Fox and Phoenix (Lóng City 1)

At least I’d be long gone before the steward could charge me for damages.

Remembering the spy cameras, I tried to act like this was a regular day. I scrubbed my face, cleaned my teeth. I dressed in my thinnest cotton tunic and trousers, as though I expected to spend all day in the palace, instead of escaping to the northern mountains.

It took some skill (and blood) to separate the griffin from the clock. Yao-guài hissed and growled, but in the end allowed me to carry him away. As we left the room, I glimpsed the magical tea tray, crouched just inside its slot in the wall. Quickly it ducked out of sight.

Yún waited outside. She gave me a nervous smile.

“Let’s go,” I murmured.

“Well put,” she murmured back.

Lian waited for us in the same small parlor from two days before. Jewels winked from her raven-black hair, and more lights—magical ones—glinted on her dark blue formal robes, which swept in a long train behind her. She looked like a star-filled midnight sky. But when she turned around, I could see the tight set of her jaw.

“Please sit,” she said, gesturing to the chairs. To a hovering maid, she said, “You may bring the tea now.”

She was silent until the tea service arrived and the maids withdrew. Then she laid an exquisite perfumed scroll on the table. “Read it,” she said softly.

Yún and I glanced at each other. “Bad news?” Yún whispered.

“Read it,” Lian repeated.

I took the scroll first. It was made from heavy parchment, embossed with the imperial seal of a phoenix wreathed in flames. A faint scent of jasmine and sandalwood wafted upward as I unrolled the sheet.

To Her Royal Highness, Princess Lian Song Li . . .

It was an invitation to a formal banquet that same morning. More like a summons, I thought, as I untangled the thick layers of prepositions and subjunctives. That wasn’t too bad. We couldn’t meet with Quan today, but surely he’d hear through his cousins what happened. We could catch up with him tomorrow . . .

Crap.

. . . further delays to your departure from Our Presence, which are understandably unfortunate for you, but fortunate for us, in that the gods continue bless us with the delight of your presence. Until these matters are resolved, we extend to you an invitation to a hunting excursion at our winter palace . . .

“Hunting?” I whispered.

Lian nodded. “Of a different kind,” she whispered back.

I blew out a breath. Obviously, the emperor suspected something. I scanned the rest of the invitation. The emperor expected his entourage (meaning her, plus whatever other unlucky souls he picked) to depart the following morning. The invitation didn’t say how long the excursion would last, but those kinds of affairs might last a week or even a month. If Lian’s father wasn’t already dead, he would be soon, and the kingdom would fall into chaos.

That might be part of his plan, I thought. He might want to force Lian to accept his help.

I gave the scroll to Yún, who read through it, frowning the whole time. She handed the scroll back to Lian. “A very great honor,” she said carefully.

“One I must not refuse,” Lian said. She leaned close and swiftly whispered. “Jun went to find your spirit companions last night. She never returned.”

Before either of us could react, she stood. “If you will excuse me, I must go at once to the banquet. I’ve instructed my servants to bring you breakfast here. Afterward, we shall discuss whether you plan to return to Lóng City, or accompany me to the emperor’s estates as my companions.”

It had to be a trick that nobles learned, I thought. How to speak smoothly when the whole world is shaking itself into dust around you. But we’d been friends long enough that I could hear the small catch in her voice when she said Lóng City, and how her eyes brightened with anger, when she spoke of the emperor.

(Could the emperor’s spy gadgets see and hear what I did?)

(Shut up. Smile at your friend. She needs you to be brave.)

No sooner had Lian gone than servants appeared with dozens of covered platters, carafes of fragrant tea, and even a small dish for Yao-guài’s meal. With a bone-screeching cry, our little monster pounced upon the nearest metal dome, scratching at it with his claws.

“You ate already,” I told it.

“The clock?” Yún murmured.

We both managed weak smiles. It wasn’t enough to restore our appetites, however. Jun vanished. Chen and Qi missing for days. The emperor tying silken ribbons of politeness around Lian to keep her prisoner. For once I was glad our pesky griffin demanded so much attention at meals. We took turns feeding him bits of magical crab and roasted pork, until he toppled over with a burp.