Foul Lady Fortune

At the end of the workday, Rosalind made her own way home, seeing as Orion had never returned to the office. She was rushing, a laundry list of developments prepared in her head to report back to him. Ambassador Deoka had made a stop among the cubicles to deliver an announcement. She had talked with several colleagues in the break room afterward, all of whom they needed to add to their arrest lists as contributors to the terror plot.

“You have been hard at work to ensure our issues run smoothly each week, and your work has been recognized,” Ambassador Deoka boomed. There were men standing with him wearing pleasant smiles. Perhaps sponsors, or investors. “Seagreen’s second anniversary is approaching, so there will be a function in celebration. It will be held at the Cathay Hotel next Friday at eight o’clock. I hope to see each and every one of you there in celebration.”

“I’m so very glad Cathay was the location chosen,” Hasumi Misuzu from the writing department said, bustling around the second-floor break room right before clock out. “If I have to spend prolonged time in Chinese territory, I might kill myself. Or personally raze the ground so they can fix up the hideous architecture.”

Ito Hiroko from production didn’t even care that Rosalind was listening in on the conversation, blank-faced. “Calm down. There’s no need to do any razing. We can brighten it up easily under firmer governance. Mrs. Mu, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rosalind put her cup in the sink. She said what they wanted to hear. “The city slowly rots. Loose governance and Western governance are equally dangerous.”

Misuzu and Hiroko both nodded.

“It is time for Asia to come together,” Misuzu suggested.

“Surely, surely,” Hiroko agreed. “Under one great empire.”

To them, these opinions were nothing worth hiding. If they were a part of the terror plot, it was only another administrative task they needed to complete—sending along reports and shredding what remained, passing on numbers and forgetting the rest.

At last freed, Rosalind turned onto her street, breathing out and loosening her shoulders. She had stayed overtime to finish up the conversation in the break room, and now the sky was dark, hazed with deep violet. None of the lights outside her building were on yet, so she stepped into relative darkness, making her way up the exterior stairs. When she unlocked the door to the apartment and entered, only the washroom light was illuminated.

“Add Hasumi Misuzu and Ito Hiroko to our lists,” Rosalind called in lieu of a greeting. She tossed her bag onto the couch. “Even if they’re not guilty, I’d love to see them arrested and tried merely for being staunch imperialists…”

Rosalind trailed off. Orion had come to the washroom’s doorway, leaning out to indicate that he was listening. He was in the midst of shaving, half his neck still covered in foam.

And he was shirtless.

“Hello,” he said.

“… hello,” Rosalind replied with some pause. “Is there any reason you’re half-naked?”

“My shirt got blood on it. Didn’t want to get foam on it too.”

Rosalind resisted the urge to massage her temples. “And how, may I ask, did your shirt get blood on it?”

“Funny story, actually.” Orion retreated into the washroom to resume his task. Rosalind followed him in, sitting on the counter while he peered at the mirror, his chin tilted up. “First: that lockbox was a dead end. Second: Zheng Haidi, our delightful secretary, summoned me to a hotel room today. She had plenty of questions about you. About us.”

Questions? Rosalind frowned, folding her arms.

“What did you tell her?”

“Beloved, I could hardly get a word out with the speed she was trying to drag me to bed.”

Rosalind lurched off the counter, her fists clenching. “Is she out of her mind? I’ll—”

“Hold on, hold on,” Orion warned, rinsing off the straight razor. “As much as I adore the sound of you jumping to threats, this was no ordinary attempt at inciting an affair. She was assigned, Janie. I just wonder who she is working for. Whether it is Deoka who suspects us and why we haven’t been kicked out of his office if so.” He brought the razor to his neck again, then winced. “I sidled out of there by cutting my finger open and pretending my nose was bleeding. Hence the stained shirt.”

Now that she was looking, Rosalind noticed the index finger on Orion’s right hand was wrapped, the bandage reddened. Human skin was so fragile. Mortal human skin was so fragile, one sharp slash away from spilling blood and guts and secrets out from its casing and onto the cold linoleum floor.

“You aren’t concerned.”

Her eyes flickered up to his face, startled out of her inspection. “Of course I’m concerned. If she’s asking questions, then our covers are under suspicion.”

“I meant about me,” Orion clarified. “I was bracing to defend myself. I had a whole speech prepared that I didn’t do anything to instigate this, and you didn’t even raise your voice.”

Rosalind put her hands on her hips. “Do you think of me as some all-controlling harpy wife?”

“Yes.”

Her glare had the force of a physical punch.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Orion hurried to tack on. He wiped off the rest of his foam and took a step toward her. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Don’t overplay it,” Rosalind said, her frown returning. The washroom smelled like him now, a mix of spice and mint. “But… it was silly of me during the fundraiser to take your father at his word and jump to conclusions when you haven’t shown me reason to believe him. Or at least that much reason.”

Orion looked amused. He hadn’t expected this.

“A little reason.”

“A little reason,” Rosalind agreed.

“For what it’s worth”—Orion propped his arm on the wall, caging her in—“maybe I do like seeing you jealous.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes, opting not to reward his shameless behavior with a response. His proximity was supposed to be some sort of tactic to make her flustered, she guessed, but she was only concentrating on the fact that Orion had missed a spot right by his jaw.

“Give me the razor.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She touched the curve of his jaw, where there remained stubble. His skin was warm, radiating with energy.

“You didn’t do a very good job, but that’s expected with your injured hand. Give me the razor.”

Although Orion looked hesitant, he did slowly reach for the straight razor. “I… don’t know if I want you holding a blade so close to my throat.”

Rosalind had to resist the twitch at her lips, trying to look like she was taking this very seriously. “What?” she asked, forcing a scowl. “Do you not trust me?”

