Nine

The morning is bright, but it's only an illusion: they wash and dress and pack up, and Miss Riza pays the old woman after breakfast, but when they step outside, it's twice as cold as yesterday.

Miss Riza checks her billfold and shakes her head after a moment, kneeling to fix their scarves.

"The sooner we get there, the sooner we're warm."

Winry skips ahead, over-excited about the prospect of a new dress. Al and Ed follow, less enthused.

They enter the market district and then two more blocks until they find a dress-shop they can afford. Winry disappears between the bolts of fabric while Miss Riza stands grimacing and shifting in her boots.

"A chair for the lady, perhaps?" the shopkeeper suggests, gesturing to an overstuffed armchair set near the window. "While we attend the little miss."

"Thank you," Miss Riza says, and she settles back with great sigh. Ed gives Al a quick look—this might prove their only chance.

"Miss Riza," Ed says carefully. "Can we ask you something?"

"You just did," Miss Riza replies, brow raised. "What do you need, boys?"

"See, we passed an apothecary on our way here, and we were wondering if—"

"—because Mr. Bohn's shop just has carbon, because they needed everything for the war and—"

"—and we just want to try transmuting with something else. Otherwise we're never gonna learn—"

"Okay, okay," Miss Riza says, holding up both hands. "If it's on the way to the station, we can stop in on our way there."

"But what if it closes before then?" Ed demands. "And that's just more standing for you, and what if we miss the train—?"

"And what if you forget the rules?" Miss Riza replies mildly. "Stay in sight, stay together...?"

"Please, Miss Riza?"

"If you'll excuse the intrusion," the shopkeeper says, bending a little too far into Ed's space, "there's an apothecary right across the street. Very reputable—you can see the doorway from here."

Miss Riza follows the line of his gesture, reluctantly.

"Please, Miss Riza?" Ed repeats. "We'll just be a couple minutes."

The fatigue must be getting to her—with another reluctant look out, Miss Riza sighs and reaches for her handbag.

"Fifteen minutes and not a millisecond more."

The shopkeeper is polite enough to disappear as Miss Riza counts out the bills—a thousand cens each—with an expression that grows more stern by the moment.

"Promise me," she says. "Fifteen minutes, or I'll have you collected."

"Yes, Miss Riza."

Ed takes Al's hand outside, and they look both ways before crossing, excitement pushing them against the wind. Ed waits until they're safely inside the shop before pulling the list from his coat pocket. Sulfur, fluorine, phosphorus, magnesium, copper—he hadn't thought to put them in any kind of order, by atomic number or amount needed or anything.

He'd written it hastily, on the back of an old recipe for bread.

The apothecary holds no other customers—a bell overhead announced their entry, but no one appears behind the counter. The aisles are narrow and stacked high on either side of them—bottles and bags and open boxes with scoops dangling from twisted cord. Ed steps forward, frowning. Al holds tight to the back of Ed's coat, ducking his head.

"Hey!" Ed shouts. "Someone here? Are you open?"

There's a shuffling bit of noise, and a man appears behind the counter, climbing up an unseen set of stairs. He is pole-thin and gangly, with patched clothes and crumbs spilling from his open lips.

"Yes, sorry, welcome to Charnock's—"

He has a napkin folded over his collar, and he looks around the shop, confused.

"Down here," Ed says grudgingly, and the man gives an over-dramatic double-take.

"Well, begging your pardon, young masters," he says, dabbing stew from his beard. "How can I be of service to you?"

"Here," Ed says, shoving the list at him. "We need this."

The man reads down the list, lips moving silently with each word, eyebrows rising higher and higher until they have nearly melded with his hairline. When finished, he peers over the paper's top with a rodent's searching stare.

"All this, eh?" he says. "Brewing something special?"

"We're students. Our master needs it for her experiments,," Ed replies, arms crossing defensively. "Do you have the stuff or what?"

"Knowledge cannot be denied, I suppose," the man chuckles. "You're in luck, son. Got everything right here in my humble little shop. Give me a minute to put it together for you."

"We have to travel," Al whispers, just as he turns away.

"Eh? What's that?"

"We have to travel," Ed repeats louder, stepping forward. "So make sure to pack it well. And be quick. We have to get back."

The man laughs at him again, but Ed can't summon the strength to glare—heart hammering in his chest, palms slick with sweat inside his mittens. He counts the minutes in his head, glancing over and over at the clock behind the counter. He wanders the empty aisles a bit but doesn't browse—and Al keeps tight to his side, too scared to speak up or wander off.

Five minutes to the deadline, the man comes back with a crate, crossing to their side of the counter and setting it on the floor.

"Check for yourself, but it's all there," he says, handing Ed the list back. Bottles and packages wedged together between wads of newspaper, all labeled clearly, with weights and atomic numbers stamped on top.

Ed had overestimated all of them—better to have extra in case of accidents or worse, mistakes.

"Yeah," he sniffs after a moment, and the man tucks a rough stretch of burlap over the top, "all here. How much?"

"How much you got on you?"

"How much is it?" Ed snaps—grateful, for a moment, that Granny had taught them how to avoid grifters. His fingers curl around the notes in his pocket.

"Two thousand," the man says with a hard look.

"Fifteen hundred."

