Free Julia Vanishes by Catherine Egan Page B

serenely. She is burning scented herb sticks on the table and the room is a dizzying mix of jasmine and foxruth. Suddenly she raises her arms up over her head, palms together. I jump, and her eyes open.
    “Julia,” she breathes.
    Esme is a great believer in some very strange exercises practiced in the far eastern isles of Honbo.
    “Hullo,” I say, looking around hopefully for something to eat but finding nothing. Three emerald necklaces are laid out on the table on handkerchiefs. Stealing jewels is easy, Esme always says, but fencing them is getting harder all the time. I doubt whoever brought her these got what he’d hoped for them.
    “Esme, what happens to witches in Sinter?” I ask. “Aren’t they drowned, like here?”
    “Witches are drowned across New Poria and beyond,” she says, rising to her feet. She moves with surprising grace for someone so tall and powerfully built. “But I don’t believe the queen of Sinter is quite as invested in rooting them out as is our esteemed prime minister.”
    “So Sinter would be safer for a witch than Frayne,” I say.
    “Anywhere in the world is safer for a witch than Frayne. But a witch would have to go a long way—Yongguo, perhaps—to wield her pen freely.”
    Yongguo is the terrible empire in the Far East, half the world away. It is a lawless, barbaric place, where the emperor is rumored to keep witches at court.
    “Why do you ask?” She fixes me with her clear gaze.
    “There was a Cleansing yesterday,” I tell her. “Agoston Horthy was there and made a pretty speech.”
    “He has a gift for speeches,” says Esme, her lips tightening at his name.
    Like any sane person, Esme gave up on the revolution after the Lorian Uprising. I asked her about it once, and she told me tersely that there were not enough courageous oppositionists left alive to effect a revolution anymore. We used to play revolutionaries and soldiers when we were little kids, but now that I am older, I don’t waste much thought on it. Let the powerful run around having their wars and chasing their witches if they want to. It’s no business of mine. Not anymore. They’ve taken everything they can from me already.
    “Well, and I heard a cop telling someone that one of the witches had got away. I wondered where a witch might run to.”
    “And you thought Sinter?”
    I shrug. Even those that supported the uprising and who long for the old ways are uneasy about witches. Esme knows what my mother was, of course, and she has never been twitchy about my own abilities, but I am not sure what she would say if I were to tell her that I suspect Mrs. Och of helping witches.
    “I imagine it is rather like Frayne used to be before King Zey’s rule,” she says. “If a witch kept her head down and didn’t do anything nasty or show-offy, she’d likely be left alone. There were even some who’d seek out a rumored witch to buy a spell in those days, if they were desperate enough.”
    “Weren’t people frightened of witches back then?” I ask.
    “Oh, I reckon they were frightened,” she says, and I think of how, after my mother was drowned, the same people who used to greet her in the street spat on me, and those that had loved her best avoided my eyes and said nothing, did nothing for us.
    Esme takes my chin between her thumb and forefinger, looking right into my eyes. “You look tired, my girl. How is it, at that house?”
    “I’ll have the job wrapped up soon,” I answer lightly.
    “Good.” She lets go of my chin. “I’ll be glad to have you home.”
    “And I’ll be glad to be home,” I say.
    I am always taken aback by these odd moments of tenderness from her. She was a hard schoolmistress, and she is an uncompromising employer. I have watched her coldly break a man’s kneecap for cheating her and then head straight out to take a warm supper to a sick employee. For all the kindness she has shown me, I wouldn’t want to cross her.
    “Is Wyn here?” I ask.
    Her eyes cloud slightly. I