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sighs. “Zol, this is my daughter’s life at stake. We cannot take any chances.”
    â€œAuden’s Horn called you because you are a master alchemist, in addition to your synth mixing, isn’t that correct, Zol?” says Renel.
    â€œWell, of course, but . . . ,” Zol splutters.
    â€œThen you will know how key it is that we follow these rules exactly.”
    â€œHow are you so sure that no synths were used in the manufacture of the princess’s potion?” Zol asks. “With the exception of a few of these old-timers”—he looks pointedly at my grandfather and me—“almost no one operates completely synth-free anymore. This is the twenty-first century, after all!”
    Renel reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a slim journal, its pages edged in gold. “This is the only remaining evidence of the princess’s mix. She began a record of her formula, although she only got as far as to write down a single ingredient. But one thing she did specify is that her potion was made with one hundred percent natural ingredients. It appears she feared that using synthetics would be too easy to trace. So I will reiterate: The potion needs to be completely natural.”
    Zol scoffs, but doesn’t protest again.
    Renel continues. “Those who choose to participate will be given the name of the ingredient the princess wrote down as a head start. After that, you are on your own. The prize for the correct potion is one million crowns and access to a private stream of Novaen royal magic for twenty-four hours.” His nose wrinkles as he mentions the prize, as if it should be of no consequence when it comes to saving the princess. It’s of big consequence to everyone else, though. “Since love potions areillegal, you will also consent to having the ingredients and any record of the formula wiped from memory.”
    Despite the dangers, there is an excited buzz in the room. A Wilde Hunt. A chance to create an illegal potion for the royal family. A natural potion. This is freaking awesome.
    â€œZol Aster, do you still want to be first to join?” asks the king, one eyebrow raised.
    Zol stands up straighter, adjusting his tie. “Of course, Your Highness. Synth or natural, ZoroAster Corp. are the best potion-makers in Nova.” Now it’s my granddad’s turn to scoff, though Zol continues as if he doesn’t hear. “We would be honored to pledge our service to saving the princess.” Zol and Zain approach the horn, in its curious floating gold light. Once, they might have had to write their names on a piece of paper to enter the hunt, but not anymore. Now there’s an electronic pad sitting in front of the horn. Zol places his forefinger on the pad and it scans his fingerprint, then Zain does the same. Something inside the horn fizzles and smokes.
    They are entered in the hunt.
    But before Zain has lifted his finger from the pad, the horn shakes, then blasts out the resounding trumpet sound I heard on the Royal Lane. Instinctively, we all turn toward the Summons. Then someone else steps through the screen—without needing to be pulled through. A woman, dressed in a long hooded robe thecolor of swirling mercury, of molten silver. The edges are ragged and torn—so old-fashioned in style she looks like she’s walked out of the pages of a historical novel. With her comes a smell—sharp and metallic, like the copper taint of a bad penny.
    Guards melt out of the shadows, and what feels like a hundred men in suits surround the woman, wands drawn.
    When she lowers the hood and shows her face, I’m instantly grateful for all those guards.
    â€œNo . . .” The king stands up so fast, he almost topples his throne. “There must be some mistake! Renel, check the horn’s call.”
    The woman grins, all perfect teeth and pale pink lips. “It’s nice to see you too, brother.” She would be