Foul Lady Fortune

There was one more sector on Celia’s map left to be completed. The candle bled a droplet of wax down its side, landing plumply on the desk just as she reached for a ruler to measure the minimal blank space that remained on her sheet of paper.

“That’s… not right,” Celia muttered to herself. It was growing late, but her blinds were drawn wide open, letting in the light of the full moon outside. She had thought she might finish her map today, but instead she had been puzzling over the same discrepancy for the past half hour. Had there been a mistake in assignments? Was the original map where they split the sectors so outdated to the point it was missing entire grids?

Her finger traced the older version in front of her, the official government-distributed rendering that marked out fields and roads for travelers who ventured outside of Shanghai’s city boundaries. Millie had the section to the right of Celia’s allocated land, but she had started drawing her map from the left, which meant she had completed that edge months ago. If their new maps were supposed to align by the end of their assigned time here, either Millie or Celia had not been given the full coordinates.

Celia turned back to her almost completed map—each road painstakingly surveyed by foot and each forest patch measured with the same pace. She had already collected her information earlier in the week, aiming to finish what she thought was her last section, so why didn’t the panels join up? Why was there a section of land that remained uncharted? She wasn’t remembering wrong; when they were perusing the land by daylight, there had been a whole field’s worth of land between these two coordinates.

Celia rose from her seat, poking her head into the hallway.

“Oliver?”

No response. Celia returned to her desk quickly and rolled the maps up, putting them into a bag and slinging the bag over her shoulder. The night was cold when she barged into it, a huff of breath forming ahead of her as she tucked her ungloved hands into her jacket pockets. Their shop was situated near the very corner of the town, which meant the dense outer forestry was close by and easily traversable. The moonlight darkened and brightened and darkened again as a patch of clouds moved across its plump roundness, but none of it bothered Celia. With her focus honed, she was careful as she picked through the forest, watching for the small red markers that she had dropped in the weeks prior to mark her progress while she followed Nationalist soldiers around. There weren’t any soldiers out tonight. Perhaps they had been moved elsewhere or were on assignment nearby.

The point of constructing new maps was to make the most accurate lay of the land, then illustrate a comprehensive picture of Nationalist movement with color-coded arrows and directional keys. And they had been successful: their surveys had pinpointed each Nationalist base, marking which roads were preferred by certain units and which paths were never used, so that Communist forces knew how to safely travel when the time came.

Celia paused, taking the map out of her bag and unrolling it. There was the tree line. There, creeping at a slow incline, was the rise of a slight hill. She looked down at the paper.

“You couldn’t have waited an extra second for me to respond?”

“Merde—” Celia dropped the map and whirled around, a knife sliding out of her sleeve. Oliver reared back, his hands coming up to show peace, but Celia relaxed as soon as she recognized him.

“Don’t sneak up on me,” she hissed. “Especially not in the forest.”

“What are you doing with a knife?” Oliver returned. His brows shot up. “Can you even use it?”

“It was a gift from my cousin.” Though more decorative than productive, she carried it around for a sense of safety. “I can use it fine.”

“All right. Use it on me.”

Celia scrunched her nose, unable to tell if Oliver was being serious. “What—”

“Come on, what if I had been the real enemy? Let’s see if you know how to use it.”

“This is ridiculous—”

“Unless you can’t actually use it—”

Making up her mind, Celia changed her grip on the knife, clenching the handle into her fist before pushing forward fast. She placed her blade at Oliver’s throat. He peered down.

“Terrible form.”

Celia almost squawked. “Excuse me—” Before she could scarcely blink, his arm had come up, his whole hand wrapping around her grip and turning her weapon toward her own neck. The cool kiss of the blade touched her throat right underneath her pendant, and then she too was pinned in place: her back to a tree, Oliver’s forearm locking her down. The knife wasn’t pressing hard enough to cause any harm, but she felt sweat break out along her spine nevertheless.

