The kite belonged to a coffeehouse known as the Queens’ Heads. The balding proprietor was clearly taken aback when he opened the door to find the glittering figure of the Duke bearing down on him, heralded by a constable, flanked by armed deputies, and followed by a middle-aged valet laden with boxes, muffs, and spare wigs.

“We are honored . . . beyond honor . . . Your most gracious Graceness . . .” This coffeehouse was a favorite haunt of persons who were fiercely loyal both to the Avourlace family and to the Twin Queens, and as the Duke strode in through the door the customers showed this by choking on their coffee and throwing themselves into a series of elaborate and possibly dangerous bows.

“You may all be of the greatest service to Their Majesties,” the Duke declared to the room at large. His long hand seized a curtain and tugged it down with one motion. He pointed a trembling finger out through the window toward the Laurel Bower. “Follow that coffeehouse!”

“The Queens’ Heads is casting off again,” remarked Miss Kitely. “Curious—she should be at her address on Mettlemonger Street for two more bells.”

“Another for our convoy?” Pertellis tried to focus on the distant coffeehouse through his borrowed monocle, but quickly gave up.

“I doubt it somehow, Mr. Pertellis. Most of her customers are Royalists of the old school, who will take a birch to a serving girl if she spills their tea, and will ride over a poor child rather than risk their carriage wheels in the kennel ditch.”

A rope ladder had been lowered from the trapdoor in the roof, and Blythe stood on the upper rungs, high enough to peer across the deck toward the other coffeehouse.

“There are men taking positions at her windows,” he called down. “Duke’s men—I see their colors.”

“That is what I feared,” murmured Miss Kitely. “It will take some time for her to gather away while she’s beam reaching, but even if she cannot head us off, she will fall in behind us and try to take the wind out of our sails. She will press us hard—her master kite is much bigger than ours, and she has eight dog kites to our six. Take her a little to port, Mr. Stallwrath.”

The pursuing coffeehouse was painted spring green. It was lower and faster than the Laurel Bower, and at its stern was a little veranda for riverside supping. On this veranda two deputies now crouched, using an overturned table for cover. They disappeared behind a flower of smoke, and a sharp crack echoed across the water.

“What was that, a shot across our bows to ask for surrender?”

“No! Look at the Catnip!” The helmsman of the lighter had slumped across his rudder, a dark patch spreading over his coat near the hip. As his fellow crewmen dragged him below, the prow of the Catnip began to wander. “Her mainsail’s taken the wind—she’s pulling away despite herself.”