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pounding at the door. Nell hastened over and slid back the latch. It was soon apparent to the others that she was arguing with the Watch, for snatches of conversation came wafting in with each blast of cold air.
    “... curfew rung at St Mary-Le-Bow!”
    “But we are closed to the public!” Nell protested. “My friends and I are celebrating Cicily’s churching.”
    “... heard that one before... hauled into the wardmoot... huge fine...”
    “Oh, Splendor of God!” Nell threw up her hands in frustration. “Justin, will you please come tell these fools that we are not open for business?” Ignoring his obvious reluctance, she swung back toward the Watch, arms akimbo, eyes snapping. “Hear it from the queen’s man if you doubt my word!”
    Knowing Nell was not to be denied, Justin got to his feet and crossed to the door. With a reproachful glance toward Nell that was utterly wasted, he stepped outside to talk to the Watch. Returning soon thereafter, he muttered that the Watch was satisfied and grabbed Nell in time to stop her from opening the door and shouting a triumphant “I told you so!”
    Conversation resumed and once it had reached a festive level again, Aldred elbowed Justin in the ribs and murmured, “So how did you ‘satisfy’ the Watch?” for he knew Justin well enough to feel confident that he’d not clubbed them over the heads with the queen’s name.
    “How do you think? I bribed them,” Justin confessed quietly, and they exchanged grins, for they’d both learned by now that the less authority men had, the more likely they were to defend it jealously. But it was then that the banging began again, even louder this time.
    “I’ll get it,” Aldred offered quickly, for Nell’s outraged expression did not bode well for a peaceful resolution. Before she could object, he darted to the door. “It is not the Watch come back,” he announced with palpable relief, and opened the door wide. “Someone is asking after you, Justin.”
    The man was a stranger. He was clad in a costly wool mantle that told Justin he was no ordinary courier; so did his self-assurance, which bordered on arrogance. “I’d been told that if you were not to be found at the cottage by the smithy, I should seek you at the alehouse,” he said, drawing out a tightly rolled parchment. “This was to be delivered into your hands and yours alone.”
    Justin had received urgent communications in the past. But the queen would not be sending him messages from Germany. For a brief moment, he wondered if it could be from his father. Almost at once, he dismissed that idea; the bishop had never bothered to learn how to reach him in London. A wax seal dangled from the scroll, its imprint unfamiliar to him. Claiming the letter, he headed into the kitchen in search of light and privacy.
    He broke the seal and unrolled the letter as soon as he reached the hearth. The handwriting was not known to him, and his eyes flicked to the last line, seeking the identity of the sender. He caught his breath at the sight of Claudine’s name, elegantly inscribed across the bottom of the page. He read rapidly by the flickering light of the kitchen fireplace, then went back and read it a second time.
    “Justin?”
    His head coming up sharply, he saw Nell standing in the doorway. “I do not mean to pry,” she said. Not even Nell could carry that off with a straight face, and her lips were twitching. “All right, I do. But it is my experience that mysterious messages arriving in the middle of the night rarely bear good news. Does this one?”
    “No, most likely not, Nell. I shall have to leave at first light. I’d be grateful if you could care for Shadow whilst I am gone.”
    Nell grimaced and sighed and looked put-upon, but eventually agreed, as they both knew she’d do. “At least tell me where you’ll be going.”
    Justin glanced down at the letter again. “Dover,” he said, “where I’ll be taking ship for France.”
    In his twenty-one years,