Seven o'clock. In an alleyway, located half a mile west of Peking University, the big cat Chu pressed his back to a brick wall and slid to the ground. He had ripped off the sleeve of his new robe to bandage his left forearm, which sported a long, shallow gash from a Qing saber. I should've shot her when she told me to. The whole night could've been avoided if he'd simply pulled the trigger. But he hadn't.

Wherever that woman had come from, Chu thanked Zhang, the Empress's ancestors, and each and every ancestral spirit in China that the chipmunk's master had croaked before he'd come to, once and for all, drive the witches from Peking. The chipmunk had been a truly powerful enchantress: her first spell had actually made him-of all people, him!-feel sorry for her, enough to spare her life! Who could know what her master knew! On reflection, he now knew that all of it had been distraction, to buy time for the other witch and their thralls to escape. A part of him still admired her heroism in that moment.

Then, when she saw her opportunity, she'd cast another spell, one meant to terrify her captors into releasing her. Chu himself had only just resisted, but that moron Liao-dao had broken under her influence. And those last two fire spells...Chu was half-deaf from them, even now. Whatever powers she had called on to cast them, they were obviously far more potent than any he'd been taught by the Society of Righteous Fists. In the end though, those powers had not been enough to save her from justice. He would have stuck around to hear her scream as the flames consumed her, if her first spell had not entirely broken off his mind. Now it had. She deserved worse, Chu decided, but at least she's gone. There's only one witch left.

If that last witch-in his estimation, the least powerful-were to die, then in theory the spell all three of them had cast on their thralls would be broken. Perhaps the drought would weaken, and Zhang would bring just enough rain to resurrect his dessicated orange orchard. Perhaps Knuckles would finally see sense, come back to the homestead, and together they'd commune with their ancestors. Perhaps even more rain would come to make the orchard truly blossom, as it had in their boyhood! Perhaps-

"Chu?" Chu's eyes creaked open at the sound of his name. He hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep. Far from his grandfather's homestead and the orchard, the big cat had grown used to sleeping in alleyways and ditches over the past couple months. He still hated it.

"Chu?"

He knew that voice. The old Manchu boar. "Liu?" he said. He turned his exhausted eyes up the alley and saw the boar there.

"Chu!" The boar rushed over to him. "You're hurt!"

"A little cut," Chu said, "I'll be fine." He looked up the alley behind the boar. "Where are your boys?"

Liu shook his head. "I don't know. I last saw them near the markets. They were still bitching at each other as the army came down on us."

"Traitors," Chu growled, "Now the Qing will have all of us killed."

The boar didn't look concerned. In fact, he looked pleased. "She won't."

Chu's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

"She's coming out to see us tomorrow."

"Is she?"

"She is."

"Why?"

"I think the foreigner has finally gone too far for her: they were shooting kids last night, and all day today."

"You're serious." Liu nodded. Chu was fully awake now. Kids. He shot to his feet. "That's it." He began striding up the alley to the adjacent street. "Come on. We're going straight to the Quarter."

"What's your plan?"

Chu paused. "Round up some Fists, at least ten, then get some paper and charcoal. We're going to map the place out."

"Then what?"

"We'll come back with even more Fists," Chu said, "Then we'll burn them out, block by block."

Eight o'clock. The lights in Ward 3 of Peking University Hospital were about to be cut out, to allow its patients to sleep. Sally had fallen asleep around six-thirty, soothed by Amy's nonsense lullaby. As she quietly stood up to leave, Amy looked down at Sally: her friend's features were tightened, eyes rolling wildly behind closed lids, her lips rapidly twitching as if she were about to start speaking in tongues. Bad dreams, Amy thought. The baby stirred in her sore arms, but made no sound yet. Gently, Amy bent down and kissed Sally on the forehead. She could feel Sally's accelerating heartbeat through her lips.

"It's okay," she said, softly as she could. "You're safe." She remained there for a minute, with her nose in Sally's auburn hair. She smelled woodsmoke, mixed with a strange, grassy, herbal scent. Incense, maybe? Slowly, Sally relaxed, and her breath slowed. Her lips stopped moving. "It's okay," Amy repeated. Just before the lights went out, Amy thought she saw Sally's head tilt forward, as if in acknowledgement. Then darkness covered everything, and a nurse quietly escorted Amy and the baby out of the ward.

Amadeus was standing by the door to Ward 2, hands over his mouth in exhausted contemplation. He'd sent Neubach back to the German Legation after visiting Wesreidau and Lindbergh. The former had been in good spirits about his injury, and had told Amadeus of Miles and Holmes's rescue of Lindbergh. "Your son deserves a medal," he'd said, before he let out a yelp at the sudden sting of alcohol on his wound. And so much more, and better, Amadeus had thought.

