“You never swear by the Beloved, never. I mean, I seen you in the cathedral . . . but in the bit which is still the old church really, with its Heart of the Consequence still there under the shines an’ shimmers.” Mosca paused, but the figure on the bank remained silent and motionless. “An’ you work for Lady Tamarind, an’ Lady Tamarind is working with the Birdcatchers. An’ then there’s you followin’ Mr. Clent all around the country, an’ sayin’ it’s ’cause he’s dangerous an’ got blood on his hands, when all the time he’s a fat, skittered old tomcat with long claws an’ no teeth. That only makes sense if it was you what stole the letter Mr. Toke sent to Mr. Clent—the second one, asking him to come to Mandelion. You found out the Stationers had sent for a special agent to find the printing press, and went out to stop him ’fore he even got here. They just brung him in ’cause they didn’t want to risk one of their own, and didn’t care if the Locksmiths killed him, but you thought they must be sendin’ for someone really special and clever and dangerous. An’ when you . . .” Mosca paused, wondering if she was going too far. “When you told me that story ’bout the night your father died, when that church got blasted to smithereens by a Birdcatcher spy . . . the spy was your father, wasn’t he?”

“The bravest man I have ever known,” Kohlrabi said simply.

Mosca’s waterlogged petticoats clung to her legs, and her teeth were starting to chatter. She realized suddenly that she had wanted Kohlrabi to laugh at her, and deny everything, and show her where she had been stupid. Instead, he continued to smile as if everything was still a game, and a game that Mosca was playing rather well.

“You’re a Birdcatcher,” she said in a small, stifled voice.

“‘Birdcatcher’ is a word,” said Kohlrabi. “The whole country is frightened of a word. Mosca, the word has no poisoned bite. It has never smothered a baby. You cannot fire it out of a cannon. And yet, say ‘Birdcatcher’ to a company, and they will scatter like rabbits at the scent of a fox. You are better than that, Mosca. You are not a rabbit.”

Mosca sniffed, and wrinkled her nostrils, very much like a rabbit. An icy tickle plagued her nose, but she dared not move her hands to scratch it.