Written for FMA Polyship Week 2016: prompt was "roleswap." Intended to be a oneshot, but now we have this monster. Feedback is appreciated!
The rain came down hard that night. In February, Xenotime is usually lucky to get a drizzle; tonight it fell unforgivingly, pounding on rooftops and awnings with all the wrath of a god angered. A god played.
The torrent easily drowned out the sound of footsteps, of an armored shoulder banging against the front door. Only when the door flew open in a shower of splinters did Belsio whip around to look. The sight in the doorway would never quite leave him: first the armor, tall and bronze, its harsh lines contrasting sharply with the trembling in its shoulders. Then, the boy cradled in those shaking arms, his face a deathly white beneath a shock of blond hair. Dark, wet blood stained his clothes and streaked his skin: the strips of cloth at his empty shoulder and knee sockets did little to stem its flow, makeshift bandages by a nine-year-old who didn't know how to tie a tourniquet.
His heart caught in his throat, his stomach contracting, Belsio struggled to speak.
"What did you do?" he whispered. "What the hell did you two do?"
A soft, high voice answered, quaking with fear—and echoing, too, as if the little boy Belsio knew well wasn't physically inside.
"Please," Fletcher Tringham choked. "Please help us."
Russell leans his hip into the wall by the payphone, absently twirling the cord around a gloved finger as he waits for Belsio's response. Two and a half years, and the man remains as bad at talking on the phone as ever: Russell half-wonders if Belsio nodded and forgot Russell can't hear it. How does he run a business like that? He must not get many automail orders over the phone, or else his niece makes the calls for him, Russell figures.
He's about to clear his throat when Belsio finally speaks. "Did you find your Philosopher's Stone, then?"
"Ah," Russell says intelligently. "Well—we did, and we didn't. The priest in Liore used a very powerful replica, an almost perfect copy of a real Stone, but the thing disintegrated before I could get my hands on it. The true Stone wouldn't have done that, you see."
"That sounds a lot more like 'you didn't,'" Belsio replies.
Russell imagines his face: his mouth a thin line, one eyebrow arched. He bristles. "We may have failed in Liore," he says, the words sour in his mouth, "but this is as close as we've ever been, Belsio. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
Belsio only hums. It might just be Russell, but it sounds vaguely judgmental. Russell's temper rises a fraction.
"Look, we got a tip in Aquroya—"
"What were you doing in Aquroya?"
Avoiding Colonel Mustang. That's the truthful answer, if Russell is honest with himself, but he can hardly tell Belsio he was hiding from his supervisor like some guilty child. Yet, a passable lie for why he was in Aquroya won't come to his lips. For whatever reason, Russell finds it incredibly difficult to lie to Belsio—that and the man's constant pessimism make him fairly grating. Russell huffs.
"The point is," he says, sidestepping the question altogether, "we got a tip in Aquroya about an alchemist in Resembool trying to manufacture a Stone. We're headed there now to see what we can find."
Belsio hums again. This time, there's no mistaking it: he definitely sounds dubious.
"Do you have a better idea?" Russell snaps, before he can stop himself.
Fletcher, studying a map, turns and gives Russell what's clearly meant to be a sharp look. He's going to hear it when he gets off the phone. You shouldn't yell at Belsio, Brother. He does so much for us! Okay, but you raised your voice and you sounded really mean, so that's basically the same as yelling. Still, Russell isn't the one reacting passive-aggressively to Belsio's attempts to do his job. He ignores Fletcher and puts a fist on his hip, tapping his automail foot impatiently.
"I have several," Belsio says quietly, "but none that you want to hear."
Russell can imagine. Stop chasing what Belsio believes is a fairytale. Resign from the military who'll only continue to use him. Come home. Accept that there might not be a way to restore his and Fletcher's bodies. Make peace with it. It's not possible, and Russell has told him this—he'll have no peace until he exhausts every option, no matter how remote, dangerous, or degrading. At least Belsio acknowledges that he won't be able to change Russell's mind, even if he has no faith in him; it mollifies him some.
