It took about half an hour for Sonic and Tails to weave their way back to the Legation Quarter, using the fifty-foot high Tartar Wall to keep their bearings. Sonic had noticed more and more red shirts and yellow trousers emerging from the mostly earth-toned populace; the changing colors reminded him of a brush fire he'd seen in northern Cameroon.

Sonic felt the quills on the back of his neck stiffen at that thought. It was just as hot there and then as it was here and now. He remembered how, as the tropical sun set in the west, great scarlet flames rose in the east. He remembered the agonized roar of a bull elephant that had been caught in the advancing wall of fire. He remembered the smell of smoldering hair and cloth as he raced for the shallow lake, little Bakwele's arms wrapped desperately around him-Sonic shook his head. Why was he thinking like this?

"What did you see?" Tails asked.

Sonic blinked. "It's nothing," he said, "I was just thinking."

Tails tisked. "Don't hurt yourself."

Sonic turned his attention back to navigation. The neighborhood slowly grew cleaner and richer as they neared the walls of Imperial City, becoming almost pristine as they passed the Qiangmen Gate. Here, a great blockhouse added another forty feet to the Tartar Wall's height, lined with four rows of thirteen windows. Below the fourth row projected a short, inclined awning of blue-green ceramic scutes that matched those of the inclined roof. It would have made Sonic feel tiny, had he not experienced the titanic desert and savannah vistas of Africa. Here, before this towering monument of the oldest civilization in the world, Sonic felt claustrophobic. Each darkened window of the blockhouse glared down at him, as if to pin him to the white stone slabs with a collective stare. He spurred his horse through the vast, slab-paved courtyard that separated the two gates. "It's just a pile of bricks," Sonic said to himself, "They're looking at nothing."

By contrast, the Legation Quarter felt more familiar. Civilians here wore their tailored suits and sundresses as they would in Europe, but each of the buildings blended Greco-Roman arches and Georgian whitewash with China's inclined, scuted roofing and vibrant geometric decorations. If only everything weren't so packed together, one might fully appreciate the artistry behind such architectural fusion. Here though, it added to the city's cluttered atmosphere.

At the far eastern end of the quarter, stood the German Legation-or as Tails liked to call it, "home". Sonic noticed a familiar figure standing at the gate: a tall, lean, silver-streaked fox in a dark blue business suit, looking at his pocket watch. The fox wore an eyepatch over his left eye, which a French grenade had taken from him back in 1870. Sonic frowned. "Herr Attaché," he said.

"You're on time, Herr Hauptmann," the fox said by way of greeting, "ah, and you've brought back my son." He looked past Sonic to address Tails, who was dismounting his horse and handing the reigns to a stable boy. "Found a more upscale brothel, I trust?"

Tails rolled his eyes as he unhitched one of his saddlebags. "We went shopping." He opened the top flap and produced a thick bottle wrapped in newspaper. It made a *gloomp* sound as he retrieved it, promising some type of brandy or other hard spirit. When he tore away the newspaper, the dead, pale eyes of a coiled snake peered out at them from its glass prison.

"Charming," the older fox said as he took the bottle. "Come inside. I must speak with you privately."

Within the confines of his office, with its tall oak bookshelves and darkly varnished cherrywood desk, Herr Amadeus Prauer told them the news. "More Boxers are coming," he said, "at least ten thousand, perhaps fifteen, in addition to those already here."

Unbidden, an image of the missionary he'd saved sprang to Sonic's mind. She had her old black pistol and knife drawn, terror in her sky blue eyes as the seven who'd pushed her down multiplied into uncounted hundreds and filled the streets for miles around. "When will they be here?"

"Less than a week, at most," Amadeus breathed out. "Miles, would you kindly open that bottle?"

Tails did as he was bidden. "Fifteen thousand," he murmured thoughtfully, as he took three cups from the porcelain tea set that sat on the wide window sill behind his father desk. He filled each cup halfway. Each of their noses were stung by the harsh, tangy scent of the liquor. "Are we evacuating?" he asked.

Amadeus shook his head. "We wouldn't get very far. Our 'Divine Empress of Qing' and her court are becoming sympathetic to these Boxers, I'm told." He took a sip, scowled, and then knocked it back like a shot. "Even the French make better swill than this," he muttered. "I've spoken to the other legations, and they're all of the same mind: the gates may be shut if we attempt an evacuation. Our only option is to stay put."

Sonic didn't touch his cup. "Why haven't we called for reinforcements? Tiantsin could spare a marine company, surely?"

"We will," Amadeus replied, "the telegraph lines went out this morning. I've sent some local workmen to repair them."

Sonic's mind was still on the missionary when the words slipped out: "Guarded, I hope."

