Foul Lady Fortune

Alisa Montagova had made an endearing setup of her living space, a tiny safe house apartment located two floors above a dance studio on Thibet Road. Though there was hardly enough room for a bed, a stovetop, and a small door that led into a smaller washroom, she had decorated well. The walls were covered with photographs. A sketched poster of Moscow sat right above the entranceway.

Alisa had been born in Shanghai, and she had never left Shanghai, so in truth, Moscow was some fantastical land in her mind that she had no particular attachment toward. Her cousin Benedikt, however, sent postcards all the time detailing every nook and cranny he encountered, and she supposed that painted a vivid enough picture to love. As a former White Flower, he had been hiding there since the Nationalists took over Shanghai, but at least he had his husband, Marshall, for company.

Alisa sighed, flopping onto her mattress. Benedikt and Marshall were safe, or as safe as anyone could be. She had gotten used to having the two of them around while she was growing up—seeing them around the house almost as often as she saw her brother. They hadn’t only been Roma’s best friends; the three of them had made up an image of the White Flowers for civilians to gawk at on the streets—the heir and his two right-hand men, unshakable and formidable, just as gangster rule was.

Then the White Flowers dissolved. Then Roma was gone, and Benedikt and Marshall were forced to flee before the Nationalists hauled them in as enemies of the state. Once they’d slipped into the Soviet Union, the Nationalists had a lot more to be worried about than chasing alleged rebels into a neighboring territory, but it did mean that everyone Alisa called family had been driven out of Shanghai.

She had been so young when revolution came. She had had no stake in the city back when the Scarlet Gang was aligning with the Nationalists and the White Flowers were being dragged in with the Communists, division lines drawn along every conflict broiling within the city. She couldn’t have known how this would all pan out. When soldiers swept the city and the Nationalists took over as their official government, marking the end of the White Flowers’ reign and her father’s iron fist over half the city; when her father disappeared, and she didn’t join her cousin in fleeing because she wanted to find out what happened to him.

She had been too young. She had joined the Communists willingly, knowing it was the only faction that would take her, but she never could have fathomed how long this civil war would last.

Dusk was falling. The window above her bed showed the sky darkening and bruising into a faint violet that cast shadows along the room. For a moment, Alisa let herself bask in her exhaustion, slumped on her bed in her work clothes. Then, with a bounce, she got up again, charged with sudden energy.

“Perestan’te shumet’!”

The old man’s voice rang with an echo from downstairs. Alisa shifted on her floorboards deliberately, stomping an extra time for good measure. He was always yelling through the ceiling and telling her to stop making noise, though it wasn’t as if she could help the terrible construction of the building. Until she was evicted, she was staying right here. And if she was evicted, there were plenty of other White Flower safe house apartments in the International Settlement that went unoccupied, forgotten and abandoned amid the takeover in the city, lost in the paperwork that one would have to sift through first.

“Hey! Girl! Don’t you hear me up there?”

Alisa put on the phonograph at her windowsill, drowning out the old man with music. She kept hopping around in her own interpretative method of dancing. There was a problem that had been plaguing her at work. The typeset didn’t align right on one of the stamp presses, but some of the papers had already been printed. Either they could fix the first batch by hand or adjust a new overlay….

The phonograph stuttered, and Alisa frowned, going over to fix its tinny tune. She had purchased the device secondhand from some shabby store in Zhabei, so it was old, almost falling apart. Alisa didn’t know why she lived as if she were barely scraping by when she had the means to be a well-to-do person in this city. She had plenty of savings from her family, and Seagreen distributed wages in cash every week. On top of everything, she didn’t even pay her own bills. Each month, the statements arrived at her doorstep with her accounts already balanced, paid off by an anonymous donor. She wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth: though she had a suspicion about who was doing it, she was perfectly fine letting them stay in the shadows with their helping hand in case it wasn’t safe to initiate contact.

Alisa supposed she was just dedicated to keeping up her cover as an office worker. She was a spy, yes, but she was also installed at Seagreen Press out of her own interest. Two years ago, the Communists decided they didn’t need so many scattered agents merely running errands and risking capture, so they streamlined operations by presenting her with a list of workplaces that they wanted surveyed long-term. International politics couldn’t go ignored. This civil war involved only two parties, but the foreigners always needed to be watched in a place like Shanghai. Alisa had scanned down the list and made her selection, and since then her days had passed by happily designing fonts for the most part and, on occasion, keeping her ear perked for intelligence from Japanese officials that might concern the Communists and their plight of survival. When Celia was on assignment inside the city, Alisa reported to her; when Celia was assigned outside city borders, they skipped her in the chain of command, and Alisa reported directly to a higher superior every month.

It was a quaint living, strangely enough. For as long as the war did not press into Shanghai, for as long as the city’s sleeping agents were not needed in active action, Alisa Montagova could spend her time eavesdropping and doing something useful that wasn’t hiding—at least not entirely.

