Two
Miss Riza never asks them to do anything. She suggests—she leaves rags and soaps out, sets the broom by the back door, tacks a new rope from the tree to the house corner—each time a harmless request, like she's expressing a desire for a little more sunlight or a lighter breeze. Maybe you boys could, and if they don't—if Ed doesn't, because Al's too wrapped around her little finger not to go along, that rotten traitor—she says nothing. She does it herself, eventually, without so much as a reproachful look.
Within a week she has finished cleaning and fixing up the kitchen and parlor, and the back room is half-empty—enough for Al to take some wood and nails and transmute her a bedframe, and then help her stuff an empty mattress with straw. She sends them into town for groceries on the weekends, pinning the list and some money inside Al's pocket. Ed always follows, because someone has to keep an eye on Al, but he doesn't enjoy it—kicking gravel the whole way there and back.
Everything they know about her is learned by Al and shared with Winry on the way home from school. Miss Riza is just nineteen, she's from the west, her mother is dead as well and no siblings—she doles out details like a rare treat and sometimes won't answer questions at all, going quiet as she peels potatoes or twists a rag dry.
That's not important is her refrain: the line she uses to shoo them out to the yard or back to the library. Everything else they have to learn by observation.
"Well, she's right-handed, and she's got okay aim," Ed says.
"You almost lost an eye to that acorn," Winry laughs.
"That was a lucky shot! One in a million!"
"She's so pretty," Winry sighs, ignoring him. "I wonder if she has a beau."
"What's a beau?"
"You know, like a boyfriend. But people in Central say beau. Sounds more official."
"Sounds stupid."
"Well, what would you know?" Winry snaps. "You've never been to Central."
"You've only been once!"
"Once is still more than none!"
They split off from Winry at the bridge and carry on down the long road alone. Al waves and shouts goodbye for them both, and then runs to catch up with Ed.
"I don't care what you say," Al says. "I like Miss Riza. She has a nice voice, and her food's good."
"Not as good as Granny's," Ed replies sharply, struggling with the bag as it slips on his shoulder.
They're quiet with the door on entering—Miss Riza's dozing in the armchair again, teacup perched on the edge of the wireless. In her lap, between half-curled hands, rests a thick envelope, wax-sealed and address scrawled in a slant: Mjr Roy Mustang, c/o Company A, 3d Regiment, 702d Infantry, Amestris Eastern Strategic Command.
"Do you think that's her beau?" Al whispers, as they tiptoe into the library—the only room Miss Riza has left untouched.
"Who cares?" Ed replies, a little louder than necessary. But he adds this new scrap of information to his growing mental case-file of Miss Riza's mysteries.
He's almost disappointed to have the answer to this one—since she arrived, Miss Riza has spent her evenings after dinner listening to the wireless and writing out long letters, carefully folding each into a sturdy envelope and sealing the flap with wax. They hadn't before been able to read the address, as she always took the envelope straight to the mailbox and raised the little red flag for the mailman to catch. Ed thought she might be reporting to Hohenheim—they'd asked, but she claimed he left no way of contact. They had apparently agreed beforehand that her pay was to be room and board.
But this lapse is one of many that have been piling up: mornings spent sick in the water closet, falling asleep whenever she sits for more than ten minutes, leaving lamps to burn in an empty room. Just last week, she misplaced a ration book and tore the house up to find it—folded between stacks of books left on the hearthrug—and then sat on Al's little stool by the icebox and cried for ten minutes into a dish-towel.
Ed blinks, knocking his thoughts loose—Al is busy arranging their books by subject.
"What should we start with today, brother?"
"Anatomy," Ed says. "I think we're still on the endocrine system."
At half-past five, they hear Miss Riza rise and shuffle into the kitchen to make supper.
"We should help her," Al says quietly.
"Go if you want," Ed sighs.
But Al stays with his book until she knocks.
"There's casserole," Miss Riza calls through the door, and her voice still sounds thick with sleep. "Will you come sit at the table?"
"No," Ed calls back. "We're not hungry!"
Five minutes later, there's another knock. Al opens the door to two plates, covered with clean white squares of cloth, and two chilled glasses of milk. Al passes a plate over, grinning, and Ed picks at it. He can admit, if only to himself—it's pretty good.
Al quits around eight. He's full and sleepy, but marks his place with care.
"Good night, brother," he says, and Ed merely grunts in response, busy trying to puzzle out the pituitary gland.
The oil runs out at midnight, and the jug's all the way out in the shed, so Ed closes up his notes and hops down from the chair, stretching his arms over his head. For once, he takes the dirty plates and glasses—he doesn't want to give Miss Riza any excuse to wander into the library and mess all their things up. She's been respectful of that privacy so far.
The rest of the house is dark—a new moon is approaching, and all of the lamps have been extinguished or run out. End of the month: tomorrow Miss Riza will go around with the oil jug, carefully refilling each lamp with a chipped old teacup. Only the outside lights are electric.
Ed steps carefully around the floorboards he knows will creak, inching along with the plates balanced precariously. He concedes as far as the table—he's still too short to see over the high rim of the sink. He wonders, briefly, if Miss Riza even ate, and then dismisses the thought. The door to the back room is shut tight.
Back in the hallway, he yawns his way to the staircase, about to stumble up when he sees her.
Still awake, with one hand resting on her belly and the other tracing the edges of a blank piece of paper, Miss Riza has something of a glazed look—gaze on the silent wireless but clearly not seeing it. She looks older in this half-light, eyes set deep in her tired face. Her hair's longer than when she arrived, tucked up beneath an old kerchief. She's still wearing the same clothes, for the most part—she only has two skirts and the sweater and a few starched men's shirts. The high-buttoned boots she arrived in sit beside the back door, but she mostly goes barefoot around the house and in the yard.
"You're up late," she says softly, head half-turned. "Is there something you need?"
"No," Ed says, matching her tone. He thinks, halfway up the stairs, that he should've said it more mean or stomped up to his room, but she looked too tired to make the effort worth it.
Al is awake regardless, blankets pulled up to his chin, eyes widening at the open door.
"It's just me," Ed sighs, climbing up beside Al—his own bed sits empty across the room, like always. Al pulls Ed's blanket up from behind and inches close, whispering across the pillow.
"Do you think, if we get Mom back—"
"When," Ed cuts in. "When we get Mom back."
"Right. When," Al amends. "Do you think she'd let Miss Riza stay?"
Ed takes a while adjusting the blanket and settling into the mattress—giving himself time to think.
"When we get Mom back," he says, and suddenly his throat is tight and his face hot, and Al's hand slips into his.
"Brother?"
"We might not need her," Ed forces out. "When Mom gets back, she'll probably want to do all the things she used to. There won't be anything left for Miss Riza. Maybe she'll go home."
"But you've heard her," Al replies, shaking his head. "She doesn't have a home anymore, remember?"
In the silence after this answerless question, Ed almost thinks he can hear the scrape of a bare foot on the bottom step. He holds his breath, just in case, but there's nothing more.
Just the wind, and the house as it settles around them.