Julia Unbound

by Catherine Egan

  “You did it,” I say. “What now?”

  “Gregor is taking a government position, believe it or not,” Esme says. “Zara still needs to appoint a prime minister. She is considering Sir Oswell.”

  “Sir Oswell?” I cry, remembering the monocled man at the meeting with Agoston Horthy.

  “An olive branch to the old guard,” she says. “He is not an extremist, and she needs to keep her enemies close.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m retiring. I’ve bought a house in Mount Heriot, as a matter of fact. I’m leaving the place in the Twist to you, Dek, and Wyn.”

  “Mount Heriot?” I say in surprise.

  “I had a bit of money tucked away,” she says, her mouth quirking.

  Of course she did.

  I think of my golden boy—in Ingle by now—and I hope he’s all right. He was always innocent, and I’ll still fight to save his life if Zara ever finds him. She said she wasn’t going to go looking, but I know she’s afraid he’ll find support abroad and challenge the throne. And I suppose he might. There are threats on every side of this new regime, and I don’t yet know which side I’ll be on. It depends on where the threat comes from, I reckon, and what Zara does now that she’s got the throne. I don’t know where I stand on this clever, lying, ruthless, slightly magical peasant girl from Ibhara, raised and betrayed by witches, now queen of Frayne and my brother’s lover.

  “It’s going to be a new start for us all,” says Esme.

  The men are raising their glasses in a cheer. It’s impossible not to feel it, the hope they thought they’d lost forever. A glass finds its way to Gregor’s hand, the amber liquid fizzing and foaming. He is shouting and cheering with the others, triumphant after so many years of failure and loss. He raises the glass to his lips and pours the drink down his throat. I feel Csilla go rigid at my side.

  Someone slaps him on the back. Lorka. Gregor laughs and slings an arm around the artist. Somebody else fills up his glass again. More cheers—“Long live the queen!” He shouts it too, “Long live the queen!” and empties another drink. The bottle is passed around, the laughter wild and raucous.

  Csilla turns and walks out to the balcony, her fine gown trailing behind her. I go after her. We stand on the balcony, but I don’t know what to say to her. She lights a cigarette, her eyes dry and depthless.

  “He’ll try again,” she says at last, and I nod. We look out over Spira City, fireflares bursting like brilliant flowers in the sky. It looks like the city is burning again.

  Esme was serious about turning her building in the Twist over to Dek, Wyn, and me. It’s in our names and everything. Dek has a laboratory at the university, but he’s converted our old ground-floor room into a workshop for “personal” projects—by which I gather he means secret. I’ve got Esme’s old room with its big windows, and Theo sleeps in there with me. Frederick has taken Wyn’s room in the attic, which he says he likes, though the stairs are hard on him. The thunk of his cane reminds me of Dek’s crutch. Wyn moved into a flat near the train station with Arly Winters, with a sunny back room he can use as a studio. He still treats this place like home, though, and is officially third owner of the building. Everyone is in the big parlor now.

  Wyn and Arly are playing cards, while Dek tinkers with a mechanical hinge. Frederick is just back from meeting with Professor Baranyi at the university—they are collaborating on a book about the history of magic and folklore in Frayne—and he is giving Theo his supper. Theo is exhausted, his head nodding over his food.

  “I’ll just take him to bed,” I say, laughing as his eyes droop half shut.

  “Wabbit,” mutters Theo, pointing at Strig and George playing together on the floor. At least, Strig is trying to play. George is just gnawing on the carrot between his paws while Strig pounces back and forth, alternately meowing and hooting.

  “We ought to find a nursemaid for Theo,” says Frederick. “Somebody who knows more about children than we do.”

  “Not a bad idea,” says Wyn.

  “Can I apply for the job?” asks Arly. “He’s such a little poppet!”

  “No,” I say. “We need someone with qualities. I mean qualifications.”

  Wyn gives me a look, and Arly pouts crossly. I turn away to hide my grin.

  “We should hire a witch, actually,” says Frederick. “We’ll need someone who knows about magic and can keep him from drawing, or deal with it if something happens.”

  “That’s a sign of the new Frayne,” I say. “We’ll put an ad in the papers: Nursemaid wanted for magical little boy. Witch with good cooking skills preferred. Come to think of it, I don’t think she’s a witch, but Mrs. Freeley would be perfect.”