Oliver clicked his tongue. “Oops. Dead. Don’t wave around weapons you can’t use.”

“Yes, because I would have stabbed you in the gut if you weren’t you,” Celia protested. She craned her head against the tree trunk, trying to tug her arm away. Oliver wasn’t letting go.

“How would you have stabbed me? My arms are longer than yours. I would have knocked it out of the way.”

“I would have moved fast—”

“And I could have stepped back as soon as you stepped forward.”

The moon peeked out from behind a cloud again, resuming its full brightness. Under its glow, Oliver’s eyes swiveled from the blade to the jade pendant around her throat. He finally let go of her hand, if only so that he could adjust the pendant after he had jostled it in their scuffle. With a shaky breath of relief, Celia lowered her arm so that she wasn’t at risk of cutting her throat open. That was the only reason her inhale was coming slightly short. Not because Oliver was tightening the ribbon at the back of the pendant, his fingers warm when they brushed her neck.

“The chain is loose,” Celia explained when the ribbon seemed to slip from his grasp just as he was finishing the knot. She kept her gaze to the side, looking off into the forest so that it didn’t seem obvious how close Oliver was, hovering right in front of her as he fixed her jewelry. “It’s getting old.”

Oliver caught ahold of the knot before it could slip, securing it properly. “Have you considered,” he asked plainly, “not wearing a pendant anymore?”

“No,” Celia said. She didn’t leave room for argument. He knew why she wore it, that it covered her throat and prevented hateful strangers from trying to tell her whether or not she could be a woman. She was a woman regardless; it was only unfortunate that others in this world had certain ideas about what she needed to look like. It wasn’t safe for her without the pendant.

“All right.”

Oliver didn’t sound fazed. Over the years, Celia had gotten used to his matter-of-fact attitude, manifesting both in his easiness with letting pointless topics go and his intensity with pursuing crucial tasks to their very end.

“The more reason,” Oliver continued, “not to go waving your knife around. The next victim you threaten poorly is going to loosen your ribbon even further, and what are you going to do if I’m not nearby to help you keep your jewelry pretty?”

Celia gave her eyes a small roll. “Did you follow me out here to deliver a life lesson?”

“I followed you out here because you were acting suspicious. What happened?”

Celia finally took a step back, putting distance between them so she could pick up the dropped map. When she smoothed the paper out, she tried to ignore the fact that her shoulders felt cold, shivering with a sense of tangible absence.

“From where we are standing to… approximately five hundred meters to the east,” she guessed, “there is plenty of forestry and, crucially, a V-shaped dirt road for trucks passing through. I remember because there was a bird’s nest that grew right above the sharp turn. I wondered if the eggs might fall out.” Celia paused, running her finger down the edge of the map. Oliver watched the movement carefully. “That sector wasn’t in Millie’s map. She started farther to the right. But now I have also reached the end of my coordinates, and I have not sketched that road.”

Oliver took her map. There was only the barest inch left on the paper that awaited completion, but everything remaining were meandering edges and patches of trees.

“Did you walk the road?”

Celia shook her head. “I cut along the turn and used the forest instead. Didn’t want to get spotted in case there were soldiers.”

“There was a mistake made during our map assignments, then,” Oliver suggested. “I can send a message through and check.”

“But I don’t think so.” Celia reached into her bag and brought out the older map—the one giving a complete overview of the land that had been split among the four of them. “Look here. It’s as if the section has been entirely snipped out. There are no roads.”

For a very long time, Oliver remained silent, staring at the map. Then:

“It is common enough for maps to have errors,” he said carefully. “Sometimes if there’s nothing for large distances, it’s easy to miscalculate and represent it as smaller than it really is.”

Celia nodded. “I’ve encountered that. It’s an easy fix to adjust the scale bar at the bottom. But here… it’s not nothing. There are roads. You can’t adjust the scale on a road and call it a day.”

