Mosca kicked out, and the toe of her boot caught the dove just beneath the snow-white plum of its chest, causing it to tumble backward into flight.

“Is something amiss?”

“No, I just thought for a moment . . .”

Mosca held her breath.

“. . . I thought I could smell smoke.”

“Ah, the snuff does have a touch of brimstone in it.”

“So . . .” The younger man sniffed once, twice, to clear his nose, and then spoke again in a less nasal tone. “So you will no doubt keep Mr. Clent in the stocks for a day or two, and then have him taken to Pincaster for further punishment?”

“I believe we must. Chough has a magistrate but lacks a gibbet . . .”

The voices faded, and a door clicked to. After a time, the faint orange ache of candlelight in the nearest window dulled and died.

The roof of the dovecote stealthily rose, and two sets of eyes peered out through the gap. One pair of eyes were coal beads, set between a bulging bully brow and a beak the color of pumpkin peel. The other pair were human, and as hot and black as pepper.

Mosca’s eyes had earned her countless beatings, and years of suspicion. For one thing, they had a way of looking venomous even when she held her pointed tongue. For another thing, her eyes wielded a power that was beyond everyone else in Chough except the magistrate. She could read.

Everybody knew that books were dangerous. Read the wrong book, it was said, and the words crawled around your brain on black legs and drove you mad, wicked mad. It did not help that she was the daughter of Quillam Mye, who had come to Chough from Mandelion amid rumors of banishment, bringing city thoughts crackling with cleverness and dozens of dark-bound, dangerous books. Mosca might as well have been the local witch in miniature.

After her father’s death, Mosca’s eyes had at least earned her a roof over her head. Her uncle, the older brother of her dead mother, was glad to have someone to take care of his accounts and letters. His niece was useful but not trusted, and every night he locked her in the mill with the account book to keep her out of trouble. This evening he had turned the key upon her as usual, without knowing that he was doing so for the very last time. He was now snoring like an accordion amid sweet dreams of grist and fine grain, with no inkling that his niece was loose yet again and embarked upon a desperate mission.

Mosca wrinkled her pointed nose in a sniff. There was a faint hint of smoke on the night air. Her time was running out.