Fly by Night by Frances Hardinge

remember Mosca, glanced at her, and gave a small gesture as if pushing away a memory. ‘You can imagine how glad everyone was when the present Duke came back from Jottland with his sister.’
    ‘How is the Duke?’ Clent asked carefully, as if asking after an illness of a delicate nature.
    ‘He’s . . . not what he was.’ Bockerby seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘When he first come back from exile, seventeen years past, just after we’d kicked out the Birdcatchers, we was all flags and smiles and thrown hats. Then a couple of years later there was that rumpus during the Year of the Dead Letter, when the Stationers were fighting among ’emselves. The Duke put those riots down hard, an’ nobody saw him the same way after.
    ‘Now we got new riots, folk fear he’ll put musketmen out on the streets again. I don’t speak against him, mind. His . . . funny little ways get funnier every year, but that’s all trim for a duke. Show me a man with blue blood, an’ I’ll show you a man with a bonnetful of bees.’
    Clent sighed. ‘Well, Beloved preserve the wits of the mighty, and spare the skins of the small! Good Mr Bockerby, I fear we droop upon sleep’s altar. If you might show us our rooms . . .’ He flicked sharply at Mosca’s nose to rouse her to alertness.
    Bockerby took the candle and led them from the parlour. Mosca shambled after Clent through another corridor to a little chamber with a desk, a closet, and a smell of long-forgotten mouse-adventures.
    When Bockerby had gone, Mosca gratefully collapsed into a truckle bed at the foot of the main bed, but her mind was no longer quite ready for sleep. Strangely, her betrayal of Clent’s secret to Lady Tamarind had taken some sting out of her hatred. Too much newness had broken like a wave against her mind and, odious as he was, Clent’s presence was almost comforting.
    ‘Is the Duke pixelated, Mr Clent?’
    Clent shuddered. ‘That is a judgement upon me for seeking to extend your vocabulary. If I hear you using such words to describe a duke in my hearing again, I shall put you on a diet of dry verbs and water until you have learned to speak more wisely. In Mandelion, an illchosen word in the wrong company may cost you your neck.’
    ‘Well, if he’s not pixelated, what’s all this ’bout bees an’ bonnets an’ pairs , then?’
    ‘Ah,’ Clent said significantly. ‘ Pairs .’ He settled himself comfortably on the sill. ‘The Duke’s love of pairs dates from his sojourn with Queens Meriel and Peri. You have heard of the Twin Queens?’
    ‘They’re granddaughters of the last throned king?’
    ‘Very good. And do you know why their portraits always show them in long, trailing sleeves?’
    Mosca, who had never seen a picture of the Twin Queens, shook her head.
    ‘All twins are born together, but the Twin Queens were born hand in hand . The outside edge of Meriel’s right hand was joined fast to the edge of Peri’s left. Between their little fingers grew an extra finger, which both sisters could move at will.
    ‘When they were five, it was decided that this strange bond had to be broken. Meriel was allowed custody of the extra finger, but ever since they were divided the queens have taken to wearing gloves and long lace sleeves to hide their difference. The superstitious say that both sisters can still move the finger, even though it grows on Meriel’s hand.
    ‘Our current Duke of Mandelion, Vocado Avourlace, and his sister, Lady Tamarind, were born in exile in Jottland, where their family had loyally followed the Twin Queens and their mother. As a youth he spent much time in the company of the young queens, and when he came of age he began wooing them with zeal. The problem was that he was unmistakably courting them both, for in truth there was little to choose between them.
    ‘At last the sisters made it clear that he must pick one bride. He chose Peri, and at first there was general rejoicing. However, Peri wanted to know why she