Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

alongside myself, through a gate of our choice. In the meanwhile, however, you will be sentenced to a long deep sleep in a nice soft bed.’

Mosca did indeed wake up in a very comfortable bed.

She had only the dimmest recollection of nodding off against Clent’s arm, hearing the conversation around her dull to a drone. Somebody must had carried her to a bed, removed her remaining shoe, stockings and bonnet, and tucked her under cotton sheets and three soft woollen blankets that smelt of lavender. She opened her eyes, and saw peach-coloured curtains around her bed. She closed her eyes again, and there was a warm and weightless sense of comfort, and the cool of a clean pillow against her cheek.

It was after an hour of such drowsing that Mosca roused herself enough to sit up. She drew back the curtain and stood, squeezing at the chocolate-coloured rug with her toes. The shutters of the little bedroom had been thrown back, and through the window she could see the ice-pale sun in a sky of eggshell blue. Mosca’s eyes hurt, but she realized they were watering from more than the light. Until this moment, in the deep, cold roots of her being, she had not believed that she would see the sun again. Walking to the window, she discovered that it looked out upon the green castle courtyard and realized that she must be in the mayor’s house.

For a little while she sat in a small wicker chair, watching golden dust motes chase each other slowly and futilely in the shafts of sunlight, and the birds string themselves like beads along the roofs of Toll-by-Day. Then she looked at herself in the mirror on the dresser, noting the dirt and bruises she had not noticed in the netherworld of cut-price rushlights. She splashed water on her face, cleaning the last hints of green crusting from her cheeks and eyebrows. There was no doubt about it, she was paler than she had been before entering the town, and there was a touch of shadow under each eye. Four nights in Toll-by-Night had, in keeping with its name, taken its toll.

I’m going to get out. Her spirits lurched unsteadily into the air like a wounded pigeon. I’m going to get out of this wormpit of a town. And I will never, never come back here again.

As she found out before long, a lot of other people had similar plans.

Shortly after a maid had brought Mosca a tray with a bowl of hot rabbit soup and a golden-crusted loaf of fresh bread, Eponymous Clent arrived with news of the town.

‘Stories of Miss Beamabeth’s daring escape from her captors are all over town, of course, and the citizens of Toll-by-Day are itching to see Brand Appleton aloft on a gallows.’ Clent stood by the window, peering down into the castle grounds market, plump fingers tap-tapping impatiently at his waistcoat pocket. Evidently he was eager to shake the dust of Toll from his shoes and write something curt and cryptic about it in his little black book of never- come-back. ‘However, it would seem that word of the missing Luck has got out… and now a number of notables are also trying to get out. The Guilds, mostly.’

‘The Guilds?’ Mosca halted her attempts to cram as much bread into her mouth as possible without her cheeks exploding.

‘The Stationers left first thing this morning. All of them. The Playing-card Makers were half a step behind them, and I notice that all the Goldsmiths seem to have shut up shop.’

‘What? Surely the Guilds do not believe that Toll will fall in the river if the Luck is took from the town?’ Mosca boggled.

‘I am sure not all of them believe that… but they see the way the wind sits. I think there is little doubt now that Toll-by-Day will fall to the Locksmiths just as Toll-by-Night did before it. The mayor’s spirit is broken. He is terrified that if the Locksmiths are angered they will take the Luck away, and that Toll will suddenly fall off the cliff like a pie off a sill. And so he has taken on new advisors – Locksmith advisors. From this day forth, I do not think he will be seen without them.’

Mosca’s blood ran cold. Toll was now a sinking ship, and she could hardly blame the Guilds for their rat-like scamper away from it. The subdued urgency in Clent’s manner was starting to make more sense too.

‘How long we got, Mr Clent? B’fore the Locksmiths take over?’

‘I, ah, have no idea. None at all. It might not happen for a fortnight, or, ah, for all I know by dusk today…’

‘Today? ’

By now Aramai Goshawk would know that Beamabeth Marlebourne had been snatched from under his nose, and since Mistress Bessel was spying for him he might have a shrewd idea that Mosca and Clent were responsible. If they were still in Toll-by-Day when Goshawk took control of it, she had a feeling their future careers would be limited to a very long drop followed by a brief and lethal swim.