She watched Oliver chew through the matter, his jaw clenched tight and glowing silver by the moonlight. Oliver was not an easy person to please and an absolute terror to get some sort of empathy from. For that reason, though Celia wouldn’t admit it to anyone for fear of sounding terrible, she took particular pleasure in plucking a smile from him.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Her chest warmed.

“So the roads are new,” Oliver concluded. “When was our reference map drawn?”

Celia flipped to the back, searching for the print information. “1926.”

“Then let’s find out what else is new.”

In the quiet of the night, the two of them started to pick through the forest, their shoes coming down cautiously on the undergrowth. There were a few prickly plants that Celia swerved fast to avoid and, a few steps ahead, Oliver tried to flatten them first with his boots so Celia had an easier path forward.

“There’s the sharp turn,” Celia announced after considerable distance, pointing ahead. The trees had been cleared on either side of the gravel road. The V of the turn shone under the white of the moon.

“Let’s go left,” Oliver declared.

Celia did not hesitate to follow, but she did raise her eyebrows, wincing as a particularly sharp stone pressed through the bottom of her shoe. “You don’t want to split up and check both directions, just to be sure?”

“That would be silly. You can see how the right starts to bend at an eastward angle.” Oliver hastened his speed, and Celia hauled her bag higher up her shoulder, the maps inside crinkling. “It will soon enter a ninety-degree bend. Meaning it must connect to the dirt road that begins at the edge of Millie’s map.”

“Meaning it doesn’t lead to any unknown destination we want to investigate,” Celia finished, catching on to his logic. “I see.”

Oliver kicked one of the rocks underfoot. “You agreed with me so easily. I’m honored.”

“Of course. I’ll agree with logic.”

“Usually I have to boss you around a little before we get there.”

Celia sighed. “You just like bossing me around. We only met because I snapped at you in that alley and your little ego wasn’t able to stand it.”

“My little ego can always stand being snapped at by you, sweetheart. Look, up ahead—is that on our maps?”

Celia wasn’t quite tall enough to see what Oliver was pointing at. She frowned, pushing onto the tips of her toes, but then the ground rose and leveled the smallest amount, and she caught the barest glint of silver among the trees.

“What is it?” she asked. “A shed?”

“Too big,” Oliver answered bluntly. “I guess it’s not on our maps, then.”

It took some time before they were approaching the structure, but at that point it was quite clear that the distance had messed with Celia’s perception. It was not a shed. It was a whole warehouse, built with high ceilings and a large wooden door to the side. The dirt road ended here, as if it was constructed specifically to lead to this location.

“Wait.” Celia reached for Oliver’s arm, holding the two of them still. They listened: to the swirling wind, to the rustling leaves, to the animals and critters that populated the heaving, breathing forest. Somewhere, afar, a train was passing by, the steam-fueled shriek of its whistle echoing into the clearing.

“No cars out front,” Oliver said quietly. “This is an empty location.”

“You think it’s military?” Celia whispered back.

“It has to be.” The train whistle died away. The breeze slowed, settling the world. “But whose?”

Oliver walked toward the wooden door, undoing the heavy metal latch. It swung the other way and hit the stopper with a loud, egregious clang. Celia flinched, but then Oliver pushed at the door, and that sound was even louder, rumbling until the whole entrance was wide open and the cavernous inside opened its mouth.

“Did you bring a flashlight?”

“I must confess that when I slipped out into the night, I didn’t think I would need a flashlight.” Celia entered the warehouse, trying to peer through the darkness. A shelf, and a box, and…

An electric hum started behind her. Seconds later, the overhead bulbs flared on, throwing the whole space into brightness. Celia spun around, her eyes wide.

“Found the light switch,” Oliver declared, a finger still hovering over it. “See any faction flags?”

The walls were smooth metal. An even allotment of beams held the high ceiling up, interrupted by bulbs dangling every few feet. But no faction flags, nothing that might indicate if this was abandoned Communist possession or forgotten Nationalist property or something else.

