"I'm home," Riza said, leaving the front door open behind her. It was a sunny spring day and the house could use some airing out. She stepped around the boxes stacked near the hallway entry, careful not to snag the bags on the corner, and headed to the kitchen. The new apprentice was going to arrive today and there were still a lot of props she needed to set up. She'd already taken her school books to the lake shed, as well as some blankets and rough soap for washing up in the morning. All that was left to do was change into her thick work clothes and boots and find a way to sneak the rifle out of the house to the old cave across the lake. No "poor Riza Hawkeye" comments this time.

This new strategy worked on the last few apprentices – the previous three boys stayed between 6 and 8 months! The strategy was simple: her focus would be completely centered on the organization of the house, which she would promptly leave whenever Berthold started laying into her. It made her unapproachable and gave the young men no reason to get up to any white knight antics on her behalf.

Riza hefted the packed bags onto the kitchen counter and started sorting the groceries when the back door leading from the kitchen to the little herb garden caught her eye. It looked different somehow. She set down the aubergine beside the sink and went to it. It had been broken for about two months after the last boy slammed it on his way out.

It was fixed. Which meant...

Riza opened the back door and stepped out onto the small walkway that led around the garden and around the west of the house.

Sitting in the dirt, reciting the periodic table backward, was the new boy. He'd already been here for about an hour if he was this far into the initiation ritual Berthold put his pupils through. 1. Fix the door, 2. Recite the periodic table, forward and backward, 3. Read in full Florence Gregorowich Bartholomew Smitt's 'Treaty of Ethics and Alchemy: 201 Essays'. Riza was off to a late start.

The boy looked up at her, his dark eyes glinting joyfully. She'd seen someone who looked like him before - one of those rich foreigners from the countries far in the east that sometimes came to settle in Amestris' capital. The gossip pages were always talking about them.

He didn't pause in his recital, carefully enunciating the atomic mass of tungsten. His eyes traveled up to the open window of Berthold's study above him, where the old man was likely listening, and back to her. The fresh sheets Riza had hung in the morning billowed loudly in the wind. Riza left the dark-haired, narrow-eyed boy and the laundry there and went back inside to get on with supper.

It wasn't long before Berthold strolled through the kitchen and out the back door. "Alright, so you're not a complete idiot," she heard him growl before proceeding to quiz the boy on the composition of basic materials. The boy answered each question with abrupt precision until he tripped up somewhere. Riza couldn't hear him, but Berthold's condescending tone carried back in through the open door. Their voices quieted as Berthold led the boy around to the front of the house. He'd fallen into the rhythm of keeping his students away from Riza as much as possible.

"But even clever men can end up fools of their own desires," her father's voice returned from the front door. "Why do you want to learn alchemy, boy?"

Riza shook her head to herself, checking on the rice while whisking the flour and water into a thick batter. She could just picture him, standing nose to nose with the boy, who'd probably be trembling at the closeness of his new teacher's intense face.

"I..." the boy stammered - the batter was almost at the right consistency - "It's the only thing I'm good at."

The sliced aubergine made little plopping sounds as they hit the batter. It was ridiculous that so many of the boys who came here said that when they usually left thinking they knew more about alchemy, if not life than Berthold. The oil on the stove wasn't hot enough yet, but the rice water had just started boiling. She laid out the towels to catch the excess oil as Berthold made an unpleasant, throaty sound. Not good enough an answer for him, either.

"That's just the sort of thing children say!" he chastised. "You have these grandiose ideas of what alchemy is. You think if you can fix a door or a pavement or make the soil a little easier to till you're powerful, but alchemy is more than just creating things. You have to destroy in order to create. Destruction is complex, difficult to control. If you are to stay my pupil, I expect you to study harder than you've ever studied before. You'll listen and follow every instruction I give you, with no questions or backtalk, and you'll follow the rules I lay out. I have no time to teach children who think alchemy is art or another career choice. Disobey, and I'll send you home."

Their voices were lost in the spluttering hissing of batter meeting oil. The same lecture - Riza could quote it word for word. That boy was in for a rough ride. Riza didn't know whether to hope for his sake or her own sanity that he'd drop out sooner rather than later. She didn't know about foreigners, but it was safe to say that rich families made the worst clients.

