Five o'clock. Amy sat by Sally's bed, feeding the baby via a bottle the nurses had kindly donated. The ward was slowly filling up, as the nurses and doctors performed triage on the various burns and wounds of the refugees that filled the central courtyard of the British Legation. The worst cases were sent directly to the operating rooms; the best cases stayed outside in whatever shady spot was available, trying to avoid the baking summer sun.

Dr. Mordecai had allowed Amy to stay with Sally for two reasons; there weren't enough nurses to look after the baby, and the sound of her casual, soft singing had a calming effect on the ward in general.

And it's no, nay, never,

No, nay-never, no more

Sally was awake, though she didn't speak: Dr. Mordecai had instructed her not to, for at least three days. He'd given her a pencil and a notebook to write out what she needed to say. She sat mostly upright, propped up by yet another pillow. She smiled as Amy sang.

Will I play the wild rover,

No-never, no more!

Sally carefully wrote with her left hand. The calligraphy came out much sloppier than normal. Is everyone here? she wrote, before showing Amy the paper.

Amy fell silent. She shook her head. "Just twenty, plus you, me, and Knuckles."

Sally closed her eyes. Of course. At least they all knew that Legation Quarter was where they needed to get to. They'd trickle in over time. How many won't? And how many won't, because of me? If she hadn't tried to throw herself away, how many more could she have led to Legation Quarter?

Amy watched the guilt latch onto her friend. She wanted to give her a hug, but she couldn't just set down the baby, not right now. Instead, she scooted her chair closer, and rested her head on Sally's good shoulder. "They'll make it through. All of us will." She felt Sally begin to shake her head, then stop. "We will."

If Sally could have spoken normally, she would have gently agreed and let the issue drop. But she knew that the odds weren't good: to her knowledge, the uncounted hundreds of Boxers would grow into over fifteen thousand by the end of the week. Fifteen thousand men like Chu and his gang. No church would be left standing in Peking, and neither would any man, woman, or child who named themselves "Christian". This tiny outpost of God's kingdom in which she she now found herself, this tiny flame amid such terrible darkness, would be snuffed out. Then, when she and all the Christians were murdered, Christ might allow her into Heaven, but she would never hear the words "Well done, My good and faithful servant."

"Sally?" Amy asked.

Sally hadn't realized that her despair was showing on her face. She drew a crude question mark on the paper.

"Vanilla said you had your own business, that you were rich. Why did you come with us, all the way out here?"

It took Sally a long, long time to decide whether to answer. Amy had asked variations of this question before, but Sally has always redirected the conversation away from it. Now, when she did decide to answer, it took even longer for her to write out the answer neatly. When you played for the pubs, were you ever fired?

Amy had never been fired from a gig, but she'd observed her fair share of firings. None of them had ended pleasantly. She shook her head. "How could you get fired from your own business?"

It was my father's business. I owned part of it, but there were other owners.

"They fired you?" Amy made a face when Sally nodded. "Why would they do that?"

I wanted to sell fancy pistols, like my father did. They wanted to sell ammo, because ammo made more money.

"So they just turned you out?"

They put me in charge of the money, because I was good with it. But I hated it, and they knew it.

"Bastards."

A little smile on Sally's lips before she wrote her response. Yes.

Amy looked more carefully at the paper. "You hated money?"

I hated working with it. I felt like I was turning into a counting machine. Just before I met Vanilla- Sally stopped writing. Her left hand, unaccustomed to such labor, had begun to cramp up. After a few minutes, she continued. Just before I met Vanilla, a friend told me that they were voting to turn me out.

Amy didn't say anything to that. She only nodded, resting her head back on Sally's shoulder. She began to hum.

During the interminable train ride from Topeka to San Francisco, Sally had noticed that Amy hummed to herself a lot. It was an odd sort of hum: where most hummers kept whatever tune was on their minds in their throats, Amy would let soft music dance from her lips on a series of nonsense words, such as "diddely-dum" "dee-dum-die", and "dee-die-doh". When Sally had asked why she hummed so much, Amy had blushed as if caught out, and then said "Oh, you know."

Sally had been polite. "I confess that I don't know."

Amy had scratched her head in thought, then said: "Well, you see some people fidget, even when they're not nervous?" Sally had nodded. "I like to lilt. That's what my grandad called it." After a while, both Sally and Vanilla had realized why she was doing this so much, even after telling them that she didn't sing because it made her accent worse: Amy lilted because she was genuinely happy. It wasn't until they were on the British steamship to Tiantsin, amid salt breezes and roaring foghorns, that they heard Amy truly sing.

As she and Sally leaned on one another, Amy softly lilted, and soon wandered into memory.

