Of course it was madness to be out alone in the woods, let alone at such an hour. Mosca had read of Wry Petchers, the Manhandler of Scumpy Bank, not to mention countless other footpads, cutthroats, and gangs preying through the waysides and wild places. Even an ordinary peddler might snatch the chance of robbing a small and solitary girl. But somehow these thoughts and the tingling scratches left by the briars only made her more determined. Besides, woods made sense. Woods were home.

On two occasions Mosca noticed a convoy of Watermen boats sail by, kites high. The first convoy was a flotilla of small, fleet boats. The second was a glide of larger tideboats and barges, flanked by wherries. Each time, she hid in the undergrowth until they had passed.

By the time a nibbled moon was climbing the treeline, Mosca’s clogs were heavy with black mud and her stomach was a blank, demanding hole.

The river’s voice changed, and Mosca realized that it was struggling with a foaming tangle of boughs which chafed in the drag of the current. Her heart somersaulted as she recognized the dead tree where she had narrowly escaped the Birdcatcher ragmen. But surely it was foolish to imagine that they would still be waiting here in such a desolate place?

Using the ripple of roots as rungs, she climbed up onto the trunk of the fallen tree, and kicked her heels against the bark to knock off the mud. She pulled a few blackberries from the nearest bush, but they were still hard and bitter to chew, and she could feel their tiny hairs tickle her tongue and throat as she swallowed them. She was just thinking of climbing farther up the fan of roots to reach a dark spray of mellowberries when a firm hand was placed over her mouth and she was pulled backward off the trunk. Despite her shock, Mosca made hearty use of her elbows until her attacker set her on her feet and released her. She turned, fear hammering in her chest.

“Mr. Kohlrabi!” Mosca was flooded with relief. “I looked for you an’ couldn’t find you an’ lots of things ’ve ’appened an’ you weren’t at your coffeehouse where you said to look an’ Mistress Nokes couldn’t say . . .” Mosca’s voice dropped to a whisper as Kohlrabi shook his head and raised a finger to his lips.

“Hush . . . Mosca, you are being followed. You have been followed all the way from Mandelion. And I do not think you wish to lead them to the printing press, do you?”

Mosca shook her head silently.

“Let’s see if we can lose them, then, shall we?”

Kohlrabi seemed to know the paths of the wood where moss would silence their steps. He appeared much taller in the dark, or perhaps, Mosca’s tired brain wondered, perhaps he wore daylight in a way that made him seem shorter and more ordinary.