Katu froze in place. “Trying to force thee to go to court? No one is trying to force thee to go to court.”

“But they are! They all are! Even thou!” Lodia slumped over the table, shoulders heaving with sobs. “Everyone says, `Thou must push thyself, Lodia,’ and ‘Thou must make a name for thyself, Lodia,’ and mayhap no one says, ‘So thou can redeem thy mother’s name, Lodia,’ but I can tell that’s what they’re all thinking! No one asks me what I want! What if I don’t want to make a name for myself? What if I just want to live a quiet, peaceful life as a nobody and be forgotten when I die? I saw what happened to Mother, and she wasn’t even trying to make a name for herself!”

Ah. Was that the true problem here?

Across the room, on the little household altar, stood two red memorial name plaques. I hadn’t given them much thought up until now, but now I fluttered over to read them, avoiding the incense stick. Lodia’s grandmother lit one every morning, sticking it into a polished bronze brazier and praying silently for a few moments. The scented smoke wafted up before the name plaques, one of which bore a male name and the other a female name, presumably Lodia’s paternal grandfather and mother.

With such a young baby in the house, I’d assumed that her mother had died in childbirth, but it seemed there had been more to the story. “Oh, Piri,” I could almost hear Stripey sigh.

Behind me, Katu had finally steeled his nerves and was lowering himself onto the bench next to Lodia. Some things never changed: None of the men at Cassius’ court had known what to do with crying women either.

“’Tis all right,” he soothed, before even he realized how inane that was. It patently was not all right, not if she were sobbing her heart out. “’Twill be all right, Loddie. Thou shalt see. I am here for you, we all are. ‘Twill be all right.”

I’d never understood why humans responded to such generic comments, but they had the usual effect. Lodia’s shoulders stopped heaving so hard.

To calm her further, I landed on her head and ran my beak through her hair in time to his words. After another moment, she stopped crying, although she left her head buried in her arms. That might have been to hide a splotchy face, though. Not everyone could weep beautifully.

There, there. Feeling better now? I made my voice soft, like Mistress Jek’s on the days she wasn’t too exhausted and the children weren’t misbehaving too badly.

The crown of Lodia’s head bobbed. “Mmhmm, thank you – ” All of a sudden, she jerked up so fast that she launched me into the air. “Forgive me, noble spirit! Forgive my disrespect!”

Katu had put out a hand when she jumped. Now he gawked at her. “Loddie? Why art thou so afraid of little Pip? She’s just a sparrow spirit.”

Just a sparrow spirit indeed! I considered pecking him.

Wiping her face (which was indeed splotchy) with the handkerchief he offered, Lodia explained, “Nay, Katu, Pip is no ordinary sparrow spirit.”

That was certainly true, although I didn’t think anyone could infer what she was implying from the way she furrowed her brow and widened her eyes. Katu, while politically opinionated, was not the most politically astute person around, so he stared blankly.

Giving up, she spelled it out for him. “Pip is – wait, but your name isn’t truly Pip, is it? How shall I address you?”

I shrugged my wings. Pip will do.

“Thank you, noble spirit. Katu, Pip is a – ” And she mouthed something that I lip-read as: “Queen’s spy.”

Katu still stared blankly. “I can’t make out what thou art trying to say – oh! Did you say a – ” And he lowered his voice to a whisper. “A queen’s spy?”

“Yes, yes.”

“But why – what – Surely not for thy grandmother or father?!”

I couldn’t understand his sudden panic.

“Nay! Nay! Pip is here to help me redeem – she said – she said – oh. Oh….”

I saw the precise moment when Lodia recalled that I’d never answered her question as to whether the queen had planted me here to test the Kohs’ loyalty. I’d redirected the conversation, and she’d drawn her own conclusions.

She shriveled up like an un-watered plant spirit. “’Twas a trap, wasn’t it? Sending the mirror cover to Lady Anthea? ‘Twasn’t a ‘good opportunity.’ ‘Twas a trap, or a test, for me, and I failed.”

Stars and demons, what was going on with this family? It wasn’t the happy, blessed, and functional household that I’d assumed, was it? I really should have spent more time piecing together those cryptic comments about Lodia’s mother, instead of charging ahead with my plan to send the girl to court. Suddenly, the memorial name plaque on the household altar took on a sinister glow. Could Lodia’s mother have been executed for treason?

No, no, no more jumping to conclusions. What did I actually know about this family?

A mother who had run afoul of the crown in some unspecified manner. A grandmother who served as Mage-Architect to the ruler of this fief. A father who worked at the mint.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Oh. Oh. Was the Lady of the Lychee Tree planning to challenge the queen for her throne, with the aid of the Kohs? But why? Tree spirits couldn’t travel, which made it nearly impossible for them to rule vast territories. From what I’d seen, they were content as long as they controlled the land under which their root networks extended.

But in that case, why mint her own coins?

What is the Lady of the Lychee Tree plotting?

Katu cut in before Lodia could answer. “Plotting? Now see here, spirit, that is no way to speak of Her Ladyship!”

His indignation was genuine, but I was more interested in the half-defiant, half-guilty look on Lodia’s face.

I was not asking you, Len Katulus. I was asking Koh Lodia. Well? What is the Lady of the Lychee Tree plotting against the queen of South Serica?

She shook her head frantically, twin plaits swinging. “He speaks truth, noble spirit! There is no plot. We are all faithful servants of the Crown.”

Are you, now?

“Yes, noble spirit. My mother swore on all our ancestors and the heads of my brother and me that she never breathed a word against Her Majesty. ‘Twas slander.”