During the first week of the voyage, Amy had gone missing one afternoon. After hours of searching, just as the sun dipped into the ocean ahead of the ship, Vanilla found Amy in the sailors' dining cabin, with a blind-drunk audience filling her beggar's hat with British currency. As Vanilla weaved through the cramped, rowdy cabin toward her, Amy had belted out:

Them Car-diff girls ain't got no frills,

Way down in Flo-ri-da!

They're skinny and tight as cat-fish gills

And we'll roll the wood-pile down!

"Rollin'!" the sailors chanted.

"Rollin'!" Amy shouted.

Rolling the whole world 'round!

That brown gal o' mine's on the Georgia line

And we'll roll the wood-pile down!

Vanilla had then grabbed her by the arm. Hard. "Miss Rose. That is quite enough for one night."

If Sally, or even her father, had done as Vanilla did, Amy would have instantly turned and fought. But something in Vanilla's face had killed any such impulse. Amy still remembered that expression years later: was it anger? Yes, but it wasn't the explosive rage that had turned her father's face the color of a tomato. Vanilla's anger had a truly frosty character, but even then Amy had somehow sensed that it wasn't actually directed at her.

Once safely back in Vanilla's cabin, the rabbit promptly dropped her frost and let worry take its place. She began checking Amy over. "Amy," she said, "Did any of them touch you? In...In that way?"

Whiskey could do many things for Amy, but what it couldn't do was remove memory: she'd tried. She sometimes wondered if that was actually a blessing, to keep her from using whiskey the way her father had. "No," she'd slurred, "They didn't touch me, I just-" she'd made a vague motion, "I just took their cash, no problem at all." Then she'd remembered: there were at least ten full sterling pounds in that hat when Vanilla had dragged her away. "Oh, fuck! My hat!" That ratty, wide-brimmed hat had been her companion ever since she'd started doing pub gigs, had clothed and fed her all that time! "My hat! We left it back there, we need to-"

"No, Amy. We don't."

More whiskey had made its way from Amy's otherwise empty stomach, to her brain. Language had begun to fail her. "But! But! But!"

"Amy." Vanilla had crossed her arms and allowed some of her frost to return. "Whatever money you've made, we don't need it."

That statement had infuriated Amy. "Not need it?" Of course Vanilla didn't need it: her dad was a professor and her mom was a writer. She came from a family that could afford fancy schooling, but Amy? A nun had taught her how to read out of pity, and she could barely write her letters! What did Vanilla know about needing money?

Father, have mercy on me, a complete brat.

Seven o'clock. When Miles had finished relating his side of the story, his father nodded. "Thank you, Herr Leutnant. You are dismissed for the evening."

Miles nodded, relieved. His grey uniform had turned nearly black from the soot of the dying fire. Despite his rudimentary efforts to wash his face before the meeting, a layer of soot had clung on, staining his normal ochre and white fur with grey. Amadeus wondered if that was how Miles would look when he reached his own age. "Thank you, Herr Oberst."

"No decision has yet been made, so do not leave the legation grounds. Verstanden?"

"Jahwohl, Herr Oberst."

"Good. Now clean up, and get some rest." Amadeus saluted his son, who saluted back, turned, and walked out of the office. "Herr Hauptmann?"

Sonic straightened. "Sir?"

"Check in with the American legation, and coordinate a defense plan of our section of the Tartar Wall. I'll see to our own defenses."

Sonic nodded. "Jawohl, Herr Oberst." He and Amadeus saluted, and Sonic left the room.

Amadeus turned his attention to Ketteler, who had grilled Miles on practically every point of his account, from the location of the burning tea shop, to his exact thought process behind taking the interpreter to the action. Miles has a point there: it was better to have two officers who could communicate with the Qing soldiers, than just one. Unfortunately for Miles, Ketteler had latched onto the fact that he hadn't sent the interpreter along with Sonic, or sent him back to Legation Quarter. Truthfully, Miles admitted that using the man as a message runner wasn't the best idea, when he could have simply commanded from the rear and let Wesreidau-a capable sergeant in his own right-lead the strike team.

"So, you want to charge my son with incompetence? Am I hearing you correctly, Herr von Ketteler?"

The porcupine sniffed. "I think his previous failures to apprehend Boxers is sufficient evidence of his incompetence. Forgetting that he knows the local tongue was the last straw."

"We've had this discussion, Herr-"

"I want him disciplined, Herr Prauer."

Amadeus put a thoughtful look on his face, then said, "If he has actually done something wrong, I will."

Ketteler looked flabbergasted. "At the very least, he's under dereliction of duty! Just because you do half of my job behind my back, does not mean you have the power to dispense with justice."

