When Caveat returned, he was struggling beneath two great scrolls of paper. Speaking his sentences piecemeal, in a strange, pouncing, broken fashion, he listed the terrible things that would happen to Mosca if she gave away Stationer secrets, and then pointed to a place at the bottom where she could “make her mark.” Mosca’s pen trembled. What was the “Mye trouble”? Would the Stationers be prejudiced against her if they discovered her name? She could not sign with a false name. It would sit like a china mask over a real face—everyone would surely see the join. Instead, Mosca signed with a cross, as if she were an ordinary country child with no knowledge of letters.

“Does this mean I’ll be goin’ to a Stationer school, then?” she whispered to Caveat as she handed back the papers. “I mean, you’ll want me lettered up proper, won’t you?”

“I dare. Say that if your employer gives. A good account of you it will be considered.” Hearing Caveat was like watching an animal scuttle from cover, pause halfway to look about itself, then continue its low run. He attempted a smile, but eye contact seemed to alarm him, and he scurried away, cradling his scrolls.

Clent was giving an account of his meeting with Lady Tamarind, the promised letter of introduction, and access to the Honeycomb Courts.

“Good.” Toke looked more good-humored now. “If you learn anything in the Courts, leave your report at the bookbinders in Pell-mell Street. Your girl can mingle on the streets, and keep her ears open.” He studied Mosca acutely for a moment or two. “Have I met you before, girl?” He frowned when Mosca shook her head in bemusement. “You look familiar. No matter.”

“Come, Mosca,” Clent whispered. Mosca was rather relieved that nobody actually seemed to want to drag her off to sort rags there and then, and she followed Clent back out to the street.

The crowds were sparser now, and Mosca noticed Clent’s gaze darting nervously to the remaining dawdlers.

“Mr. Clent,” hissed Mosca, as she hurried along beside him, “how do we know if we’re bein’ followed by Locksmiths?”

“A true Locksmith will always wear gloves, because the outline of a key is branded into his right palm,” Clent whispered back. “The head of each secret cell also wears a chatelaine at his belt—with keys on the belt that match the brands of all the men that answer to him.”

“Mr. Clent . . . most gentlemen wear gloves out o’ doors, don’t they?”

“Yes, child, they do.” Clent’s eyes darted from one street corner to the next. “Anyone we meet on the street might be a Locksmith spy.