"Touché," he murmurs.
Belsio clears his throat. "When you get done with—" a pause, and Russell imagines him making an encompassing hand gesture, "—I'll want to take a look at your automail. I haven't made any adjustments since the end of April." (And a wonderful birthday that had been.) "How does it feel?"
"Just fine." Russell's answer is automatic. "Honestly, Belsio, it's hardly been three months. Do your other patients need this much maintenance?"
"My other patients don't grow six inches every time I see them," Belsio tells him. There's finally a smile in his voice, albeit a wry one. "The last time you said your automail was 'just fine,' you came in limping because your left foot was nearly half an inch shorter than your right."
"That was when I was thirteen."
"Earlier this year, then."
Russell twitches. His age—specifically, his youth—is a sore point for him; reminding him how young he is is low of Belsio, even if Russell walked right into the jab.
"Fletcher and I will scope out Resembool and then go back to East City. The Colonel will probably have me jump through some hoops, and then I'll come to Xenotime," he says. "Will that work?"
"If it works for you," Belsio answers. "I've never tried to control what you do, Russell, and I won't start now. Come if you think you need it. If not, by all means, don't. Though Elisa would love to see you boys again."
Of course she would. Russell feels himself smile, softening in spite of himself. "As soon as we can, Belsio. I'm on a leash, just remember that."
Bitterness creeps into his voice. "Couldn't forget it if I tried."
A whistle blows in the distance. Russell covers the receiver with his hand and looks to Fletcher. "Is that us?"
"I think so," Fletcher responds, adjusting the strap of their bag on his shoulder. Russell uncovers the receiver.
"That's our train. I'll let you know what happens in Resembool," he says to Belsio. "Don't work too hard."
"And you." Belsio hangs up.
Russell replaces the phone and turns to find Fletcher standing right in front of him.
"Don't give me that look," Russell says.
"What look?"
"Like you want to roll your eyes at me." Russell reaches up and takes the bag from Fletcher, draping it over his own shoulder instead as he starts toward their train.
"People are allowed to care about you, Brother," Fletcher tells him, matching his strides.
Russell shrugs. "Of course they are. Affection makes humans feel validated and humans need validation for adequate mental and social health, it's scientifically proven. Belsio can care all he wants."
"Then don't get onto him for worrying about you."
"Worrying and caring are two different things."
"People worry because they care. You certainly do."
"That's neither here nor there," Russell says. "Belsio doesn't think I know what I'm doing. I do," he says crossly, when Fletcher chooses not to respond.
The armor makes it hard to tell, but he thinks Fletcher sighs. "You always do," he murmurs. If he means it sarcastically, Russell elects to ignore it.
A horse-drawn buggy takes Russell and Fletcher from Kaumafy's train station to neighboring Resembool. Russell is spared asking the condition of Resembool's own train station when they come upon it for themselves: rusty railroad tracks bent to uselessness lead the way to a wasteland of shattered concrete and gravel. A closer look yields that volunteers must have cleaned up what they could, shattered glass and wood splinters and other things, but the majority of the wreckage still stands, immovable. Even now, grass refuses to grow nearly twenty yards all around it. Their driver pointedly ignores the sight as if it's too much to bear; Russell can't take his eyes from it.
He remembers the bombing, though Fletcher can't: too young. During the war, it was the only significant blow Ishval landed against Amestris. Resembool was and remains a small village, like many in the east, but it was well-known throughout the region for its wool. Much of this wool was exported to be made into military uniforms—hence why the Ishvalans targeted it, destroying the train station, some of town square, and many of the sheep farms with explosives.
For Russell, seven years seems like a long time. Yet the destruction he sees as they ride past might have happened yesterday. It might be a trick of the dying light, but he swears some of those ruins look like they're still smoldering. As they near the town, the driver catches Russell staring and gives a heavy sigh.
