Mosca emerged, carefully grabbed an armful of goose, and bobbed a hurried, inelegant curtsey to her hostess.

“I am very sorry, Mistress Bessel,” she explained hurriedly. “Saracen has an antipathy to strangers.” She had long treasured the word “antipathy,” and was glad of a chance to use it.

She left the shop at a weak-legged walk. It surely could not be long before Mistress Bessel sent a constable after her anyway, but if she ran, the woman might think to shout, “Stop, thief!” and then she would have the whole street at her heels.

Amid the forest of swaying masts, she spied a yellow flag upon which rippled the Grouse Rampant, the heraldic device of King Hazard. The Mettlesome Maid was a hayboat, and a heavily loaded one at that. The crew were doing their best to cover the bales with sacking, while the gulls tugged and scattered the hay across the deck.

Pulling her mobcap down to hide her white eyebrows, Mosca struggled through the crowd of impatient haulers. A heated discussion appeared to be taking place on deck.

“. . . a degree of haste would be appreciated.” Clent’s tones were unmistakable.

“Not for that price. After all, I run the risk. If the Watermen find out I’m carrying passengers ’gainst their rules, they’ll hole my boat as sure as rocks.”

“Uncle Eponymous!” squeaked Mosca, and reddened as a number of tanned faces turned grins upon her that glittered like hot tar. “I spoke to the wherry captain and he’ll take us for your price . . .”

The captain of the barge looked a little taken aback, but this was nothing compared to Eponymous’s start at being greeted by his “niece.”

“Your niece?” The captain seemed to be reckoning the odds of losing his passenger. “Well, can’t leave a lass standing on the wharfside wi’ these villains. Your price, then, and sixpence more for the girl, and we’ll leave it at that.”

Mosca was handed aboard, and delicately seated herself on a bale next to her “uncle.”

“How resourceful of you,” he murmured under his breath. “I was just arranging our . . . er . . . I see you have your . . .” His eyes dropped to Saracen.

“Mistress Bessel decided she didn’t want him after all,” Mosca said carefully. As she spoke Mistress Bessel’s name, she recalled the interesting words she had heard Farthingale yelling at the top of his voice. “Mr. Clent,” she asked meekly, “what does ‘pixilated’ mean?”

“Deranged. Having had one’s senses stolen by the fairies,” Clent replied promptly.

“And ‘pyewhacked feathrin’?”

“I believe that is meant to suggest a bird possessed by the devil.”

“And ‘chirfugging’?”

“Ahem. I think I shall tell you that when you are a little older.”