“Adequate clothing,” Clent amended. “And for the moment your current apparel seems to serve very well.”

Without looking up from her writing, Mosca extended one foot to show the worn state of the shoe. The flat soles of the shoes she had found in Mistress Bessel’s chest had been walked to ruin by some younger child.

“Let us not be delicate about this, your shoes will serve very well for a few—Songs of the celestial, child, are you wearing breeches?”

Mosca pulled her feet back under her skirts.

“They’re wading breeches,” she explained defensively.

“My dear frog, you are no longer living in a puddle. Now I daresay that you could pass for a measly kind of a boy, but right now you are neither fish nor fowl. Take this down. Second, Mosca Mye will choose one gender and stick to it.”

“Third, Eponymous Clent promises not to take things what are Mosca’s, or use ’em to pay for things, or run off sudden.”

“Oh . . . if you please.” Clent waved one hand airily, as if the idea of him doing anything of the sort was clearly absurd. “Fourth . . .” Without looking up, Mosca could tell that Clent had paused by the window. She could not be sure whether he was gazing out at the view of the river or watching her reflection in the glass with his clever gray gaze. “Fourth, Mosca Mye shall not divulge anything of a sensitive nature pertaining to her employer without his permission, nor shall she rifle through his papers or repeat his conversations.

“Fifth, nor shall he inform on her neither, nor handle her things.

“Sixth, she shall not hoard information from his attention, but shall be diligent in keeping him informed.

“Seventh, he will keep her wise about stuff what concerns them, and persons what they are working for.”

“All right, that will do, sign at the bottom.” Clent added his signature to hers.

“So”—Mosca watched as Clent rolled the paper once more and slid it into his top pocket—“why we workin’ for the Stationers, then?”

“This evening you shall sup full on answers, but in the meantime we both have work to do. I must write the ballad I promised to that cutthroat of the road, and you . . . well, my last secretary, for all his faults, always took the greatest care that my boots were kept clean—I believe that there are some rags beside the ewer. Furthermore, the sorry state of my coat currently reflects badly upon your diligence. And . . . for goodness’ sake, before we go out, do something about your eyebrows.”

Clent retreated to the little closet, and Mosca pulled a bit of charred wood out of the fire and, using her reflection in the window, carefully drew herself new eyebrows with the charcoal tip.