"Not pretty, is it?"
"It's terrible." The grief in the man's face looks so fresh that Russell finds it hard to meet his eyes. He wonders about the causalities of this attack, the fatalities. Part of him wishes he had a number, and part of him never wants to know. His mouth feels oddly dry. "I just … I would have thought … wouldn't you have rebuilt it by now?"
The man answers with a humorless chuckle. "With what money? We've got half as much wool to sell as we did before. Even if we had more than that, we can hardly get it out with the closest train station fifteen miles north. And people've got families to feed. S'enough of a struggle to do that," he says resignedly. He almost looks as if he wants to add something else, but after a pause, he returns his attention to the reins and says nothing for the rest of the trip.
"This is awful," Fletcher whispers, as Russell finishes tipping their driver and joins him in the square. It seems that the townspeople were able to make more repairs here than at the train depot—several clumsy patch-jobs here and there, but no piles of debris—yet the atmosphere remains equally depressing. Most of the shops have already closed for the day and shut their lights off: the dusk looks dark as night.
"It is," Russell agrees in a murmur. "Which explains why they want a Stone."
The hint about Resembool had seemed random at first: were he less desperate for a lead, he might have dismissed it as a joke, one last laugh for a thief about to be put away. Now Russell understands. No ordinary village would tamper with the Philosopher's Stone; legend calls it as dangerous as it is powerful, the object that annihilated Creta in a single night. Not worth the cost. Not worth the risk. But Resembool, unable to scrabble out of the hole the bombing put them in, has nothing left to lose. Desperate people do desperate things—and we would know, Russell thinks, and heaves a sigh.
"You don't think they've already made one, do you, Brother?" Fletcher asks, voice quiet and doubtful.
Russell shakes his head. "Most likely not." Beyond the square, tiny cottages dot the bare plains that must have once been farms, which give way to dirt roads leading up to gently rolling hills. A river cradles the eastern edge of the town, visible in this dimness only because of starlight glinting off the surface of the water. No, not starlight, Russell thinks, and peers closer. Atop the very highest of those hills sits a large house, still loudly lit, a spot of brightness in the dreary grayness of the main village. There, then. Russell's breath quickens, and it's with anticipation that he turns to his brother.
"Whatever alchemist is trying to create the Stone isn't trying to hide themselves," he says. "I say we pay them a visit."
"You need food," Fletcher answers. "And sleep."
Trivial things; Russell waves them away with a flippant hand. But Fletcher insists. "Whoever's working on the Stone will still be there tomorrow. You'll want to be at your best when you meet them, right?" he says. Then, when Russell still looks dubious, "Please, for me?"
As if he has a choice, when Fletcher says it like that. He's more inclined to sacrifice his well-being than see to it for his brother's sake, but the fact remains that it's difficult to deny him anything. Russell exhales sharply.
"Fine," he says. "Tomorrow, then."
Night falls, settling inky-black over a town eager to embrace its silence. The house on the hill is so white that it gleams in the moonlight; the brick wall around it is smooth and cool to the touch, even through Russell's gloves. Urging Fletcher back, Russell peeks out from behind the corner: the guards at the front entrance seem unsuspecting, but no less intimidating. Russell draws back to face his very nervous brother.
"Fletcher," he says, both a comfort and a warning.
"I don't think we should be doing this." The last word breaks off with a squeak as Russell presses a finger over his lips to hush him; Fletcher lowers his voice and continues. "Russell, this is breaking and entering, this is wrong—"
"And what they're doing isn't?"
"Of course it is!" Fletcher catches himself just as Russell makes another harried quieting gesture. Fletcher's pitch tends to be directly proportional to his level of anxiety—the more panicky he feels, the higher he goes. They can't let their voices carry across the courtyard: those guards have a very shoot first, ask questions later look about them. "I just—I don't think—Brother, we could get in so much trouble for this, this is illegal!"
