“Oh, your lovely hair!” cries Csilla when I arrive at Count Fournier’s house with Mrs. Och and the professor. Mrs. Och looks vaguely annoyed that Csilla and Gregor are there as well.

“Pish,” says Esme. “What use has Julia for lovely hair?”

Which I might have found insulting if I didn’t have so much else on my mind.

“Ah, well,” says Csilla forlornly. “It’ll grow back.”

Jun is standing by the door. I am absurdly nervous to look at him, but I do. He makes an O of surprise with his mouth and then grins, and my stomach somersaults wildly. I smile back and then can’t wipe the smile off my face, so I look down to try and hide my ridiculous expression. Hounds, I’m an idiot. I want to drag him into the hall with me, away from the others.

Count Fournier looks overwhelmed to have us all in his dilapidated parlor: Gregor, gray-faced but upright, his mouth a line of grim endurance; Esme, long-limbed, benign, and genderless; and Csilla, who always looks set for a night at the opera, though her face paint is a little brighter and more careless than usual. Professor Baranyi helps Mrs. Och to the smelly sofa, where I was held at gunpoint just a few days ago. It’s so strange now to think of Jun pointing a gun at me. Count Fournier seems uncertain about kissing Mrs. Och’s hand, and in the end just clasps it loosely and then goes springing over to his liquor cabinet. He is wearing shoes for the first time since I’ve met him.

“Thank you all for coming! Och Farya, it is a great honor. I never imagined I might host one of the Xianren! May I…Brandy, anyone? Or whiskey?”

He is already pouring a glass, which he then holds toward Gregor, beaming.

“No!” says Gregor hoarsely, and stuffs his trembling hands into his pockets. Csilla rushes to take his arm.

“Please put it away,” she begs the count. “We don’t want any!”

He looks confused, but he puts the glass down. “Well then,” he says, a bit sadly.

I sneak another look at Jun. He winks, and a wave of heat goes through me, thinking of his hands slipping under my tunic, his ragged breath in my ear.

“Do you have word of Ko Dan?” asks Mrs. Och sharply. Nothing to kill a pleasant fantasy like the sound of her voice.

Count Fournier shakes his head nervously. “There are a hundred different rumors. The source I trust the most believes him to be imprisoned in the Imperial Gardens by order of Si Tan, but even that I cannot confirm beyond doubt, and nobody can tell me exactly where.”

“And you say that Old Zey is ill?” says Mrs. Och, leaving the question of Ko Dan behind rather quicker than I like.

“Dying,” says the count. “The Sidhar Coven has been reassembling.”

“What little is left of it,” says Mrs. Och dismissively.

“I have no money, no means of returning, but if you take me back with you, I have contacts all over Frayne—the names of well-connected people who are waiting for a revolution.”

“Witches and a few Lorians might be ready to rise up, but are the people?” asks Esme. “It cannot be a revolution of witches. That is not a revolution. That is a coup, and the people will not support it.”

“The people will be ready if they have a princess,” says Gregor. “I am sure of it.”

“We have met with one impostor recently,” says Mrs. Och. “Are you certain this is Zara, daughter of Prince Roparzh? What proofs does she have of her identity?”

“She has in her possession the family’s royal seal, her father’s ring, and a certificate signed by a holy at her birth. These will be contested, of course, but it will be enough to convince the people. More important…well, you will see when you meet her. She is obviously of royal blood. She has been educated broadly and has lived in many countries, sometimes under very difficult conditions. She is intelligent and thoughtful and wise well beyond her years. She will be a fine queen, you can be sure of that. But we have to act quickly—Si Tan and Gangzi are meeting today with the Fraynish ambassador and Lord Skaal.”

“Meeting where?” asks Mrs. Och.

“The Imperial Gardens, I assume,” says Count Fournier. “That is where Si Tan receives guests.”

“We will take Princess Zara to Frayne immediately,” says Mrs. Och.

I understand now why she wanted to bring all of us on this journey to Tianshi. She knew Gregor and Esme were involved in the Lorian Uprising, that they would be perfect for this task. She did not bring them here for Theo at all.

“I have no money,” says the count again, humbly. “But Zara trusts me, and I have connections. I have been involved for years. I wish to help.”

“Julia will go now to fetch her,” says Mrs. Och, ignoring his plea. “How can we ensure that the princess goes with her willingly?”

The count has a frantic look, like he realizes he is being left behind, cut out of the whole business.

“She will know,” he says. “She has a sense of these things, of whom she can trust. I cannot get in myself, but Jun could manage it unseen and he knows the monastery….”

My heart leaps, and Jun and I grin at each other like lunatics. Esme’s eyes narrow a bit, looking at us, but I don’t care.

“Julia will go alone,” says Mrs. Och. “She does not need help.”

Jun’s smile falls away, and he looks from Mrs. Och back to me.

“He helped tremendously the other day,” I say. “In a pinch, I’d like him with me. If he’s willing,” I add, looking at Jun. He begins to smile again, but Mrs. Och puts an end to it.

“No. Julia will get the princess and bring her to my house. Julia alone. Thank you, Count Fournier. I will be happy to pay your passage home if you wish to return to Frayne.”

We all stand there uncertainly as Mrs. Och rises to her feet, Professor Baranyi taking her arm to help her.

I look at Jun. He says, “You cannot take tunnels. They are flooding them. Everybody running like rats.”

“Who is flooding them?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Somebody. Not much places to hide in Tianshi today. Ru are out searching homes. Maybe they are looking for you?”

“Julia!” Mrs. Och says sharply. “There is no time to waste. Fetch the princess and take her to my house. Do not let anybody see you.”

So I leave them all there: Jun, helplessly watching me go; Mrs. Och, counting paper money out onto Count Fournier’s desk; and Gregor, looking at everything except the brandy on the side table, Csilla on his arm like an anchor straining against a storm.