  “I expect her position at the palace is better remunerated than whatever we can offer,” says Frederick.

  “What is her position, exactly?” asks Dek.

  “Ask your girl, the queen,” I say, a little snidely, and he grins at me.

  The doorbell chimes. Wyn leans out the window to see who it is.

  “It’s your friend with the goggles,” he says to me, pulling his body back inside.

  “Ugh,” says Arly with a shudder. “She gives me the creeps.”

  “Watch it, or she’ll give you worse than that,” I say cheerfully, going down to open the door.

  “A message from the queen,” Pia tells me. “She wants to see us. Says it’s urgent.”

  “Hounds, is there trouble already?”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “All right, I’ll come. But I’ve got to put Theo to bed.”

  “Have Frederick do it.”

  “It’ll only take a minute—he’s nodding off in his chair. Will you come up?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Maybe Arly gives her the creeps too.

  “Be right back, then.”

  I run back up. Frederick is tidying away Theo’s dinner.

  “I’ll take him to bed,” I say, lifting the half-asleep Theo out of his chair. He wraps his chubby arms around my neck, lets his head fall against my shoulder.

  I take him potty and then carry him to our room. I pin a diaper on him and tuck him into the sturdy cot Dek built. Theo’s hands slide away from me, his eyes already closed. I tell him I love him. I kiss his soft cheek. He is beautiful sleeping; it tugs at me and there is a small part of me that wants to stay here gazing at him. But something else is tugging at me too, something that quickens my pulse and makes me want to break into a run. I know this thrill so well. I can’t imagine life without it.

  I slip out of the room quietly and go back to the parlor. Arly and Wyn are making doe eyes at each other over the cards, and Frederick is lost in his book, but Dek looks up without my having to say anything. He puts down his hinge.

  “Be careful,” he says.

  I give him a wink in reply. I pull on my gabardine coat, slide my knife into my boot. And then I’m taking the steps two at a time, bursting out into the night.

  Pia is silhouetted under a gas lamp, all long limbs and deadly poise, waiting for me. The night is waiting too, wide awake and holding close its secrets, its joys and dangers, and I am full of something like joy and something like danger as well, to say nothing of secrets.

  Pia’s goggles swivel, once in, once out, as I join her under the light.

  “Ready?” she says.

  And I am. Oh, I am.

  Thank you to my agent, Steve Malk, for always pushing me to do more, and for working some kind of miracle that has allowed me to do my favorite thing in the world and call it my job.

  Thank you to my editor, Nancy Siscoe, for championing these books, for loving Julia, and for being so much better and smarter and kinder and funnier than even my onetime fantasy of what a Real Live Book Editor would be like. You take top spot on the short list of People I Really Want to Impress.


  Thank you to all the wonderful, dedicated people at Knopf and at Doubleday Books for making these books so beautiful and for getting them out into the world and into the hands of readers—my gratitude is boundless. Special thanks to eagle-eyed copy editors for saving me from myself, to Kathy Dunn for guiding me through the Being an Author stuff, and to Alison Impey for the stunning covers.

  To my beta readers—Samantha Cohoe, Kip Wilson Rechea, and Dana Alison Levy, all three brilliant authors whose books (and selves!) I adore—thank you, thank you, and thank you!

  My heart and my gratitude to the usual suspects, my nearest and dearest, my been-through-some-serious-shit-togetherest, my loved-longest: my parents, my brothers, my grandmother—how lucky am I to have you as my family? And my chosen beloveds, Jon, Giles, Mick—for the biggest laughs, the wildest escapes, and everything we’ve let go of over the years while still holding on to each other.

  And you, of course—thank you for reading. I needed to give Julia to someone, and there you were. xo

  CATHERINE EGAN grew up in Vancouver, Canada. Since then, she has lived on a volcanic island in Japan (which erupted while she was there and sent her hurtling straight into the arms of her now husband), in Tokyo, Kyoto, and Beijing, on an oil rig in the middle of Bohai Bay, then in New Jersey, and now in New Haven, Connecticut.

  She is currently occupied with writing books and fighting dragon armies with her warrior children. You can read more about her at catherineegan.com and follow her on Twitter at @ByCatherineEgan.

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