"So is impersonating government personnel," Russell replies, voice even.
"Oh, only you're government personnel, I'm no one—"
"Don't say that about yourself."
"I—I just—" There's another pause while Fletcher wrings his hands and Russell waits for more objections. "You don't know, these people might have a very good reason for using our names—"
"They had better." Russell sets his jaw. "And I'd love to hear it."
Before Fletcher can respond, Russell brings his hands together and presses them against the wall in a crackle of bright green transmutation.
Fletcher seems far from mollified, but he follows Russell into the tunnel he made without another word of protest. The passage leads them to a room even darker than outside, without moonlight or sodium lamps to brighten it: as his eyes adjust, Russell comes to realize that they're in a library. Anger and indignation aside, Russell has a certain fondness for libraries, and he finds himself gravitating toward the nearest shelf like a flower to sunlight, scanning the titles on the spines with piqued interest.
Most of them, unsurprisingly, are books on alchemy. This Mugear is not an alchemist: talk in the tavern before their untimely expulsion from the premises told him that much. This collection, then, must belong to the imposters. As much as he resents them already, adorning the word itself in his mind with all the colorful expletives Fletcher doesn't need to hear, Russell can't deny it as he casts a cursory glance down the length of the bookshelf: he's impressed.
Unable to resist, he neatly slides a random book from its place, props it open in his automail hand, and begins to read.
"Ooh, that's a good one."
Russell freezes, clenching his hand so that the book shuts with a snap. Beside him, Fletcher's armor rattles as he jumps, whipping around.
"Faulkner, right? It's kind of hard to tell from over here, but it looks to be about the right place. He sure was something, that Faulkner, wasn't he? Very fascinating theories on irregular versus polygonal arrays. Love it. Of course, most of the traditionalists think he's full of it—might have been the opium—but who likes traditionalists, anyway?"
Russell turns at the laugh, a carrying peal that runs its fingers up his spine. Its owner crosses the room and joins Russell and Fletcher by the bookcase. Russell gives the boy a quick one-over: he's tall, though slightly shorter than Russell, with clever dark eyes and long, black hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wears simple clothes and a smile like he's known Russell all his life. Russell squints with suspicion. "Who are you?"
The boy's face wilts. He clicks his tongue; it almost sounds like a reprimand. "You must be from Central, with manners like that," he says long-sufferingly, and plucks his book from Russell's hand before Russell can react. "Or maybe the north. I'm from the south myself. My parents are from Xing, and they raised me to say 'hi' to people before asking questions."
He speaks so quickly and with such ease that Russell finds himself slightly off-kilter. As the boy inspects Faulkner's book, as if trying to see if Russell damaged it, Russell struggles to regain his bearings.
"Are you the person pretending to be me?" he asks, in as intimidating a voice as he can muster.
The imposter doesn't even look up from his book. "Yes."
Russell blinks. He had expected denial, bashfulness, defensiveness, hostility—anything besides a frank, mild yes. The boy might have confirmed that it is in fact Tuesday. "Ex-excuse me?"
"You're excused," the boy tells him, in that same mild voice. Then, when Russell only continues to sputter, at a rare loss for words, the boy looks up again and says, "You're Russell Tringham, right? The Evergreen Alchemist, youngest State Alchemist in history? Champion of the people? Mannerless northerner?"
"That's right," Russell says, with a certain amount of pride, before he processes the last bit. He flushes irritably and hurries to correct himself. "I mean—no! First, I'm from Xenotime, it's in the east. Second and much more important, I do have manners, thank you, just none to spare for posers like you!"
The imposter looks up from Faulkner's theories with an exaggeratedly hurt expression, a hand over his heart. "Oh, ouch. That hurt me, Russell. That cut me deep."
"You think I'm hurting you now? Just you wait—"
He doesn't need Fletcher's warning hand on his shoulder; Russell is already telling himself to rein it in a little. He cannot, absolutely cannot, afford to lose his cool, especially with this boy baiting him so blatantly. He smiles serenely at Russell's threat, as if Russell had just complimented his eyes.