Alisa finally shook the phonograph into playing smooth music again, adjusting the latch at the side. The busy road below her third-floor apartment was a whole world of activity, clumps of rickshaws moving in and out of view like birds taking flight.

Alisa narrowed her eyes. She pressed closer to the window. It was only of late that an actual mission had come knocking. One of their own had defected for money and passed confidential intelligence on to Seagreen Press’s officials, and she needed to retrieve the file containing the information to figure out exactly which of their secrets had leaked. The problem was, the building was enormous, with hundreds of files moved around day in and day out, so it wasn’t exactly easy to find one unless it just so happened to be blazoned with a COMMUNIST PARTY SECRETS label.

Of course, there was the problem of those Nationalist agents appearing at Seagreen too, both of whom clearly had some other mission unrelated to Communist intelligence.

And both of whom were currently walking below her window on Thibet Road, heading toward the dance hall that operated right across from Alisa’s apartment.

“Miss Rosalind, what are you up to?”

Alisa turned off the phonograph immediately, clutching her coat and fetching her bag off the hook on the wall. The music came to a halt. The floorboards creaked noisily with her rapid movement. The elderly man downstairs started yelling again.

With a devilish smile, Alisa hurried out of her apartment, walking extra hard just to be a pest.

It had been a long time since the city saw Rosalind Lang, a long time since they stopped sketching her on the posters plastered around the Concessions to remind its people of the elite who had fallen.

Still, Rosalind kept touching her face absently as they approached Peach Lily Palace, as if she could wipe off her features and slap on something new. There was little chance she would be recognized. But if she was… her present cover could be at risk.

“Earth to Janie Mead.”

Rosalind looked up, wrinkling her nose at Orion. “What happened to only using our aliases?”

Orion ran a hand through his hair. It was especially loose tonight—whether on purpose or because he had run out of pomade, Rosalind was uncertain. At least it suited the rest of his look: the black shirt with three of its top buttons undone, the deep green vest with gold detailing stitched around the hem, the long black coat fluttering with the breeze, and the gold rings on his fingers, which caught the light of every flashing neon sign.

“My apologies, beloved,” he corrected. “It will not happen again.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes, holding her tongue as the dance hall attendants opened the doors to Peach Lily Palace, welcoming them in. Faithful to its moniker, the hall had a floral scent, a mixture of the smoke machine onstage and the natural perfume of its patrons, who mingled around in their bright qipao and clean pressed suits. Where Orion was dressed like he had rolled right out of his father’s bank vault, Rosalind had picked the most modest thing in her closet: long sleeves and a high collar. The last thing she needed was to stand out and start encouraging rumors that Rosalind Lang was alive and well, socializing in the city’s dance halls.

“I see them,” Rosalind said. Peach Lily Palace was big, far bigger than the Scarlet burlesque club used to be. Its ceiling was outrageously tall, painted white and carved with patterns that trailed down the walls until it reached the banisters of the second level, where patrons could stand for a better view of the stage. On the lower level, it wasn’t only the show floor that served as entertainment; there were also gambling tables at the opposite end, near the bar and away from the stage. That was where some familiar faces were flocked: Yōko, Tarō, and Tong Zilin.

Rosalind made another brief inventory of the space, of the chandelier hanging from the stage and the various other light fixtures shining across the hall. That was something different too: Peach Lily Palace was well illuminated, every face cast in a warm, golden light as they mingled about. At the Scarlet club, Rosalind had accidentally ruined her shoes numerous times by stepping in spills she didn’t see until a second too late.

“Come on,” Rosalind said.

Just as she started forward, Orion grabbed her arm to stop her. “I—I have to go tend to something first.”

Rosalind frowned. “What?”

“I’ll be back.” Without any more explanation, Orion walked away in the direction of the stage.

“What?” Rosalind demanded again, flabbergasted. “You can’t just slip off. What is wrong with y—”

There was no use. He was already gone, merging into the crowd of patrons and inserting himself into a circle of people. Rosalind’s vision was good, but she didn’t waste time eyeing the well-dressed group to determine who Orion was seeking out. Knowing him, he had sighted some former lover he had slighted in the past.

Rosalind gave a small, irritated huff, then marched toward the gambling tables on her own. Unbelievable. They were one combined unit, and the first thing he did on a critical task was wander off.

“Mrs. Mu!” Yōko exclaimed when she spotted Rosalind. “What a coincidence to see you here too.”

“Oh, I’m here all the time,” Rosalind said airily. Tarō and Zilin were three steps away, peering over the shoulders of the seated players. “What are they playing? Poker?”

“Five-card stud, it would seem,” Yōko answered. “Zilin claims he always knows the best time to fold.”

