“We are in the business of relieving men of their money, not girls of their health. Let her keep the purse to buy a physician.” He looked a question at Clent, as if to ask whether these words would work well in the ballad. Clent nodded kindly to show that they would do very well indeed.

Clent was halfway back to the carriage when Blythe called him back.

“Do you . . . do you think it would be good for the ballad if we helped them fix the wheel?”

A starry look of suppressed glee entered Clent’s eyes.

“Yes, I think that would help a great deal.”

F Is for Fair Mark

F
IS FOR FAIR MARK

It was impossible that Mosca the Housefly could be sitting in a carriage on a cushion of white watered silk. It was impossible that the highwaymen should be letting them leave—she could hear Blythe outside telling the carriage driver what secret signals he should give if other men in the same gang accosted the coach. She felt sure that at any moment Clent’s words would slide off the highwayman like magic dew, leaving him clearheaded and choleric.

The coachman gave the horses a long, looping whistle. The carriage rocked on its wheels, then rumbled into motion. Someone thumped goodwill and a farewell into the wall by Mosca’s head, making her jump.

It was impossible that she and Clent were to arrive in Mandelion in a carriage, flanked by footmen, cushioned in white velvet like two horse chestnuts in down-lined shells. No doubt the pair of them would wake up and find themselves sleeping under a sycamore sacred to Dorace of the Whimsical Dream. Or the carriage would try to cross running water, and would collapse into a pile of dandelion seeds while their hostess spread swan’s wings and took to the sky.

Two pearls were watching her. In the lap of the lady in white lay an embroidered box, the lid adorned with a stuffed ermine stoat whose arched back served as a handle. Instead of glass eyes, small pearls had been placed in the sockets. As the rain lashed the lace curtain, the lady gently stroked at the fur along its back with a gloved fingertip, as if it were a living pet.

“Remarkable.”

The lady did not raise her eyes, and for a moment Mosca thought she was addressing the stoat. It was a moment before Clent found his voice.

“Ah, it was of course a labor of delight to be of service to Your Ladyship, and, if I may say so without offense, my oratory was inspired by the thought of one whose beauty might, ah, give voices to the very pebbles . . .” There was something about Clent’s hopeful expression that made Mosca uncomfortable. His beaver hat offered few complaints as he bent the brim this way, that way.