"Listen here, imposter." Now Russell's voice is quiet, and dripping with ice. "What you're doing here is against the law."
The boy shrugs. "So is breaking and entering."
There he goes again! With just a sentence and a twitch of his shoulders, Russell's temper—normally quite in check—skyrockets. It's no accident, either: the imposter's face remains impassive, but one look in those dark eyes tells him he's quite enjoying riling Russell up. Russell forces himself to remain calm.
"Look," the imposter says, before Russell can reply, "I understand you're angry. I would be, too. But know that I have a very good reason for being here."
"A very good reason for stealing my name, you mean?" Russell responds.
"Stealing?" The boy sucks his teeth. "That's a little harsh. I like to think of it as … borrowing." He glances at the book in his hands. "Like a book," he explains, and holds it up. "I use it while I need it—" he pretends to peruse the volume, "—and when I'm finished—" he shuts the book with a snap, "—I give it back, safe and sound." He holds the book out to Russell.
But, before Russell can grab it, the imposter pulls it out of reach. "Unfortunately, I'm not quite done with it yet," he says almost apologetically. "I will be soon, I promise. A few weeks, maybe? I can send you a letter. Or do you have a phone number?"
"I don't want a damn letter!" Russell snaps. "I want you to go to the village and tell these people you're a fake! My brother and I were thrown out of an inn because of you!"
The imposter puts a hand to his mouth in sympathy. "Oh, no. Not the one by the shoe shop, right?" he asks. "That's a real shame. They have really good soup."
Russell's blood boils. His heart pounds like it's vying for freedom. And this boy, this poser, looks cool and collected as ever. He has no right! Russell is supposed to be the calm one; this faker has no right to take that from him!
After a pause, the boy sighs. "Why don't you go home, Russell?" he suggests. His voice takes on a serious note for the first time all night. "If you try and fight me for your name, you'll only cause trouble here—and, in case you haven't noticed, these people have trouble enough. 'Alchemist, be thou for the people,' right?" He replaces the book on the shelf. "The best way you can do that is leave."
"I'm not leaving." Russell steps determinedly into the imposter's space, drawing himself up to his full height. "And if you think I can't take you," he says, in his quietest, most dangerous voice, "you've got another thing coming. I'll drag you kicking and screaming into town square and make you confess your real name to the whole village."
"Since you want to know so badly," the boy says dryly, "my name is Ling. Ling Yao. Go ahead and tell everyone if you want," he adds, when Russell's face lights briefly with triumph. "No one will believe you. You're no hero to them, Russell. You're some overly imaginative child making up stories."
There it is—child. Russell's face heats with furious indignation. He's too outraged to think of something witty; instead he spits, with acid in his voice, "I am not a child, of any kind. Understand?"
"Oh, I don't know," Ling says, a wicked smile spreading across his face. He sees he's hit the bullseye. "Weren't you born in nineteen hundred? Sometime in spring, if I remember correctly from your files. That makes you, let's see—" He makes a show of counting on his fingers, while Russell seethes. "Fourteen, I think? Sounds like a child to me."
"I'm not a child!" Russell shouts, unable to stop himself. Ling lets out a delighted laugh.
"Don't have a tantrum on me now, Russell. I'll have to send you to the corner. Little, baby Russell," he says in a syrupy voice, while Russell's chest heaves with anger, "you shouldn't stay up past your bedtime like this, it clearly makes you cranky. Why don't you go home and go night-night?"
The last word barely leaves his lips when Russell aims a roundhouse kick at his head. Ling, to Russell's surprise, is prepared: he catches Russell's automail leg in his hand and holds it tight, so that Russell wobbles stupidly in place trying to free himself. Ling's fingers slide up the boot to Russell's calf, feeling the steel beneath the fabric of his trousers.
