The rest of the day Mosca spent removing gorse spines and travel dust from Clent’s cloak, darning the seams, and cleaning his boots. From time to time Clent himself would explode from his closet, gripped by fits of poetic rage.

“St. Bibbet lend us light! Why must the man have a name so unsuited to verse? I have already used ‘lithe,’ and unless I use ‘writhe’ I shall be forced into repetition.” He would smooth his hair as if combing his thoughts, then return to the closet.

A little after supper he finally emerged, scanning a scribbled paper like a mother looking for signs of sickness in a newborn baby.

“It must do, it must do.” He glanced at Mosca’s new, coal-black eyebrows, and gave a thin, despairing “hhssst” through his teeth. He donned his coat, picking and preening over it with hands that trembled. “And thus,” he murmured in apprehensive tones, “must we brave the gaze of Mabwick Toke.”

“Who’s he, then?”

“Mabwick Toke is the head of the Stationers’ chapter in Mandelion. He can quote the whole of Pessimese’s ‘Endeavors,’ from Amblebirth to Aftermath, in the original Acrylic. He can speak twenty languages, half of them living, including two from the Aragash Heights, and one that can only be spoken with a coin under the tongue. When he travels, his carriage is lined with shelves so snug with books that the very breeze must squeeze for entry. He once uncovered a league of subversives by identifying a single silken thread in the paper weave of an opera ticket. If wits were pins, the man would be a veritable hedgehog.”

“If he’s so sharp, what do they need you for?”

“Because there are delicate matters afoot, and they require a Special Operative who is not too obviously linked to the Stationers. I am an Unknown Quantity, and may pass through Mandelion Like A Ghost.”

To Mosca’s mind, Clent did not look as if he had haunted anything but a pantry, but she managed not to say so.

“When do we go see Mr. Toke the hedgehog, then?”

“Now. Put on your bonnet and follow me.”

Mosca snatched up her bonnet, slipped her outdoor clogs over her leather indoor shoes, and clattered after Clent.

Out in the street, Mosca’s sharp eyes were dazzled by a hundred sights. The sound of hooves on cobbles was deafening, and Mosca started as a horse’s head appeared directly in front of her, blowing through its nose with a sound like a broken bellows.

“My good fellow, where might I find the Telling Word?”

A tinker paused in response to Clent’s cry and stared skyward, as if judging the position of the sun.

“The Telling Word? You’ll find her on Morestraws, just outside the Papermill.”