Mosca could only conclude that she had suddenly become invisible. She decided that, if this were so, it was probably a good time to steal all of the bread and cheese left on the table.

“Well.” Bockerby watched Clent shrewdly over his meaningless grin. “You must do something about her sooner or later, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I know . . .”

“Mr. Bockerby?” The red-haired girl pushed her head around the door, and blew a stray ringlet off her nose. “Need you in the east chapel, Mr. Bockerby.”

“Well . . . to work. Beg pardon.” Bockerby stood, and slapped his broad-brimmed chaplain’s hat on his head. “My sacred duties call me. Now, my friends, as you return to your rooms, do remember you are set up in apartments usually set aside for our customers, so if you pass anyone in the corridor, pray try to look . . . blissful.”

Mosca was not quite sure how to manage “bliss,” and Clent clearly had something on his mind, so it was perhaps just as well that they encountered nobody in the passageway.

When they were safely in the privacy of their rooms, Clent slid the bolt to.

“Sit down. No, over there by the desk.” He rummaged through his bottomless pockets, and drew out a few objects, each of which he put down on the desk in front of Mosca. “Ship’s articles,” he declared.

Mosca stared down at a roll of unused paper, a bottle of ink, and a slightly mangled quill.

“Are they?”

“If you must interrupt,” Clent responded tersely, “you might at least do so intelligently. Ahem. Sometimes two privateer ships may be forced to sail abreast for a time. They may have a common aim, or a common foe, but, for whatever reason, to squabble is to founder. In such circumstances these gentlemen of the waves are accustomed to draw up a list of articles—of rules—to be observed by all parties. Do you understand now?”

Mosca understood that a truce was being proposed. She chewed on her cheek for a few moments, but she had promised Lady Tamarind to hold with Clent for now. What was more, without Saracen, Clent had become her only link to the world she understood.

“Do I write them down, then?”

“You are my secretary, are you not? Take these down and write small—paper is dear. First, that Mosca . . . ah . . .”

“Mosca Mye.”

“Mosca Mye . . . will serve Eponymous Clent in the capacity of Secretary, obeying all Reasonable Instructions without Question, and in exchange Eponymous Clent will provide for the said Mosca Mye’s meals and lodging . . . and . . . ah . . . twenty shillings per annum to be paid at the end of each year.”

“. . . and a pipe . . .” Mosca added, with a bitter emphasis. And a goose, she wanted to add, but she did not dare to think too hard about Saracen.

“What? Oh, very well, but if you require tobacco you must find that for yourself.”

“. . . and clothes . . .” Mosca continued stubbornly.