“’Tis true,” Katu confirmed. “I knew Mistress Koh my whole life. She was gentle and fair and kind, with nary an ill word to speak of anyone.”

Could any description get more generic? If the woman had been that insignificant, why would anyone have bothered slandering her?

I cocked my head at Lodia, inviting her to elaborate.

She twisted a plait around her left forefinger. “It grieved Mother that Her Majesty would believe she would turn against her.”

Turn against her in what way? This was the problem with pretending to be a queen’s spy: I was supposed to know all the details already. Ugh! Maybe pretending to be a spy hadn’t been the best idea after all. Was it too late to tell them I wasn’t one?

While I considered that, Katu put in, “They did know each other from the Academy, after all.”

Unbidden, an image of the little schoolhouse on the banks of Black Sand Creek rose before my eyes. I wanted a look at this South Serican Academy, to compare it to mine, perhaps steal some ideas from it.

But wait, Katu had just revealed critical information.

“Mother would never have spoken against Her Majesty. They were friends from girlhood,” Lodia was saying, as if a childhood playmate could never betray you. “They wrote each other regularly, even if they saw each other but twice after they graduated and Mother came home to get married. When the queen began returning all her letters unopened, it broke Mother’s heart. She dreamt of explaining in person, but alas, Heaven decreed otherwise. What are the wishes of mortals before the will of the Jade Emperor?”

(Not just mortals. Also, not just the Jade Emperor. What were the wishes of anyone on Earth before the bureaucratic apparatus of Heaven?)

Setting aside my own grievances, I sorted through the tangle of revelations. Lodia’s mother had been school friends with the queen. Lodia’s mother had led a quiet life here in Lychee Grove, maintaining a written correspondence with her until someone, presumably a jealous courtier, had convinced the queen that her old friend was whispering behind her back. Lodia’s mother had then received an angry letter ending their friendship. Finally, Lodia’s mother had died…of a broken heart?

No, that only happened in children’s tales. You didn’t grieve to death because you lost a close friend. If you did, people would be dying right and left, and the Bureau of Reincarnation would be overrun with souls.

I took a moment to fantasize about all the waiting rooms, hallways, and offices packed to overflowing and star sprite clerks suffocating under squishy balls of white, green, black, yellow, and red light. Ha.

Feeling more cheerful, I probed, So what did your mother actually say?

“Nothing! ‘Twas all a misunderstanding! Mother was simply saddened that the last of Acina’s brothers had been conscripted. She said only that perhaps the royal court might consider a policy where the army might leave a family one son.”

Depending on the average family size, that could drastically reduce the pool of conscripts.

Was that really all she said?

“Yes.”

“’Tis true,” Katu seconded. “I was there in the marketplace – ” because of course he was, and probably not picking up green onions for his mother while he was at it – “and I heard that conversation. Acina was mourning that the army had taken her youngest brother, and Mistress Koh expressed her hope that the queen would consider amending the policy.”

“Mother never said anything against the war. Never, never, never.”

Aha. Now I could picture what happened. A young queen, new and unstable on her throne, still grieving the death of her father, resolved to avenge him by winning his widely, wildly unpopular war. Then word came that even her oldest, most trusted friend opposed the war. In a temper tantrum worthy of Taila, the queen had cut off the friendship without waiting for an explanation.

Who might have tattled to the queen? I didn’t know nearly enough about the power structures and politics in Lychee Grove, much less the Kingdom of South Serica, to guess.

Wait. I did know a member of the royal court who came here all the time. It was Anthea who tattled. It must have been. That spiteful raccoon dog!

I discovered that my feathers were puffed up in wrath. I smoothed them back down.

Out of nowhere, Katu asked, “Pip, will you speak to Her Majesty? Tell her the truth of what happened?”

Lodia’s eyes widened. “Oh, Katu, I wouldn’t – I couldn’t – impose like that. And Mother – Mother’s already gone….”

That was indeed true. Her mother’s soul had already been reincarnated with no memories of this past life. Correcting the injustices done to her as Mistress Koh would have no impact, unless someone told the clerk in charge of her soul to tell her at her next reincarnation.

However, Katu, as seen previously, didn’t know when to stop pushing. “The queen should know. The queen hath a right to know. Pip, please tell her, the next time you return to Goldhill.”

“Oh, Katu, ‘tisn’t so easy to get an audience with Her Majesty,” Lodia objected on my behalf. “Thou’rt asking too much of Pip. ‘Tisn’t fair.”

Hmph. She thought that my speaking to the queen was asking too much of me?

Before I could respond, Lodia forced a smile for Katu. “I do thank thee, Katu. ‘Twas a kind thought. But truly, ‘tis all right.” She directed the wobbly smile at me next. “And Pip, I thank you too, for – for encouraging me.” Picking up the crumpled mirror pouch, she spread it on the table, ironing it with her palms. “But I truly am content with my life. I truly have no wish for more.”

Really. And her toiling over the mirror cover had everything to do with being a perfectionist, and nothing to do with impressing Anthea.

When I glanced up, I noticed Katu looking back at me. For once, the poet and I were in complete accord.

“Later,” he mouthed. Then he deliberately lounged across the bench, produced a scrap of parchment from his sleeve, and flourished it. “Loddie, I wrote a poem about thee and thy sparrow. Would thou like to hear it?”

She jumped on the change of topic. “Yes, of course!”

If her eyes shone a little more brightly than human eyes normally did, neither of us commented. Instead, I hopped over to the mirror cover and used my beak to help pick out cut threads, while Katu affected a dramatic pose and began declaiming his poem.

Perhaps my first idea for Lodia’s future hadn’t been such a good one after all. Perhaps, as Flicker kept telling me, I should take a little time to plan.