Everyone in Mandelion seemed to have seethed to the waterside to watch the drama on the river—cooper and cockle seller, weaver and wheelwright. The carriages could find no way through, nor did they seek it, and dozens climbed onto the motionless wagons for a better view of the water. Facing a wall of fustian fronts and woolen backs, Mosca realized that she was going to miss the coffeehouse.

With trembling hands, she pulled her printed apron from her capacious skirt pocket, and flung it over her own head. She emitted what was meant to be a bloodcurdling shriek, but which came out sounding more like the battle cry of a militant shrew. However, the screams that ensued all around her were a lot more convincing and impressive.

“It’s print! Print! Hide your eyes!”

Suddenly there were no bodies pressed against her. She ran forward, praying to the Palpitattle in her head, to the Little Goodkin around her wrist, and to any Beloved who might be skilled at preventing young girls running blind off the edge of jetties. Just as she was thinking that she must be nearing the Telling Word, someone snatched the apron away from her face, and she found herself staring up at the redheaded constable from the jail. Fortunately he busied himself with flinging the apron into a herring barrel full of brine and lunging at it with his sword to make it sink, so she sprinted the last few steps to the coffeehouse and jammed her clog in the door as it was closing.

“I got an important message for Mr. Mabwick Toke, from Mr. Eponymous Clent!”

Two minutes later she was standing in the Telling Word, watching as Mabwick Toke broke the seal on Clent’s letter. He unfolded it, shaking out the two small and elaborate keys Mosca had seen Goshawk give to Clent. Toke read quickly, drawing the side of one long finger to and fro against his tongue, as if sharpening it.

“Your employer tells me,” Toke said at last, raising his eyes to Mosca’s face, “that he has secured a wealth of evidence against Lady Tamarind as a traitress, dissident, and queen of a poison press, all of which he promises to place in my hands in the fullness of time if I act against her now. Is any of this true?”

Mosca nodded.

“He says that you carry proof of the . . . old enemy’s involvement?”

The printed apron was drowned in the herring barrel, so there was nothing for it. Mosca rolled up her sleeve and showed her forearm, bending back her hand to smooth the creases on her wrist.

“’Fraid I got no Stationers’ seal,” she remarked, her Chough accent thickening the words in her mouth like dry oats. “You goin’ to burn me?”