Amadeus snorted. "No, I charged men who probably moonlight as Boxers, with full discretion over whether we can call for help." He held out his cup to Tails, who filled it halfway again. "The errand I have for you two is just as important." He unlocked the bottom right drawer of his desk and took out two small satchels filled with stark white envelopes, followed by a larger, pale brown roll of paper: a map, Sonic judged. He smelled orders coming his way like a basket of hot bread.

"Your freewheeling around Peking finally has its use," Amadeus continued. "I've marked the location of two dozen Christian missions on this map. I want you two to finish delivering these letters to each of them by tomorrow evening. With any luck, they'll listen to what I have to say."

Tails deduced it almost at once. "Reinforcements of a different sort," he said.

Amadeus nodded. "Clausewitz tells us that concentration of force is the key to victory, and as of now the Boxers know their Christian neighbors and us foreigners as a small and thinly-spread army. If at least five thousand of us make a stand here, we could fend off fifty thousand until the Fatherland sends proper reinforcements."

Sonic finally picked up his cup and tossed the snake liquor down his throat. Ethanol with faint hints of fish, mint, ginseng, and rhubarb. "And if these five thousand refuse to come to us?"

"They won't," Amadeus promised. "Not if they have been paying attention to the world around them."

Sally had never been so happy to hear a baby's cry, thin as it was. On one of the several futons that occupied the chapel laid the mother, passed out-then she saw how pale Vanilla's face was, the pile of soaked and bloody cloth on the floor, the sewing kit and thin scissors. Then she saw Amy seated beside her, with a brown roughspun bundle in her thin, pink arms.

Sally felt her stomach drop and freeze, as if she had jumped on a patch of rotten ice with both feet. A tremor gripped her arms.

Amy looked up at her, her green eyes shot through with red and pink, her pink quills matted with sweat, her lips twisted with dammed-up sobs. "Vanilla's gone," Amy rasped after what felt like several minutes, "I checked her pulse. She bled out an hour ago."

Sally felt her own lips twist as a lump formed in her throat. Vanilla, gone. The woman who could write as well in Mandarin as she could speak it, the rock on which this chapel was built, practically her and Amy's own adoptive mother, dead. Sally's first impulse was to throw the vegetable basket and yell, to let out all her frustration and grief in one moment, but she didn't. For Amy's sake, she needed to be strong. Instead, she set down the basket and said: "If you want to clean up now, I can hold him."

Amy slowly, as if every movement of every muscle ached, got to her feet. "Her," she said, "It's a 'her'." She gingerly handed the bundle to Sally. "The tea should be done by now."

Sally nodded. "Go ahead and wash. I'll take care of it."

With the same lethargy that characterized her standing up, Amy moved past Sally toward the door. Sally watched her go until she shut the door. She then felt the bundle move in her arms, and heard the newborn fret again. Almost instinctually, she looked down at the child and began to rock. "Her mother's daughter," she thought: the same pale brown coloration and darker spots atop the head and tips of the long ears, the same burnt brown, almost black nose, the same huge, chocolatey brown eyes-

A sudden hiss and tiny sputter grabbed her attention. White steam fluttered from the steel tea kettle's spout. as she set the child on the futon and frantically searched for an oven mitt.

Amy wasn't gone for long. Ten minutes later, she reappeared with Knuckles behind her, only slightly less frayed than before, and all three of them sat on their knees at the long, one-foot-high dining table that stood between the futons and the pulpit at the other end of the chapel. Sally had covered Vanilla's body with a blanket, but her mind constantly dragged her eyes toward it. Absurdly, Sally had the feeling that the body might waken at the smell of the dark, warm beverage, that it might groggily get to its feet and join them as it had in life, smiling wanly as it asked for a cup. It didn't.

Amy poured three cups, the last for herself. "I'd saved this blend for her," she said finally. "You know, to help her get her strength back."

Knuckles shifted the dozing newborn to one knotted arm, to rest his free hand on her shoulder. The man had a much gentler touch than most his size. "I'm sorry." He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but couldn't find the right words. His pleading eyes met Sally's.

"How did-" Sally began gently.

"'How did I kill her?' That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it?"

Fury and grief. Sally was dimly aware of her hand connecting flatly against Amy's cheek. Her eyes burned. Her throat felt like sandpaper. "How. Did. She. Die?"

Through a torrent of sobs and hiccups, Amy told her. Vanilla's labor started the night before, the child was fine, she'd snipped the umbilical just like Vanilla had shown her a hundred times before. Then after the placenta came out, came crimson arterial blood. Gallons of it, it seemed. She'd tried to staunch the bleeding. She'd wanted to find the source, maybe stitch it up, but it was too late, too deep. Vanilla had bled out inside of three minutes.

Sally squeezed her eyes shut, put her face in her slim, long-fingered hands. It didn't stop the slow, steady tears.