The man seems surprised at the challenge, and a smirk flits over his features.

"Seventeen-fifty, and we'll say I threw in the wrapping for free."

"Whatever," Ed snaps, shoving the money at him.

He counts the change twice before they leave the shop—Al holding onto his sleeve when they cross the street, because Ed is holding tight to the crate.

It's odd to think—as he sets it down beside the bags and returns Miss Riza's smile—that this is what they're going to make Mom out of. Almost like she's sitting right there, just waiting to join them.

"Find what you needed?" Miss Riza asks.

"Yeah," Ed says with a grin, shaking off the lingering creepiness of the apothecary. "They had loads more than Mr. Bohn's."

"Just so long as you don't get bored," Miss Riza replies, turning back to the shop. Quaking with excitement, Ed settles onto the bench nearby.

But the excitement fades fast. Winry takes forever. Al falls asleep, curled on the floor beside Miss Riza's chair, and the shopkeeper brings them lunch—when Miss Riza hesitates to accept, he insists.

"Compliments of the lady upstairs," he says, bowing. "She's a soft touch for young mothers—and you've a passel here, eh?"

"I suppose I have," Miss Riza replies. "Boys?"

"Thank you, sir," they say together. They save a little for Winry, too.

Miss Riza dozes until it's time to pay—getting up is an effort for her, and there's a darkness beneath her eyes that wasn't there before. Winry looks at the money on the counter with a little frown.

"I don't need two dresses," she says quietly.

"Don't be silly," Miss Riza replies lightly. "Pinako wanted you to get two dresses, so you're getting two."

They try to carry everything for her, at least. Winry's dresses fit inside the empty basket, and Al can carry the crate alone, and Ed shoulders the carpetbag.

"Well, aren't you a regular convoy," the shopkeeper laughs, holding the door. "Mind yourself crossing the streets—lots of military up and down the last few days."

Miss Riza thanks him, and they step out into the wind together.

The cold hasn't let up even slightly. After only two blocks, tears stream from Ed's eyes, even when he tucks his chin down to his chest. Miss Riza keeps a firm grip on her hat with one hand and steers Winry with the other. They seem to be the only travelers for the city center—everyone else fans out on either side, knocking them sideways and back and dangerously close to the curb.

"Mind yourselves," Miss Riza says, more warning than admonishment.

The crowds thicken up at the station entrance—they'll get stuck with crappy seats, Ed just knows it, packed hip to hip with the windows fogged up by the heavy breath of a hundred strangers.

Soldiers are marching in and out of the station, and a group of military policemen block the door.

"No civilians just now," one says, shrugging aside Miss Riza's polite smile. "Get around the west if you know what's good for you."

"Our train is—"

He shoulders them aside with little more than an annoyed click of his tongue. The main doors are blocked by similarly flat-faced men, so they go around to the station's west-facing entrance and slam into a crowd.

Churning, mixed-up, loud, and angry—they dodge kicking feet and shaking fists, following the tail of Miss Riza's coat in a stiff line. The only plus, to Ed's eyes, is the warmth generated by such mass.

At the doors proper, a station man has upended a shipping crate and stands on it, trying and failing to solicit silence.

"Please!" he shouts ineffectually. "Please, if you'll all remain calm! The commander will return shortly with news!"

Miss Riza has come to a halt beside a thick support pillar a short distance from the man and his crate, arms crossed over her belly, staring up with a frown. Al holds tight to the precious crate, but Winry and Ed set down their burdens with matching grimaces. Ed reaches up and tugs on Miss Riza's sleeve.

"Can't we go in?" he asks.

"I don't think so."

"How come?"

"I think we're about to find out."

A military commander appears from around the corner—towards the train-yard, which they can see is littered with idle engines. With a little flailing effort, the station man steps down from his crate and offers it to the commander. He climbs easily, as though well-practiced at standing over everyone else.

"Your attention, please," he says in a voice that echoes more than shouts. Little by little the noise dies out, and he surveys the crowd with ice-blue eyes. His ashy hair is parted perfectly down the middle of his peaked head, and his bristly narrow mustache sits in perfect rank over his thin mouth.

He's ugly, Ed decides, because of the cold curl of his lips.

"Approximately four hours ago, the Ishvalan dissidents launched an offensive incursion into our Amestrian lands with aid from the Aerugian military. They have struck several targets with mortar fire and artillery, including the southern branch of the East City Line. All civilian railway traffic is suspended at this time."

He silences the crescendo of protest with a single slice of his hand.

"The Fuhrer thanks you for your cooperation in this matter, and he reminds you that in such times of crisis, Amestris stands together."

And with that, the commander steps back down from the crate and, in perfect reverse of his earlier journey, returns to the rail-yard without so much as a glance at the shell-shocked crowd.

"Miss Riza?" Ed says, but she is charging away from them, having spotted the station man lurking near the door, waiting to slip in while the crowd consumes itself.

"Excuse me," she says, grabbing a handful of the man's sleeve. "But what am I supposed to do? I have three little ones here and no money to stay in this city another night. And I'd wager the rest back there have similar stories!"

"Short-distance travel—"

"I don't need short-distance—we came from Resembool!"

"More's the pity, then," the station man says grimly, wrenching his arm free and ducking back through the doors.