“Goshawk himself is a shadow among shadows. It is said that his fingers are slender and dainty as a child’s, and that he has kept them so by binding them every night in lemon-drenched muslin. He has fashioned keys so quaint that only he can use them, and he can pass through a triple-locked and -bolted gate as easily as you or I might walk through rain. He can sense a secret passage or compartment the way a cat’s pink nose can scent a crock of cream. We have been commanded to spy upon the Wind.”

H Is for High Treason

H
IS FOR HIGH TREASON

The next day, the letter from Lady Tamarind arrived in a whitewood scroll box, and Clent began fussing over his apparel like a dowager before a dance.

“Oh false fates, to leave me without wig powder—child, see that you whisker your way to the kitchens for a spoonful of flour, it will have to serve . . .” And again: “I cannot go to the Honeycomb Courts without scented gloves . . . pray slip into one of the ten-shilling rooms and borrow a basin of rosewater.”

“What ’bout me?” Mosca scattered flour liberally over Clent’s wig, and then brushed the loose grains out of his eyebrows. “What do I wear?”

“I have let your aspirations climb too hastily,” Clent declared, washing his hands daintily in the rosewater and examining his nails. “Because I have allowed you to meet the most eminent Stationer in the city, now you think yourself ready for a debut in ducal circles. I can scarcely walk the Honeycomb Courts trailing some unweaned driggle-draggle.”

Mosca pushed her tongue into her cheek, and tweaked Clent’s cravat into shape. Nothing in the unweaned driggle-draggle’s manner revealed that her head was buzzing with a dozen furtive plans of her own, and that she was feverishly calculating for how many valuable hours the Honeycomb Courts would keep Clent out of her hair.

“You, madam, have a pair of voracious and inquisitive ears. I recommend that you employ them around the city, and see if they can gather anything of use.” And with that, Clent was out of the door with a swing and swagger.

Five minutes later, his secretary slipped out of the marriage house into the cool of the early morning.

Mosca’s plan was this. She would hunt down the “Ragged School” her father had mentioned, and dazzle them with her learning. Perhaps Mr. Twine, the schoolmaster her father had mentioned warmly, would remember the name of Quillam Mye and lend her some money, so that she could buy back Saracen when Partridge reached Mandelion. If not, then there was nothing for it but to work for the Stationers and hope that they paid her before Partridge sold Saracen or ate him.