“He must be omniscient if that’s the case.” One of the players shuffled, the red and black colors flashing under the lights, spades and hearts and aces and diamonds, faster than the eye could catch.

Yōko made a noise of consideration. “He is pretty good at intuition,” she allowed.

“You cannot intuit something like this.” Rosalind walked a step closer. “It’s all fortune. The cards have been decided already. No amount of skill and timing can change his hand.”

“Ah, what a short game!” Zilin whirled around suddenly, patting Tarō’s shoulder too hard and exaggerating his surprise upon seeing Rosalind. His cheeks were blotted with red. He was drunk. “Where’s your husband, Mrs. Mu?”

“Somewhere nearby, I’m sure.” Rosalind made a search of the crowd. Orion had entirely disappeared. “You know how he is. A people pleaser, always flitting around.”

“One would think it’s most important to please your own wife first.”

Barf. Rosalind didn’t bother with a reply. Her eyes were fixed on the stage as a troupe of dancers hurried on, getting into position before the jazz band started their next set.

She squinted. Was that…?

It was. Three of the dancers were familiar faces. Girls who had worked under Rosalind at the Scarlet club.

And when the opening notes of the saxophone swept through the hall, prompting the girls to begin, Rosalind recognized their steps immediately. They were using her routine—the same routine she had taught them.

She almost laughed.

“Fancy a drink?” Zilin asked the group, his voice startlingly close to Rosalind’s ear. She smoothed down her sneer before she turned around, looking ever the pleasant picture. Yōko and Tarō seemed enthusiastic about the question, so Rosalind nodded along with them.

Zilin pointed up the stairs to the second level bar. Tamping down any appearance of hesitation, Rosalind followed, trailing after her colleagues while they spoke of the bets they could put down at the other tables later.

Orion, where the hell are you? she thought angrily. He was the one who had bragged about his information-extraction skills. Meanwhile, Rosalind was already itching with annoyance. She wasn’t fit for this kind of work. The only reason she had been good at getting money out of men at the Scarlet club was because they thought she was joking when she was rude, and they were always inebriated.

Yōko and Tarō were perfectly alert tonight. Only Zilin teetered around drunkenly, so Rosalind doubted she could get away with pressing all three about their motives in Shanghai and their opinions on Japanese imperialism and the pan-Asianism movement.

“I was almost afraid to leave the house today,” Rosalind started, thinking that she might as well try.

Yōko turned around on the stairs with a gasp. Tarō prodded her to keep moving, furrowing his brow at the roadblock in his path.

“Why?” Yōko asked, her whole face creased with concern.

Rosalind made a casual shrug, like the topic of conversation was merely at the edge of her mind, something she thought to mention only to fill the silence. “I read the newspapers a lot. Haven’t you heard about the murders? There is a serial killer out and about.”

“Serial killer is a little dramatic,” Zilin offered from the top of the stairs. They reached the second floor, and Zilin hiccuped before snapping his fingers at the bartender. The bartender ignored him, too busy serving the people already clustered around him.

“How is it dramatic?” Tarō asked. “There have been a series of deaths with the same pattern. That’s the very definition of a serial killer.”

Zilin waved off Tarō’s words, clearing at the air around him as if the claim had made a tangible stench. “We are in foreign territory. We are protected.” He pushed forward, trying to get through the people, but he was still calling over his shoulder, trying to continue the conversation at loud volume. “It’s not as if we are gangster-ruled anymore. Maybe we should have been afraid when it was a bunch of lawless crooks leading us, but now we have order. We have Western innovation.”

Rosalind’s hands curled, nails digging into her palms.

“Western innovation can fend off a murderer?” she asked dryly. Zilin did not hear her. He was at the bar already.

Yōko sighed. “I’m going to try the one downstairs instead. Ōnishi-san? Mrs. Mu? Care to join me?”

Tarō nodded, but Rosalind had had enough. She needed a moment to breathe.

“I will meet you there,” she said. She sighted what looked like a washroom’s exterior sink, so she started in that direction. “I must use the water closet.”

Yōko and Tarō disappeared down the stairs, leaving Rosalind to her leisure. She sidestepped the bar crowd and trailed her hand along the second-level banister as she walked, watching the dancers on the stage and the couples twirling on the show floor below. Orion was still absent.

At the sink outside the women’s washroom, Rosalind peeled her gloves off and washed her hands, just for something to do. She stood there for a few minutes with the cold water running on her skin, letting her mind rest, letting the music and the hubbub reach her ears and bounce right out.

When someone approached from behind, she felt their presence long before their voice cut into her thoughts.

“You brought up a rather intriguing conversation, Mrs. Mu.”

Rosalind turned the tap off. She took her time drying her hands, throwing the used towel into the basket beneath the sink.

