Mosca watched as the other girl made little fussy, twitching gestures with the brush, which somehow seemed to tease curls out of their tangle, so that they sprang back into their intended shapes.
‘So… Bockerby beats you a lot, then?’ As far as Mosca was concerned, crying alone meant one thing.
‘What? Oh no, almost never… it’s just weddings. I always cry at weddings.’
Mosca stared.
‘What – at all of ’em? But you live in a marriage house! No wonder you’re so thin, you must be all dried up inside with squeezin’ out tears.’
‘I just like weddings,’ the Cakes said sadly. ‘I like watching folks write their names in the register – the ones that can write. I like giving ’em the Cakes. I like the happy ones, an’ the frightened ones, an’ even the ones in their altitudes with gin. I like watching ’em in their best bits of ribbon and their grandfather’s smartest waistcoats. I like throwin’ the honesty pods over ’em for good luck. I guess I just… keep hoping some of it’ll rub off on me, somehow.’
The hand holding the brush drooped miserably. Clearly the Cakes had to be cheered up, or the wig would never be salvaged.
‘Well, it might rub off. You’re not ugly or anything. You’re just sort of pointy.’ Mosca had a feeling that these encouraging words had sounded better in her head, but as it happened the Cakes was too despondent to take offence.
‘Doesn’t make any difference. No one’s going to want me with my Base Beginnings.’ The Cakes gave Mosca a narrow glance, then sighed. ‘Oh well, someone’ll tell you, I guess. My father meant to marry my mother, but somethin’ put it out of his mind and he went to sea instead, and when he came back my mother was dead and I was ten.’
‘Didn’t he do nothin’ for you?’
‘Course,’ the Cakes answered curtly, then gave Mosca another appraising glance. ‘Took me in, didn’t he? Gave me a position. Can’t say fairer than that.’
‘Bockerby’s your father?’
‘Course. An’ he’s kind when we’re alone, treats me right and everything. I think he’s sorry he didn’t marry and can’t call me his daughter. It’s funny really – we write out lots of marriage licences for people, and sometimes if they ask us to, we write down the dates a bit earlier than they should be, so children look like they were born proper and legal after the wedding. But it’s too late to do that for me.’
The Cakes pushed up her fists inside the wig and turned it about, inspecting it critically. ‘That’ll do, I think.’
By the time Clent returned to his rooms, Mosca was waiting for him and polishing his boots. Her expression of unaccustomed innocence seemed to alarm him a little, but he passed no comment, and they walked down to breakfast without further argument.
He was unusually quiet throughout breakfast. Mosca decided that his head was probably full of Schemes, and that if he wished to share them with her, sooner or later he would. Her own head was full of Saracen and the thought of seeing him again.
From Bockerby they learned that most barges and narrowboats could be found moored on the wharf near the Dragmen’s Arches, and after breakfast they set off for the wharf.
The Dragmen’s Arches had been cut into the old fortified wall so goods could be unloaded from boats and brought into the city. Mosca and Clent slithered down one of the brick ramps that descended through the arches, covered with wooden slats so barrels could be rolled up more easily.
‘There she lies.’ Mosca tugged Clent’s sleeve and pointed.
The Mettlesome Maid had been laid up at the end of the quay, at a slight distance from the other barges, as if, despite her name, she had become timorous or coy. One of her crewmen squatted on deck, twisting and plaiting some narrow lengths of line, the cotton startlingly white against his tanned fingers.
‘Indeed. Mosca – I fear it is often incumbent upon a gentleman to prevent injury to the feelings of others, regardless of his own sentiments. At this moment I sense that Mr Partridge must be quite mortified at the way he spoke of me to you. If I were to approach the boat, and he were already in a state of mental turmoil, the sight of me might cause him considerable distress, and he might…’
‘… rip your heart out an’ spike it on a boathook an’ roast it an’ eat it an’ throw the bits he didn’t like to the seagulls…’
‘Mosca…’ Clent glanced at her, then closed his eyes and gave a little shudder, as if he had looked down into a moral well at her benighted soul, and had been gripped by vertigo. He dropped a purse into her waiting hand. ‘Take the money. Retrieve your goose. Let us have the matter over with.’
Mosca approached the Mettlesome Maid with some trepidation, encouraged only by the fact that Partridge was nowhere to be seen.
‘Good morning, sir?’ she called out quietly. The crewman glanced up at her, then let his eyebrows rise and his knotwork fall into his lap.
‘Blood and breath. Well, that’s something. Hey! Dotheril! The Niece is here.’
A mournful, eerie sound rose up from the belly of the barge. It sounded like a cat in a bucket. It might have been a sob of relief.
‘Come on.’ The sailor stood up and held out a hand. Mosca took it and tripped carefully aboard up the gangplank.
‘Is Mr Partridge about?’ Best to know the worst quickly.
‘No, he’s not. I’m hoping you’ve nothing particular you need to say to him either, for I cannot tell you where he might be found. He went off yesterday, saying that he’d be gone for a while as he had some business to attend to – which I took as meaning business at the Ship Inn. When he was not back by dusk, I knew he’d crawled into a bottle. When he wasn’t back by morning, I thought maybe someone had stoppered the bottle before he could get out.’ He gave a grim laugh.
‘So – you talked to him yesterday evening, then?’ Mosca was frightened to ask whether Partridge had left his men detailed instructions involving her heart and boathooks, after chasing her over half the city.
‘No – not since yesterday lunchtime. The captain’ll roll back down that ramp like a barrel before long, I’ll take my oath, but till then I can’t tell you where to find him.’ The sailor suddenly glared at Mosca, and gave a slightly menacing motion as if loosening his shoulder. ‘Of course, now it comes into my head that perhaps the captain’s in a jail somewhere, clapped in darbies. Would you know something of that? Has your uncle decided to blow the widd?’
‘No…’ Mosca bit her lip, not entirely sure what she had been asked, but certain that ‘No’ was probably the safest answer. She looked about for a change of subject, and gave a vague gesture in the direction of the deck. ‘Is… is he all right?’
‘Not so hearty. A broken ankle, but he’ll rally.’
‘That’s not what I…’ Mosca stopped short of explaining that she had been enquiring after her goose, not the injured Dotheril.
‘What are you waiting for?’ There was an echoing wail from below the planks. ‘Get-this-thing-out-of-oh-Beloved-above-it’s-walking-up-my-chest-again…’
The sailor tugged up the edge of canvas, and gestured Mosca under it with a jerk of his head. Three planks had been left out of place, presumably to let air reach the trapped Dotheril. Mosca pulled off bonnet and cap, and swung her upper body down through the crack, head downwards.
The first thing she saw was an inverted Saracen, his white plumage gleaming moonishly in the darkness. Fat little soap bubbles of joy burst in his throat as he saw Mosca.
Another fainter sound from the region of his feet drew Mosca’s attention to the object upon which he stood.
‘Mr Dotheril… ’s all right, just don’t move. ’S all right, really, he only stands on your face if he likes you.’
‘I can’t say as my feelings is likewise,’ hissed Dotheril through his teeth. There were tight creases around the corners of his mouth, as if he had been doing everything through his teeth for some time. He was bracing his elbows against the shifting beach of graven godlings, and trying to drag himself backwards. One of his hands was tightening around an oaken pedestal.