Poor Gefrieter Lindbergh wouldn't be out of bed for at least two weeks, but he was alive. The small-caliber bullet had passed straight through his liver and out his back, miraculously missing several organs that, had they been hit, would have ended the lad's life. Dr. Mordecai had kept the worst of the pain at bay with opium.

After sending Neubach ahead, Amadeus had stood there there for a long time, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, trying to work out how he was going to explain the situation to Miss Acorn. Vanilla had clearly kept her promise to keep their marriage a secret. "Your mission here," he'd told her, "is to win the locals' hearts and minds. My mission is to protect the interests of my country, which the locals for now detest. Having me on your arm would destroy the goodwill you've built up."

"You're just as much an ambassador for Christ as you are for the Kaiser," she'd said.

"It's not about whether I value God or Caesar more," he'd countered, "It's about you. I will not paint a target on your back."

After a few hours of debate, Vanilla had gently relented. She'd kept her promise, too well as it turned out: none of her letters had mentioned her pregnancy. Why? It wasn't something she could have hidden from her congregation for very long; she couldn't disguise her growing belly with voluminous clothing, as she might have during winter. But why hide it from him? He would have introduced her to Miles as soon as she'd said something, brought her to the Quarter and...Oh, what was the use? She had hidden their child. Now she was dead. He would know her reasons when his own time came, of that much he was certain. But what was he going to tell Miss Acorn, who seemed to disdain the powers he represented almost as much as the Boxers did?

The door to Ward 3 opened. Amadeus looked up from his dilemma and saw Amy, with his daughter, step through with a nurse close behind her. Miss he'd never seen Amy before, he knew her from Vanilla's letters as much as he did of Miss Acorn. He knew she was a nurse herself, with deft hands that could stich up almost any sort of wound. Just like Miles wants to do. Vanilla had written that-despite electing to remain Catholic, like her father and grandfather-Amy had come extremely far in her faith as well.

She's a passionate one, Vanilla had written, hot-tempered like the Apostle Peter. But I believe she's beginning to understand that of faith, hope, and love, the greatest of those is love.

The nurse scooted past Amy, hurrying toward the operating theater while Amy looked back at the Ward 3 door. Amadeus waited for the nurse to disappear before he spoke. "Miss Rose?

Amy turned, startled by his address. Too late, Amadeus realized the imposing figure he presented to this girl: a tall, lean, Reich colonel, dressed more for a troop inspection than a wake, with a black eyepatch and several thin scars across the cheek below it. The black Iron Cross at his throat felt like a lead weight when he spoke again. Doffing his visor cap, he said: "I'm looking for Miss Acorn. Do you know where she is?"

The old, white-clad fox before her looked familiar. Judging from this his dress, he was some kind of military officer, and an important one at that. His slight, strange accent told her that he wasn't one from England or America, but she couldn't quite place it. What would an army officer want with Sally? How does he know my name? "Who might you be?"

"Colonel Prauer, at your service," he said gravely, "My son is the reason Miss Acorn is still alive."

Amy beamed, approaching the old fox and looking around excitedly. "Is he with you?"

Amadeus shook his head. He rode nonstop for almost a day and half through this infernal place, all the while dodging flames and the guns of men who want all of us dead. At the end of his successful mission, he was confined to quarters by his own father, who wants him home with his sister when all of this is over. "I gave him the night off. You may see him around sometime tomorrow."

"You're going to give him a medal?"

A citation for valor may be in order. "Yes." Then he said, "My apologies Miss Rose, but I must speak with Miss Acorn."

Amy shook her head. "They're not allowing guests now; I was actually just turned out. She can't speak, I'm afraid."

"Smoke inhalation?"

"Yes." She had no idea how much that affirmative relieved and shamed the old fox.

Amy transferred the baby to the crook of one arm, to rummage the pockets of her roughspun clothes. She produced the one item that she'd kept from her life as a pub musician: her harmonica. "Can you give this to your son?"

Amadeus withdrew the harmonica from Amy's hand, examining it as he might examine a new pistol before taking it to the firing range. His father had given him a good Seydel harmonica for Christmas when he was ten, and Amadeus had kept it until 1872; then, during the occupation of France, he'd traded it for a well-vintaged bottle of Bordeaux, which he'd then sent to Rosemary for her birthday. His trade had pleased her so much, that she'd saved it for their wedding night.

It was then that Amadeus had an idea. He didn't need to convince anyone to part with his daughter: he could simply prove that she was. The letters in his desk would be cogent evidence to this girl. "If you'd like," he said, "you may present it to him yourself, tonight." Amy's eyes lit up as he gave the harmonica back to her.