little doorway, reemerged, this time without a coffeepot.

“Mr. Pertellis,” she said, her quiet voice creating a space for itself amid the raised tones, “I have consulted him on the matter, and he would like to speak with the girl.”

“Him?” Mosca looked a question at Pertellis.

“Our leader.” Pertellis beamed with pride.

“But . . . I thought you were the leader!” Mosca exchanged a glance with Clent, who seemed as surprised as she was.

“Oh no, not really. The truth is, we’ve never really had a leader.” Pertellis gave the men around him an abashed smile. “We were just a group of friends who did our best to change things for the better in little ways—and met in this coffeehouse so we could talk safely. I suppose I kept everyone in touch with one another, but I was always ready to step down when a true leader came along. And he did—in our darkest hour. A man of action, of decision.” A number of the Locksmiths were looking curious, and Mosca suspected that perhaps they had not met the mysterious leader either.

Mosca rose a little unsteadily and found that Clent was also on his feet.

“If you have no objection, I shall accompany my secretary. I would be glad to trade a few words with this incomparable leader of yours.”