“Really? I thought that you were inspired by the prospect of employment and preferment. Come now, sir. Make your requests plainly.”

“I had hoped, Lady Tamarind, that you might hire me to write an epic tale of your family’s fortunes. The rise of the dukes of Avourlace, their wise rulership of Mandelion over the centuries, their tragic exile during the war and the Years of the Birdcatchers, and then your brother’s triumphant return to reclaim his ancestral rights . . .”

Mosca’s eyes became round as she realized she was staring at the sister of the Duke of Mandelion.

“Very well.” Lady Tamarind’s words were soft and as crisp as a fox print in snow. “You shall write it, and you shall be paid for it. I assume I need not read it.”

“And . . . ah . . .” Creak, crick went Clent’s hat brim, his eyes bodkin eager. “Ah . . . I would request a letter of introduction, that I might mix with the, ah, better sort of personage.” Mosca felt immediately that the letter meant more to him than the money.

“In Mandelion the high and the fashionable may be met with in the Honeycomb Courts, which surround my residence in the Eastern Spire.” Lady Tamarind paused, as if considering. “I shall send you a letter vouching for your character and advising that you be allowed into the Lower Honeycomb Courts. I will do no more for a man I know so little.”

Clent gave a little exhalation of satisfaction.

Silence followed. The rattle of rain and the crack of stones under the wheels had no power to keep Mosca awake. Her eyelids drooped.

She tried to plan ahead, but thoughts gave under her feet and became dreams. She dreamed that she had found her father in Mandelion. He had been running a school there for years, and had not really died at all, and it turned out that Mosca had lots of brothers and sisters, and they were all studying at the school and waiting to meet her. It was time for her to attend her first day at that school, but Mosca was terrified, because when she tried to touch anything it burst into flames. She knew that there was a pair of white gloves that she had to wear which would make her safe, but Clent had stolen them, and she could not find them. She tried to explain everything to her father, but he would not look at her or speak to her. Instead, she ran to Clent and demanded her gloves back, but he sat there, smirking and smoothing the white gloves over his large hands, until she itched to grab him by the jowls and char him to a cinder.

The carriage wall rapped reprovingly on the back of Mosca’s head, and she found herself staring at the deeply sleeping Clent, the dream so vivid in her mind that she felt sparks might leap from her eyes and settle on his cravat.