"Automail, huh?" Suddenly, he drops the leg; Russell staggers and Fletcher hurriedly braces him. "Little Russell's had some troubles, it seems."
Shoving Fletcher back, Russell swings his fist at Ling's face. Ling dodges the punch, and the next, and on the third he seizes Russell's automail hand. His eyes widen slightly as he registers the metal: one automail limb on a teenager is uncommon, but two is practically unheard of. His moment of confusion allows Russell to wrest his arm free and finally land a blow in Ling's side with his knee, sending Ling to the concrete.
Russell smirks, hands on his hips. "Don't tell me you're all bark and no bite."
With a groan, Ling regains his feet and pushes his hair out of his face. Then, to Russell's surprise—and annoyance—he laughs again. "I was starting to worry you were," he says cheerfully. "Now, then. Since you want a fight so badly—"
Then, with alarming speed, Ling darts forward, seizing Russell's left arm in his hands. For as slight as he looks, Ling has a powerful grip: Russell struggles uselessly before Ling swings him face-first into the stone wall by the bookshelf. He's too shocked to turn his head, and his reward is a searing pain in his nose, made worse by Ling pinning him in place with an elbow in his back. Russell coughs, and blood dribbles down his face.
"You were saying?" Ling says, slightly out of breath, but still infuriatingly casual.
Russell forces out a rough laugh. "No class taught you to fight like this," he responds, "which means I'm not the only one who's had troubles. So, what have you been up to, Ling? You have me curious now."
"That's my business," Ling tells him. Russell jerks, and with his other hand, Ling shoves at his shoulder to hold him still. The feel of his fingers at the join of flesh and automail makes Russell shudder; a few choice jabs and Ling could do incredible damage to his whole right side. Does he realize this, realize how totally he has Russell at his mercy? Maybe so, because after Ling smirks and Russell snarls, Ling suddenly releases him and takes a few steps back. He stretches, like a dark, lazy cat; Russell could run at him now, but he chooses instead to catch his breath, swiping at his bloody nose with his sleeve.
Fletcher, pressed into a nearby corner to get away from the fighting, runs up to him then. "Brother, are you all right?" he gasps.
"I'm fine," Russell says shortly, and winces as he tastes blood, sharp and metallic in his mouth. Ling chuckles and makes a gesture to his own face with a finger.
"You've got a little something here," he tells him.
"You," Russell snarls, "are infuriating."
"So I've heard. So, have you had enough yet?" Ling asks. "You know, you really ought to go home and let Mommy have a look at your face."
He readies himself as Russell pulls a fist back, as if to try another punch. Then, Russell abruptly changes tactic: he claps his hands before Ling can react and slams his palms to the concrete. Spires erupt from the ground—they shoot outward, twisting and curving in the air toward Ling, and Russell watches with satisfaction as Ling runs and ducks behind another bookcase to avoid them.
"No transmutation circle!" Ling calls from behind the shelf. "I'd thought that was just a rumor. Impressive!"
Russell comes around the corner in time to see Ling return to his feet. Grinning, Ling mimics Russell's actions from just now, clapping his hands and touching the ground. Russell sees no transmutation circle drawn on him, no piece of jewelry that might have one inscribed, so he's caught completely off-guard when Ling transmutes a spike from the concrete—Fletcher appears, hooks an arm around Russell's waist, and yanks him to the ground, covering him with his armor.
"Did you see that?" Fletcher gasps, just as Russell says, "What the hell?" Fletcher helps him to his feet as Ling approaches, looking unbearably smug. Russell stares at him in blank shock for several moments.
"How are you able to transmute without a circle?" he demands. Of course Ling doesn't answer; he just casts an idle look around, smiling peacefully. Then Russell understands. He freezes in place, eyes widening and lips parting. His mouth feels very dry; his throat is too tight to speak. He forces himself to swallow, and then says, in a strangled voice, "You don't—you can't have—"
Ling gives a peal of laughter. One slim hand reaches into his front pocket, and from it he pulls a small red shard about the size of Russell's little finger. It looks remarkably fragile, and shimmers red-gold even in this dimness. Russell stares at it, unable to believe his eyes. Ling laughs again.