“I never said that.” His throat bobbed up and down. His chest rose and fell, accompanying the deep breath he took in. “Okay. Yes, I trust you plenty. Please, I accept your help.”

“Wonderful.” She took the blade. Rather roughly, she grabbed ahold of his jaw with her other hand to position him, her fingers splayed along his neck. One finger rested right on the soft spot where his pulse was pounding.

“Relax,” she breathed, running the razor down carefully. “Don’t get so flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” Orion protested.

“Mm-hmm.” Rosalind proceeded with her task. She could feel Orion watching her. He was trying very hard not to exhale, which Rosalind knew because she would feel the air on her face if he did.

“You’re allowed to breathe,” she whispered.

“Stop it. You’re actively trying to make me nervous,” Orion returned.

With a laugh, Rosalind stepped away, finished with her task. She rinsed the razor in the sink and tapped the droplets off, setting it to the side. When she turned around, Orion still hadn’t moved, standing by the door with a doltish look on his face.

“What?”

“Do that again,” he said.

She looked at the sink. “Wash the razor?”

“No, beloved. Your laugh.”

Now Rosalind really was going to start getting flustered. She blew a dismissive breath, then brushed by him, exiting the washroom and stretching her arms. “Put on a shirt. Didn’t you have somewhere to be tonight?”

“Yes. Headquarters wants to speak to me.” A shirt went on. “While I’m there, I’m going to push them to assign us a new handler as quickly as they can manage. We cannot keep operating like a headless chicken, especially if Seagreen Press is onto us.”

Rosalind reached for a notepad on the coffee table. “All right. I’ll be here doing my housewife things.”

Orion emerged from the bathroom, his brow already quirked up. “Housewife things? Like sitting on the couch?”

The paper under her fingers made a crisp sound as she flipped, stopping on the first blank page. “I choose to interpret domestic tasks in my own unique way.”

With a small shake of his head, Orion said his farewell and exited the apartment. As soon as the door closed after him, Rosalind let out her smile.

Phoebe lugged her basket close to her chest, peering around the driveway to confirm that Silas’s parents had not yet returned from their trip. It was no matter if she had to greet them, but she liked summoning different versions of herself best suited for different people so that they would adore her at her utmost potential, and this late at night, she was low on energy.

She knocked on the front door. An old housekeeper answered and, recognizing Phoebe, let her in wordlessly.

“Silas?” Phoebe called, kicking her shoes off in the foyer and proceeding down the hallway. “I’ve brought you extra muffins. Pay attention to me, please.”

His house was built so that the bedrooms and living areas were emphatically separated, placed in different wings of the manor. It was often difficult for Silas to hear her arrive because sound didn’t carry well between the wings, but he would keep his door propped open when he was expecting her. Though Phoebe hadn’t given him any advanced warning today, she was still surprised he didn’t emerge from his room to greet her. Frowning, she walked farther ahead and knocked directly on his bedroom door. “Silas?”

The door opened. When Silas appeared, however, he quickly pressed a finger to his mouth, warning her to stay quiet. There was another voice behind him. Phoebe’s scowl was immediate, taken aback as to who was in his bedroom, but she realized seconds later that the voice was too grainy and distant to be a visitor. Silas was playing a recording.

“Who is that?” Phoebe whispered, entering the room. There was a phonograph on his table, spinning a disk inside.

“Priest,” he answered distractedly. “It’s the only way she will communicate with me. Written messages are too easily opened and spied upon.”

Phoebe set the basket down. “She?”

“Oh.” If they had been speaking Chinese, there wouldn’t have been any difference between pronouns. But Phoebe had opened with English, and so Silas had followed, making the differentiation in his speech. “I only assume, with the sound of the voice. I could be wrong, knowing how they’re learning to alter sound now.”

He sat back at his desk and resumed whatever he was writing while the recording played. It was as if Phoebe weren’t even in the room. When she tuned in, the voice did sound distorted, pitched lower than a natural speaking tone.

“—proceed down this route if you want our trust. First and foremost, remember—”

Phoebe harrumphed. “I shall take my leave, then.”

“Wait.” Silas looked up so fast that his hair fell in front of his glasses. “You only just got here.”

“Yes, well, your focus seems reserved for this girl on the airwaves. I was going to ask if you wanted to drive around with me tomorrow, but never mind.”

“It’s my job to investigate,” Silas said nicely. “I was assigned to her. The more I get to know her, the likelier it is that I unroot her identity. And of course I can drive around with you tomorrow.”

Phoebe still held her frown, crossing her arms. There was a note of something in Silas’s tone. Not vengeance, not outrage. Admiration.

“You ought to be careful,” Phoebe said. “Priest is a Communist assassin. What if she finds out you have been in allegiance to your original side all along and comes after you?”

The recording ran to a stop. Silas set his pen down. “It will be fine. I—”

He was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. In the hallway, the housekeeper called out a summons, but Silas was already moving to answer it. Phoebe trotted after him, ever watchful as he picked up the receiver.

Central command, he mouthed in explanation some seconds later.

“What are they saying?” Phoebe whispered.

“Yes,” Silas answered into the phone before he could mouth another explanation. “I’ll be there immediately.”

He hung up.

“What happened?” Phoebe demanded. Silas was already hurrying back into his room, fetching a jacket.

“Anti-Japanese riots outside of Seagreen, and they can’t reach Orion or Janie,” he answered. “Someone might use this opportunity to destroy evidence. I’m off to keep an eye on it.”

“I’m coming too.”

Silas paused. He might have thought to argue, but then he cast one look at Phoebe and sighed. “Okay. Let’s go.”