“They’re . . . they’re like a sack of kittens chucked in a river,” Mosca whispered as Clent accompanied her through the crowd of radicals. He slowly lowered his lids once in silent agreement.

Fear made everyone look very alive in a strange and fragile way, like the last flare of a candle before it dies. It cannot end well, said a leaden weight in Mosca’s stomach. Some of them will die, perhaps all.

Mosca wanted to say good-bye to the Cakes, but the older girl was still being saved by Carmine. Indeed, the Cakes seemed to be so very, very safe that Mosca began to wonder if marriage might not rub off on her after all.

In the galley, a trapdoor had been opened in one wall, and a large, sturdy-looking cedar washing tub was being fastened to lines from the ceiling.

“Madam, take some care climbing in—you are blessing the company with sight of a generous extent of your stockinged . . . oh, painted smirk of a hopeless dawn, the child is still wearing her breeches . . .”

Miss Kitely slid a bracelet over Mosca’s wrist, and Mosca saw that tiny wooden figures with carved skeletal faces dangled from it. They were the Little Goodkin, and she realized to her surprise that Miss Kitely thought of her as a child.

Many hands hauled on the ropes. They guided the tub’s giddy ascent toward the hatch, and suddenly Mosca was in the open air, steam from the galley surging out around her, the skin of her face feeling stripped and cold. The tub lowered in jolts, banging against the side of the coffeehouse all the way to the waterline. Under the “coffeehouse” was an ordinary hull, against which the water cast dancing hieroglyphs of light.

Mosca loosed the hooks that held the tub to the lines, and a sudden plunge left the tub lolling in the lap of the river as it fell quickly astern of the Laurel Bower.

“Ahoy! Catch hold there, we’ll haul you in!”

A line end stung Mosca’s cheek, and she grabbed at it automatically. A little bumboat of the sort that sold provisions to large ships in dock was bobbing in the wake of the Catnip. Over the gunwale peered two burnished faces. The two girls wore their plaits down and, like most gypsies, they wore rich waistcoats over their workday clothes, with the meandering of the River Slye embroidered across their chests.

As water was seeping in between the slats of the tub, Mosca made the line fast to one of the handles. The gypsies hauled it in, arm over arm, and then reached over the side to pull her into the bumboat.

“Is everyone hale in the Bower?” was the first question after they had recovered their breath.

“Not holed yet, as I saw. The Duke’s men just shot a fish and killed a kettle,” replied Mosca, feeling her arms where the gypsies’ strong fingers had left tender places.