"The Philosopher's Stone?" Fletcher whispers. "You've already created it?"
"That's giving me a little too much credit," Ling concedes, gazing casually at the shard between his thumb and index finger like it's a spare cen he found on the sidewalk. Russell feels his hands start to shake. He can hardly breathe, for wanting that shard so much. "This is just a prototype. A very good prototype, clearly, but it's not as powerful as a real Stone. All in good time." He pockets it again.
Russell stands. "Give that to me," he says, in a soft, wavering voice. It's hard to inject any force into it: he feels overcome with his need for that Stone, with the thought that two and a half years' struggle might soon be over. "Now."
Ling taps a finger against his chin, pretending to mull it over. Then, with a wide smile, he says, very simply, "No."
The trembling spreads to Russell's shoulders, but now it's fury that makes him shake. "If you don't give that to me right now," he says, "I swear I'll—I'll—"
"Stammer at me?"
"Will you shut up? God!"
At Russell's right, Fletcher rises and puts a hand on Russell's shoulder. Russell thinks it a quelling gesture, but then Fletcher meets his eyes, and Russell understands. He huffs, folding his arms; Ling laughs at his resigned expression. Then, before Ling can prepare, Fletcher runs at him.
The clanking of bronze disguises another, quicker set of footsteps. Fletcher and Ling are within inches of each other when a small figure appears from nowhere: it vaults at Fletcher, both feet connecting with his shoulder, and Fletcher shrieks and topples to the ground. The boy, Russell thinks, straightens, still standing on Fletcher's back. For the first time, Ling actually looks startled.
"What are you doing here?" he demands. "I told you to keep an eye on Mugear!"
"You looked like you needed the help," the boy shoots back, stepping off Fletcher's armor to face Ling. He's quite a bit smaller, with wide dark eyes and a round face. Russell can just see black hair under his hat. This must be Ling's brother, then: the boy pretending to be Fletcher.
"What I needed you to do is make sure Mugear doesn't show up here and realize what's going on," Ling says tersely. "Are you trying to ruin everything, Mei?"
Wait, Mei? Russell takes a closer look. Sure enough, beneath the cap, he sees two long braids spilling out over her shoulders; feeling them, the girl hurriedly tries to tuck them back in.
"I'm not the one raising hell in here like the whole mansion can't hear you!" she snaps as she flushes angrily. "How stupid do you think Mugear is? You said two minutes, Ling, it's nearly between twenty! What, have you been prancing around here the whole time?"
"I do not prance," Ling sniffs.
Mei makes a noise of frustration. "Just get them out of here!"
"If I may interrupt," Russell says, glowering at the bickering siblings as he hauls Fletcher to his feet, "we aren't leaving. We aren't done here."
"Yes, you are," Ling says.
Russell's retort is drowned out by the shriek of a guard's whistle. The four of them turn in a panic to the door just as a voice, alarmingly near, calls out, "Mister Tringham! Are you all right? What's going on in there?"
"Brother," Fletcher whispers, "we should go."
The very thought makes Russell seethe, but Fletcher has a point: the chances that they'll be able to convince this Mugear of the truth are very slim. Better now to escape and return later to set things right. Fletcher hurries over to their tunnel, but before Russell can follow, Ling suddenly appears in his space, fingers curled in the front of Russell's shirt. The smile is gone. Instead, he wears a glare so fierce that Russell can't help but startle. "Do not," he snarls, "come back here."
He releases Russell with a shove. Without another word, Ling turns and stalks out of the library, beckoning Mei to follow with a hand. Still, she lingers; Russell swears her eyes follow them as he and Fletcher disappear the way they came.