Justice? Amadeus thought, as if. You're sitting there, peevish and stupid, ranting because I have to do most of your fucking job, and you know it. Not for the first time, Amadeus wondered just how the hell a man like Ketteler could become the Reich Minister to China. Then again, considering the Kaiser's bellicose nature-not to mention the von prefix to Ketteler's name-perhaps the Kaiser had found in the porcupine a kindred spirit, and raised him to favor accordingly. That thought rankled the old fox almost as much as the accusation that he was doing Ketteler's job behind his back. The job needed doing, and if Ketteler wanted to complain about the forms and treaties he attached his name to, he should pick up his own fucking pen and write them himself.

"And if I truly wanted justice done around here," Ketteler continued, "I would have him shot for desertion, and you dismissed for insubordination and indecent solicitation!"

What a fine grouping of terms of which you barely grasp the definitions. Threaten my son again, and I will do far more than your job behind your back. The last of Ketteler's charges struck Amadeus as more than a little odd. "Indecent solicitation?" Keep talking, you peacocking son of a bitch. "If your accusation is serious, do you have any proof? Whom have I solicited indecently?"

Ketteler produced a pair of folded, creamy white papers from his breast pocket. "Do these look familiar?" He unfolded one of the papers and began to read its contents aloud. A deep blush crept up both of their faces: the porcupine must have sifted through many mundane letters to find these particular gems.

Amadeus wondered whether the minister had done this operation himself, or if he'd hired a local thief to do the job. Either way, the old fox made a mental note to change the locks, and to begin drafting his resignation letter. He didn't have to wait to resign anymore. As Ketteler read, Amadeus's rage began to seep through his stony expression. He tried to keep it out of his voice when he said: "I believe those are my wife's letters." You fucking bastard sneak.

"Your wife? Why does Rosemary sign her letters with 'W'?" Ketteler shook his head, tisking, "Herr Prauer, at it again. Did she write this before or after the thousand marks you sent her last year? Or did you pay by installments?"

Amadeus felt his body run cold with adrenaline. So that was the whole mystery behind Ketteler's newfound megalomania. He thought he could use this information to strongarm Amadeus into doing his bidding without question. Perhaps he intended to let it slip with some newspapers back home, alter and edit facts to blow it up into a scandal that would not only bring down Amadeus, but also make his son into a complete pariah instead of a partial one. He responded in the way he thought best: a solid punch straight into Ketteler's nose. The sickening, satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath his fist.

The porcupine stumbled back and fell on his rear, slightly shaking the floor. His hands came away from a bloody nose. Before he could say or do anything, Amadeus was on him again, looming tall above the minister. "My son will resume his duties," the old fox said dryly, "but due to minor negligence, will spend his off-time confined to quarters. Do these terms satisfy you, Herr von Ketteler?" The porcupine nodded meekly. "Sehr güt." When he pulled Ketteler to his feet, Amadeus whispered, "If you ever disclose any of my correspondence, I'll have you arrested for spying on military communications, and I will see it escalate to a treason charge. Verstanden, Ketteler?"

"Ich verstehen, Herr Oberst."

When Ketteler ambled his way out of the office, Amadeus firmly closed the door behind him. He let out a long sigh: only now did it truly hit him that he'd been awake since noon, the previous day. He would sleep, then tender his resignation letter in the morning; tonight, he had a more important task. He turned back to his office. On the floor beside his desk, exactly where the bottle of snake liquor had landed, tiny shards of glass reflected the warm electric light. The alcohol, snake, and larger chunks were long since cleaned up, but the little fragments brought back a memory. Long ago, on the cool, clear April day that marked his wedding to Rosemary, the Elbe River had sparkled and glinted like that. When was that, thirty years ago? Almost.

Amadeus went around his desk to the row of pegs on the wall above it, and retrieved his white visor cap. He had planned to greet Vanilla in his full colonel's garb, and finally reveal to Miles his wonderful secret. Now he couldn't. It would absolutely shatter his son's heart to learn that he finally did have a true mother, that she'd died before even meeting him, and that her death was his father's fault.

He puffed out the top of the cap, placed it smartly atop his head. In a few weeks, Miles would be twenty. He was a man now. He could take it. But would he trust his father after such a revelation? Should he? No, Amadeus thought, he shouldn't. The old fox paused at the door. He didn't have to do this. He could simply let Vanilla's people care for her child: that was part of their job, to care for orphans and strays. If Vanilla had been truthful in her letters, they may even give the child a truly loving home to grow up in, a far cry from the seedy environment of a brothel, or the increasingly cynical, godless, modern environment of Berlin.

And Miles would be none the wiser. He would still call me "Vater" with pride. Amadeus scowled, but still hung at the door, with his hand on the knob. Coward. That's what you are, Herr Oberst. You've done what you could for your son; now your daughter needs you as well. Vorwärts marsch! He turned the knob, and opened the door. "Gefreiter Neubach!" he called downstairs, "Come with me: we have wounded men at the university."