“They’re the talk of the town,” Jake announces gruffly, jerking his head at Livia and Charlie. “Or their coach is, shot up on the high road. Fowler went to town this afternoon. Says it’s all everyone’s talking about. Rumour says Lady Naylor herself was inside and has been abducted. And then Sutter pipes up that he found a boat, what was left of it, stuck on some rocks a league downriver. Said it had a crest. He didn’t give it much thought at the time. Now the whole village is wondering what connects them, coach and boat. And who was inside.”

His father puts a hand on Jake’s arm. The gesture quiets him, makes him cede ground.

“You cannot stay here,” Mr. Mosley announces after a pause. “Not if you don’t want to be found. The whole village is talking. And management always has its man in the pub. Someone’s sure to come and ask questions.” All of a sudden a scrap of Smoke escapes him. He watches it rise, waves to disperse it. “Excuse me.”

It is like he is apologising for breaking wind at the table. It is the only hint that he is agitated.

“We will go,” says Charlie. “First thing in the morning.”

The man wags his chin in thought.

“No you won’t. That one”—he points to Thomas—“he can’t walk. Not for a while. And he’ll need a doctor, or a nurse. He ain’t out the woods yet.” He pauses, sets to lighting his pipe. “There is a place. Somewhere no one will see you. And even if they do, they won’t tell. That is, if you are serious. About disappearing for a while.”

He looks to Charlie for an answer, but Charlie looks to her. Livia understands the look. It’s her mother who will worry herself sick over her daughter’s disappearance. And it’s her mother who might have tried to have them killed.

It’s her decision.

But if she gets it wrong, it’s Charlie and Thomas who will die.

“When do we go?” she asks.

Mr. Mosley’s expression does not change. He draws at his pipe, exhales. “Tonight. But not before two or thereabouts. In between shifts.”

Before he can turn away, she walks over to him and looks him in the eye.

“You don’t have to do this. Thank you that you do.”

His face darkens. It takes her a second to comprehend it’s a blush.

“It was Francis’s idea,” he says, pointing at his silent son. “On the way over. I wasn’t sure at first. But now I think he’s right.” He pauses, turns to his wife. “This one will need some woman things, I imagine. And some cutlery for the both of them, a jug or something of the kind, and any blankets we can spare.”