“I can hardly remember what we were talking about,” she said, finally grabbing her gloves and turning around. Though Yōko and Tarō were not around anymore, she and Zilin both continued speaking English. They could have switched to Shanghainese or any Chinese dialect, but Rosalind had a feeling that her colleague enjoyed staying in an imperial tongue.

“The deaths,” Zilin slurred, as if she truly needed the reminding. The new glass in his hand was nearly empty already. “All the deaths in the city, brought to those who deserve it.”

Rosalind froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“They deserve it!” Zilin was raving now. He threw his glass down. It bounced on the plush carpet, the last few droplets of alcohol splashing into the threads before the glass rolled to a stop near the edge of the wall. “They are only happening in the Chinese parts, are they not? Only in those grubby alleyways and filthy housing blocks. If we rebuilt those areas, it would not be happening. If we hauled those people out and took their shabby shops down, there would be no killer. Let the French Concession in! Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité.”

It felt like her limb was moving on its own. Her hand rose, and then it was slapping Zilin’s face as hard as it could manage. She did not regain control of herself until her palm was stinging and Zilin was rearing back, a red mark on his cheek.

Damage control, she thought. Now.

“My greatest apologies,” she gushed. “I don’t know what came over me.” She started to put her gloves back on. “I just… I have terrible experiences with the French, you see. All that égalité business stirred a beastly part of me.”

“Mrs. Mu.” Zilin’s voice had changed. It was sharper, a hint of amusement slipping in, like he knew something she did not. “Where did you say you were educated?”

Rosalind’s glove stopped halfway up her hand. She backtracked her last few seconds and found her mistake. All that égalité business. For crying out loud, she had slipped into her real accent.

“America,” she answered.

Zilin did not look like he believed her. He was smiling now.

“Our higher-ups are going to be interested when I tell them about your thoughts on our foreign collaborators,” he said slowly. “Unless… you have other thoughts you would like to tell me in private. It might persuade me.”

The corner of his lips quirked, albeit sluggishly in his drunkenness. He wanted her to shut him up. He wanted her to shut him up using means fitting for dance halls and seedy venues, where girls were hired for dance partners and late-night companions.

Rosalind finished pulling up her gloves. When she set her arms down again, she brushed her fingers against her pocket.

“Come with me, would you?” she said sweetly. Fine. She could play that game.

Zilin followed willingly. He needed no persuasion to enter the women’s washroom with her, waiting while she knocked on the stalls and checked that they were empty. She didn’t even need to persuade him to come closer when she turned to face him.

It made it all the more easy for her to pull a cloth from her pocket and suddenly press it to the lower half of his face.

Zilin cried out, but she was already moving with the momentum. Rosalind slammed his head into the wall and pinned him there; her wrists braced around either side of his face, fingers laced together in her effort to keep the poisoned cloth over his mouth and nose.

Zilin bucked. Rosalind held firm.

“Don’t struggle,” she purred. “You know who I am, don’t you? If you love the Concession so much, you must have heard of me.”

He tried again, this time trying to surge to the side. Rosalind pressed harder, her heart hammering against her chest.

“You have heard of me. Of course you have. They call me Lady Fortune—no matter how much I insist that it’s just Fortune.” She leaned closer. “Do you know how many people have gotten away from me?” A bead of sweat was dropping down Zilin’s temple, landing on her pinkie. “Zero.”

His eyes were bugging so ferociously that they were close to exiting their sockets. If he had tried—really tried—with his full strength, it was possible he could have pushed Rosalind off. But she had fear on her side. She had roused panic and a bone-deep sense of dread in her victim, and that—that was as deathly paralyzing as venom.

“It doesn’t matter how much you suck up to the foreigners,” she continued, her voice low. He was not struggling as hard anymore. The poison in the cloth was kicking in. “It doesn’t matter how much you pretend to be distant from the rest of us, frowning on everything that keeps us alive. I was always going to catch up to you.”

Rosalind clamped down on the cloth as hard as she could, forcing him to breathe deep, breathe in the poison. This was out of necessity, she assured herself. This was an effort to shut up the sources that would have leaked her identity. But a righteous fire was burning in her veins. If she glanced into the mirror, she wondered if she would see a glow cast around her skin, a furious zeal coming from the inside out as her anger took the reins. Retribution for her country. Vengeance for her city. That was how she was redeeming her name.

At last Zilin’s eyes closed, his body turning slack. Rosalind stepped back immediately, letting him fall to the floor with a sickening crunch, arms and legs splayed at awkward angles. Slowly, the anger started to ebb. Slowly, she started to take inventory of her situation again.

She had a dead man on the washroom floor. She was the last person seen with him. And the dance hall was at full occupancy, which would make it exceptionally hard to dispose of her evidence.

“Merde,” Rosalind whispered.

She needed to lock the door, formulate a plan.

Which was exactly when the door opened, bringing someone in.