It was a strange setup for a warehouse. No windows. No other exit except for the front, though there was a smaller door on the other side that looked like it led into another room.

And in the center of the warehouse…

“What is that?” Celia demanded.

It looked like an operating table. Cold and clinical and long, gleaming dull silver. If it weren’t for the buckles down the side, it might have looked like something stolen from a hospital. But the blood spatter along the edges, rusted into the leather of the straps, told another story.

Oliver’s brows were drawn tightly as he approached the table, reaching out to tug one of the straps. For a very long moment, he stayed unmoving, turning the buckle over. There was something handwritten on the surface of the table too. Scientific formulas, scribbled in pencil.

Celia inched closer, her gaze shifting between the odd find and the way Oliver was staring at it. He had adopted a peculiar expression. Recognition.

She touched his elbow. “Have you been here before?”

Oliver blinked. He tore his gaze away from the pencil scribble. “Why would you ask that?”

“Believe it or not, I do know how to read your face,” Celia replied. “Have you?”

“No.” Oliver’s answer came quickly. He didn’t elaborate. When he nudged one of the straps, brown-red flecks shook off from the leather. “Let’s poke around. See if there’s anything else.”

Though Celia opened her mouth to argue, Oliver was already walking off, and it was a lost cause to convince him otherwise. She followed his lead in searching the warehouse, pushing around wooden crates and sifting through the shelves. Whoever had owned this warehouse, they left behind beakers and test tubes and the occasional Bunsen burner, its pipes hanging off the table edge. Some of the crates on the floor were padlocked, others emptied. Some shelves were spotlessly clean; others were coated over with a sheet of dust. It was hard to tell whether this warehouse hadn’t been in use for years or if someone had been around that very day.

“We should take a crate,” Celia suggested. “Crack it open with a hammer.”

Oliver didn’t reply. He was staring at the table again.

“Oliver.”

His attention snapped back. By the time he looked at her, his expression had smoothed into indifference.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Every alarm bell in Celia’s head went off. These few years, she let Oliver keep plenty of secrets out of necessity. It wasn’t hard to recognize the signals that arose when he was doing it: the quick topic pivots, the vague answers, the minute flicker of his dark eyes. But what was he doing keeping secrets here?

“What is it?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

A hot impatience flushed into her cheeks. She marched toward him, but he didn’t move, calm while she tipped her head up at him. “Are you intent on acting the fool?”

“Are you intent on getting us in trouble?” he asked. There was only composure in his tone. He didn’t hesitate before touching her face, swiping a thumb along the ridge of her warmed cheek. Celia had moved close enough for the gesture to seem natural, and she shifted back abruptly, her face heating further. Before she could say anything more, Oliver was pushing one of the crates back, aligning it with the dust so that no one could tell it had been moved.

“We should go,” he said. “If this is an active Nationalist warehouse… We get soldiers sniffing around us often enough—we don’t need to inform them that we’re nearby and snooping on their business too.”

“There is something in these crates—”

“But we can’t dig around without making a mark.” One of the bulbs overhead flickered. Oliver looked up. The line of his jaw tightened, sharp and devastating and exactly how a deadly agent ought to look. “This has little to do with us anyway. How shall we report this warehouse? ‘Might want to take note of the facility. We can take refuge in it to heat up our food over an abandoned Bunsen burner while marching to war’?”

Celia tore her gaze away and stared at her shoes, hiding her peeved expression. She suddenly could not stop thinking about everything Oliver kept from her. All his visits to Shanghai, those full days when he would simply disappear with no one the wiser to what he was up to.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, striding for the light switch. With a casual flick of his finger, the warehouse fell into thick darkness. “Until it concerns us, we can just draw this location onto our maps and leave it be.”

“Fine.” Celia didn’t mean it. Not in the slightest.

When Oliver turned around to check if she was following, she offered him a slight smile and let her fists curl in determination behind her back.