‘Precisely,’ answered Clent. ‘And since it is currently such fine weather for travelling, I, ah, thought I should drop by and find out how quickly you were recovering.’

Mosca jumped up. ‘I jus’ got a lot better. Where’s my blinkin’ bonnet? And where’s Saracen?’

Over the next ten minutes Mosca made short work of her lunch, scrambled into the lilac gown that had been laid out for her, then flung herself into hurried packing and goose-retrieval, after which Mosca and Clent were almost ready to make their hasty adieus.

‘Typical,’ muttered Mosca as she fitted Saracen’s muzzle. ‘After all the trouble we went to, rescuing Beamabeth from one Locksmith town, and now she’ll be trapped in another.’

‘I think not,’ Clent remarked wryly. ‘In all probability she will leave and marry Sir Feldroll – a gentleman that stormed out of Toll in the highest dudgeon this morning, by the way. The mayor, on the recommendation of his new “advisors” has said that even fewer people will be let in and out of the town from now on and all tolls will be raised from tomorrow. So poor Sir Feldroll will not be marching his army through Toll after all, it seems. Mandelion is safe from that quarter, at least.’ Clent regarded Mosca with a gleam of amusement. ‘Yes, I rather thought that would please you.’

Brave, jubilant Mandelion and its intrepid radical government were safe for now. Yes, that did make Mosca happy. So why did she still feel a strange uneasiness of spirit? Her steps slowed unwillingly and she halted by a window, biting her lip almost to bleeding point.

‘Child! More haste! We are done here. You have even avenged yourself upon the detestable Skellow, who was bent on your destruction – he is no more, I gather? Killed while on the brink of shooting Miss Beamabeth.’

‘Stabbing. But… yes.’ Mosca thought of the last breath hissing out of Skellow’s lean profile and felt queasy.

‘Stabbing, shooting, it is all the same.’ Clent gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Caught on the verge of committing dire damsel-icide. The point is, your nemesis is defeated. There is nothing more for us to do here.’ Clent was squinting eastwards, his mind already on the road.

But Mosca was no longer listening. Looking down through the window into the castle courtyard, she could see a young woman walking to and fro beside her vegetable stall, trying in vain to calm a squalling baby. There was something about its tremble-fisted frenzy that reminded her of Blethemy’s baby, the Gobbet. She thought of Mistress Leap with a hundred desperate mothers, all struggling to have their babies born in a lucky hour so that they could live a better life, all clutching at that one, gleaming strand of hope. That strand was about to snap. Soon Toll-by-Day would fall to the Locksmiths as Toll-by-Night had done before it, and the town would shut up like a clam. Nightfolk and dayfolk alike would be trapped under the fearful rule of the Locksmiths, and escape for either would become all but impossible.

‘Oh… oh, rat-pellets!’ exploded Mosca. ‘It’s their last chance! Wait here a few breaths, Mr Clent!’ She stamped away down the hall. ‘I have to talk to Miss Beamabeth. If anybody can make the mayor listen, it will be her! And she must listen to me, Mr Clent! Drizzle an’ dregs, I hauled her out of Toll-by-Night by her hair! That has to be worth more than spittle!’

Mosca found Beamabeth in the long reception room where they had first met a few interminable days and nights ago. The mayor’s adopted daughter was sitting at a sampler frame. From Mosca’s side she could only see the back of the design, a tangle of cream and fuschia threads. She was, Mosca noticed with relief, entirely alone.

‘How lovely to see you looking so well, Miss Mye!’ There it was again – the utterly disarming kitten smile. ‘That dress of mine becomes you very well. You must take it with you when you go. I can give you a shawl to match it.’ Beamabeth’s hair was back in ringlets, and their colour had come out like the sun. ‘You do not mind if I do not stand? My nerves are still so weak after everything that has happened.’

‘Miss Beamabeth… I wanted to talk to you about Toll. About the things the Locksmiths want the mayor to do. You got your father’s ear -’

‘Oh dear.’ Beamabeth made a pained little moue. ‘Sir Feldroll was talking to me about that sort of thing this