“Oh, aye, an’ ‘is mum’s gonna be right riled,” Raf said cheerfully, as Skif sipped the hot, spicy liquid, fragrant with apples. “’E’s ‘ad a pair uv beers an’ ’e’s a-workin’ a third.”

Lyle’s gotten two lifts and Raf saw him working a third? That was good news. By this point Skif understood why Raf had warned him. There was something hard and heavy at the bottom of the cone, heavy enough that if he didn’t finish the cider quickly and carefully, the cone might start to disintegrate and leak. “I’m gonna go ’ome an’ see’f Mum’ll be lettin’ us stay past dark,” he offered.

Raf gave him a nod. “I be over t’orse dancers,” he said, and wandered away as Skif trotted off again.

He continued to sip at the hot cider until he could actually see what was in the bottom. It looked like jewelry—chain, with a seal attached. And from the taste now in the cider, it was silver. He ducked into a blind alley and fished the thing out, dumped the last of the cider and then, thinking, put it back into the paper cone. Nobody as poor as he was would waste waxed paper by throwing it away—it was too useful as a spill for starting fires. So he screwed the thing up into a spill shape with the chain and seal inside, and went on his way again.

Bazie was pleased with the lift, but gave no hint that he was ready for them to stop, so back Skif went again.

Raf had warned him that he might be noticed—by the ropedancers themselves, if no one else—if he went to the same spot a third time. The new meeting point was the tiny corral holding the trick riders; Raf had pointed out a good place the first time they’d gone past, where a farm cart full of hay was pushed up against the corral fence. That was where Skif went, propping hands and chin on the lower railing as he watched one of the riders riding—standing—on the back of a remarkably placid horse.

A heavy hand gripped his shoulder.

Skif jumped—or tried to; with that hand on his shoulder, he couldn’t do more than start. Heart racing, he turned his head, expecting a beak. I’m clean! he thought, thanking his luck that he was. I’m clean! ’E cain’t do more’n tell me t’ get out!

But it wasn’t a beak that held his shoulder. It was his cousin Beel.

“Beel!” he squeaked.

“I’m pleased you recall one family member, Skif,” Beel said gravely. “I’d like to know where you have been.”

Skif thought quickly. “Wuz runnin’ errand, came back, an saw t’fight,” he said, trying to look absolutely innocent. “Saw beaks in’t, an—well, ‘ad t’spook, Beel. Couldn’ do nothin’, so I ’ad t’spook.”

Beel nodded. “But then where have you been? Why didn’t you come to—”

Skif took a chance and interrupted. “Beel—I cain’t go back t’ Nuncle Londer,” he whispered. “Them beaks, they want me t’tell ‘em stuff ’bout Maisie—but ye know tha’s stuff Nuncle don’ want me t’tell!”