Mosca obediently climbed to the attic and hunted out the chest of clothes. Then, her new clothing draped over one arm, she much less obediently sneaked back down the ladder, so that she could listen at the door while she changed.

“Rather young for you, isn’t she?” asked Mistress Bessel.

“Ah . . . a very sad case. I found her starving on the village outskirts, and no man with any feeling could have left her to—” Clent’s sentence broke off with a sudden squawk. Peering through the crack of the door, Mosca saw that Mistress Bessel had playfully taken a pincer hold on his nose with the sugarloaf cutters.

“Now, Eponymous, when I want a story from you I’ll pay for it. Speaking of which, do you have any thieves to sell me this month?”

Mosca felt her mouth go dry. Could Clent really mean to sell her out already?

“Of course, Jen. Four of them. An angler, a diver, and two knights of the road.” From reading the more lurid chapbooks, Mosca knew that “anglers” were thieves who sat on roofs and used long, hooked poles to tweak bags from the top of coaches. A “diver” was a pickpocket, and a “knight of the road” was a highwayman.

Mistress Bessel reached out eager hands and received a bundle of rough pages, printed in large type. Each bore a large seal of red wax, the seal of the Company of Stationers. Mistress Bessel was too busy slowly and silently mouthing out words to observe the corner of another packet of papers jutting from Clent’s burlap package. Clent noticed it, however, and pushed it back into hiding with a furtive urgency. The moment was not lost on the secret watcher.

“Ooh . . . I do like to keep abreast of news in the profession, even now.”

“I thought you would like to see this one, Jen.” Clent extracted a particular sheet and began to read. “‘An Account of the Ingenious Crimes and Stratagems of the Gang led by Rosemary Peppett, otherwise known as Lady Lighttouch . . .’ Here we are . . . ‘not since the time of the infamous Mistress Fleetfinger have we seen such Craft and Courage in a Female Breast, and such Cunning use of her Sex’s softer charms that the Victims might even count themselves blessed . . .’”

Mistress Bessel gave a wistful laugh.

“Slop and feathers!” she exclaimed. “Softer charms indeed—I never made use of my looks as Mistress Fleetfinger. I could have done, though.”

“That you could, Jen,” Clent said gently.

The corners of Mistress Bessel’s mouth drooped slightly, and she thoughtfully smoothed the back of her gloves. Then she gave a sniff and looked up at Clent with a forced brightness.

“So—what kept you?”

“I fear I made myself rather popular in Chough, so much so that they could not be persuaded to part with me. Indeed, when I finally tried to depart, they . . . put me in the stocks.”