“I don’t think I want the future we was talkin’ about.” Mosca did not move a muscle, but stayed crouching with her hands around the knotted rope. “I don’t want to work for Lady Tamarind.”

“To tell the truth, I never intended that you should.” Kohlrabi smiled, and looked rather relieved. “She is a very clever woman, but her aims are rather tawdry.” A touch of embarrassment crept into his smile, as if he had been caught buying Mosca a name-day present ahead of time. “I’m afraid I was always planning to steal you away from her. It’s probably time I explained things properly but, Pale Fates, can you bring the raft in first? If we keep shouting like this, we will have the Stationers or worse to deal with.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kohlrabi, but I got all these bits and pieces of thoughts. An’ most of ’em are just little, an’ none of ’em proves anything, but they stick into my mind like pine needles in my socks. An’ there’s only one way of lookin’ at ’em all that makes sense.”

Looking at his carefully hovering hat, Mosca knew exactly what Kohlrabi was holding in his hidden right hand.

“It all makes sense if you’re a Birdcatcher, Mr. Kohlrabi.”

Kohlrabi still wore a look of slightly concerned attentiveness. It seemed to Mosca that he was staring at her hands. He could not know if the mooring rope was still fastened, or if Mosca had already loosed it and was simply holding the rope. For all he knew, if she let go, the raft and the printing press would float away down the river and be lost to him.