“No, madam, I do not propose to tell the Stationers that one of their best operatives was probably held at pocket-watch point long enough to let an archcriminal escape. I do not think they would take the news well.”

“S’pose not. You got bits of cotton stuck ’tween yer teeth, Mr. Clent.” It looked as if he had been nervously chewing the ends of his cravat.

“Yes . . . a rather trying interview, what with seven of Mandelion’s keenest minds all trying to fillet me like a fish. If I were a vain man, I might have taken offense at how many of their questions were about you. They seemed particularly eager to know whether you had read any of the infamous Birdcatcher books. Fortunately, I was able to put their minds at rest.” Clent cast Mosca a twinkling glance. “‘She is as sharp as a hornet’s breeches,’ I told them, ‘and keen to learn, but her education has been sadly lacking. She can scratch out her letters, but she has no particular way with words.’

“Curiously, I am not convinced that they believed either of us. The Stationers will probably have us followed out of the city and beyond, to see if we lead them to the press.” Clent gave Mosca one of his sharp, questioning looks. “Of course . . . you really did send the press to drink deep of the Slye, did you not?”

“’Course,” answered Mosca without hesitation.

“Naturally. Though . . . sweet petals of Goodlady Aesthelia the Flower-faced, I could not have done so,” Clent murmured with feeling.

“It was tricky,” admitted Mosca.

“All those books unborn, waiting to spring out of it,” added Clent.

“Stories of genies an’ songs about kings with their heads cut off,” said Mosca. They exchanged guilty, hungry smiles. “So, s’posing someone jus’ let the raft with the printing press slide off down the river—what do you think would happen to it?”

“Well . . . if it was not found by the Stationers or nests of waiting Birdcatchers . . . I rather think it would float right out to sea to haunt the visions of late-night helmsmen and perhaps wash up against an exotic shore to cause more mischief.”

“Good,” muttered Mosca. When she had released the rope and watched the ragman’s raft float away down the river, she had felt much as she had watching the lantern fall from her hand into the gorse stacks on her last night in Chough. It occurred to her that perhaps, just perhaps, a part of her really had decided to set fire to her uncle’s mill, so that she would have no choice but to run away. “Some kinds of places need some kinds of trouble,” she finished gnomically.