Frances Hardinge: Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

This did indeed make Mosca feel a good deal better. After all , she reflected, I got an idea what happened to that radish of hers .

‘I wonder what did happen to the first ransom?’ Clent reflected wistfully. Evidently his own thoughts had strayed in a similar direction.

‘No idea, Mr Clent,’ Mosca declared, her eyes two spoonfuls of black innocence.

‘Alack. Well, child, at least I have good news. I chanced upon a member of the Guild of Stationers, and after only a little scuffing of the truth made it plain to him that we had nobly and ingeniously prevented a town falling into the hands of the Locksmiths, for the sake of the Stationers. Once again, madam, our star seems to be in the ascendant, our colours climbing the pole. In short, it seems I shall have buyers for my poems… and we might not need to live on rocks and grass this winter.’

He glanced across at Saracen, who was happily tugging at the grass with his beak, his neck a muscular loop, the grass giving with a deep, meaty ripping sound.

‘Though one of our number seems to favour that diet. I can understand the grass… but why does that perilous creature of yours eat pebbles?’

‘Cos he’s only got teeth for biting, not chewing,’ answered Mosca, not quite meeting Clent’s eye. ‘He swallows little rocks and they sit in his crop and roll around each other, grindin’ his food up like little grindstones.’ She gave Clent a brief needle-sharp glance, but his interest seemed to be idle. She decided to change the subject completely.

‘Mr Clent? I… I just had a word with Mr Goshawk.’

Clent looked up sharply. ‘Well, you appear to be still breathing, though your countenance is not reassuring. What did Mr Goshawk have to say?’

‘He… He didn’t quite offer me a job, and I didn’t quite say no.’

‘I see. Well, I suppose there is only so long one can make a hobby of deciding the fates of cities before it attracts attention. Did he quite manage to say whether the morn will find our battered bodies in the river’s embrace?’

‘I told him you still had a lot to teach me, an’ he said he’d send somebody to ask me again on my next nameday.’ Mosca gave a grimace. ‘Borrowed time, that’s all.’

‘I generally find,’ Clent murmured after a pause, ‘that it is best to treat borrowed time the same way as borrowed money. Spend it with panache, and try to be somewhere else when it runs out.’

‘And when we get found, Mr Clent, when the creditors and bailiffs come after us and it’s payment time…’

‘… then we borrow more, madam, at higher interest. We embark on a wilder gamble, make a bigger promise, tell a braver story, devise a more intricate lie, sell the hides of imaginary dragons to desperate men, climb to ever higher and more precarious ground… and later, of course, our fall and catastrophe will be all the worse, but that later is our watchword, Mosca. We have nothing else – but we can at least make later later.’

Saracen showed no distress at being scooped up with every sign of haste. His world was one of disaster and near-disaster, and he was used to sudden exits, often accompanied by screams, pursuit and the smell of smoke. Another day, another exodus. He met the future with tiny, black and fearless eyes, his bully brow full of goosely daring and a crown jewel of the realm in his crop.

I would like to thank Martin for accompanying me on impulsive expeditions to Ludlow and the other walled towns and castles that inspired Toll; Ruth Alltimes and Nancy Miles for unending patience and positivity; Rhiannon, Ralph and Deirdre for an invaluable stream of feedback; Felix for providing a much-needed extra perspective; ‘A history of the auction by Brian Learmount; Mike Parker for expert advice on musical history and high-speed harp management; Muncaster Castle and other stately homes for legends of the ‘Luck’; Rachel for a vet’s perspective on the workings of a goose’s crop; and Tracy for telling me of Tongs who used Chinese carnival dragons to collect protection money hidden in cabbages, thus giving me the idea of the Clatterhorse.