Miss Kitely took control. While Clent wrote his letter, Mosca was to eat a little supper in the back room and compose herself. Mosca was glad of the privacy, but she had no stomach for the apple pie that was brought to her. She had just pushed it aside when Blythe entered, stifling a cough. He looked embarrassed to find himself observed, and settled for staring at an ornamental anchor hanging on the wall. Blythe reminded Mosca of the civet, trapped in a battle it did not understand, its eyes reflecting images of its lost freedom.

“So, do you want to marry Miss Kitely?”

“If she’d have me.” Blythe looked as if he would like to be angry at the question but had too much to think about. If Mosca said nothing more, he would start thinking about the heath again.

“She’s got strange eyes.”

“She has very fine eyes.” The highwayman sounded affronted. “She’s . . . like no one I’ve met before. A real lady. And . . .” A dreamy look crossed his face. “. . . she can clean, load, and present a pistol in twenty heartbeats.”

Mosca thought this a much better reason to be in love with someone. But Miss Kitely seemed so unlikely in every other way, so prim and high-collared. Then she remembered the gentle way the coffee mistress had said the highwayman’s name, Clam . . .

“Were you born under Goodman Sicklenose—”

“He Who Lures the Shelled Fish into the Hungry Net. Yes.” Blythe peered at her. He mouthed the name “Mosca” to himself, then raised an eyebrow. “Palpitattle?” Mosca nodded, and they exchanged a smile of grim sympathy.

“It would have been my twenty-ninth name day two weeks from now.”

“It would have been my thirteenth in eleven months.”

This seemed to be all that needed to be said.

“All right,” growled Blythe. “Let’s go. Our friends need Black Captain Blythe to be a hero, and you have a washing tub to catch.”

T Is for Trial by Combat

T
IS FOR TRIAL BY COMBAT

When Mosca emerged from the back room, Clent placed a sealed letter in her hand, but seemed reluctant to release his end of it.

“You . . . you do swim well, I trust?”

“Like a timberline trout,” Mosca replied promptly.

“Ha. Hum. Mosca, when you have delivered this letter, make your way to the Ashbridge. If our dice fall ill, leave Mandelion with all dispatch. If you see smoke rising from the river, assume the worst.”

“If the worst comes . . . you’ll let Saracen out of ’is box, won’t you, Mr. Clent?”

“I swear it upon my muse.”

Mosca knew that, like Clent, she wore the expression of one who has heard a trickle above become a rumble, and is waiting for the avalanche. They did not know what was happening in Mandelion, but they were fairly sure it would end up happening to them.