When the food was ready she set the table, letting the smell of piping hot cutlets and fried rice announce the meal for her while she slipped upstairs and retrieved the duffle bag out of the bedroom-turned-storage-space in the west wing. The clinking of metal striking metal was dull but noticeable through the thick material. She made a note to pack the parts more securely as she carefully moved a floorboard under her bed and stuffed the bag into the opening. She'd sneak it out on a study night.

Berthold and his apprentice were already seated. Riza pulled up her own chair and took the rice Berthold passed.

"Everything is connected," Berthold said the words like he wanted to clobber the boy with them. "A true alchemist respects that balance. You must never, ever upset that balance for any reason! That would be the worst abuse and betrayal of the very source that gives you power."

"How do you know if your actions are upsetting the balance, master?" asked the boy, eager for this wealth of knowledge to descend upon him.

Berthold scoffed. Riza tuned them out until the plates were empty and she could clear them away.

Well, tomorrow was another half day at school for 10th graders, and Widow Coleson had taken the opportunity to schedule her at the library in the afternoon so Riza would be out of the house for most of the day. She could do the laundry by the shed, and the general tidying up right before nightfall. Dinner would be late, but they'd probably get carried away and lose track of time anyway.

ooooo

Any day now. It would happen any day. The young dark-haired man with intense dark eyes and persistently pleasant demeanor wouldn't be able to just look on in silence.

It could be the hoarding. The stone mansion should have room to house a party of 12 easily, but Berthold couldn't bring himself to throw anything out so most of the upper floor had been turned into some kind of informal storage space. In one room, a village of paper bags had colonized the space, their asymmetrical balance keeping them from staying put. Now, whenever you opened the door, a whole stack threatened to crash down and block the door from closing again. And that was just the one room.

Or it might be the overall shabbiness of the mansion, the way he refused to call a carpenter or a plumber when the rot in the house and pipes, but it took months before he transmuted the problem away, and by that time there were more leaks and cracks.

Or his confrontational, pedantic method of instruction, arbitrarily allowing or disallowing the use of alchemy, his library, or alchemy research sets. He'd banned a couple of his pupils from speaking for days in a row with no explanation beforehand. Sometimes he kept them up well past midnight doing menial tasks or rewriting a principle or ethical mantra 12 thousand times. Many of them broke from not being allowed into town or a day off from studying.

This latest boy, Master Roy Mustang, had managed to make it 3 months, only having one row with his petulant mentor.

"If I don't write her back, she'll worry! I promised her I'd let her know how my lessons were going!" the boy pleaded as Berthold stormed past Riza in the kitchen and tossed the letter his student spent the last 20 minutes hunched over at the dining table into the stove.

"There will be no frivolous distractions," came Berthold's unwavering commandment and the boy let out a frustrated sigh in a surefire way to tick the old alchemy master off. And off he went. The rest of the evening was filled with an endless lecture on the benefits of isolation for focus during intensive learning, and the importance of humility and obedience in young students. The boy had ceased pushing after that, but the increase in letters addressed to him was probably seen as proof his concerns were justified and Berthold was wrong. There'd be another fight. Any day now.

Riza pulled her boots on, the baskets for the weekend market ready and waiting on the porch. Today was immaculately planned out. First groceries, then darning the coat Berthold refused to replace. Then fishing. If she caught anything early enough, she'd hike across the lake and into the woods. The small, underground cave she found last summer made for a perfectly soundproof firing range - it had been a few days since she got any practice. An hour or two there, then she'd slip back with the fish and make dinner.

The front door creaked behind her as she laced her feet into the well-worn leather. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing her father's faded brown robe in the corner of her eyes.

"Take him with you."

Riza's fingers paused mid-loop. She sat up and turned around fully. Who, his student? Take him to the market? she looked in askance. Was he serious?

"Keep him busy," Berthold said. He looked distracted.

"Someone's paying you a visit," Riza guessed.

Berthold scowled. "They're sending another of their money grabbers." He ran his hand through his greasy hair. "I'll handle them. Just, keep him out of the way." His instruction given, he limped back to his study. Riza frowned after him. His knee was giving him trouble again. Perhaps that would help convince the collectors whatever payments he missed couldn't be helped. Still, he really ought to get the doctor to come by and have a look at it. It had always bothered him, but it seemed to be getting worse every year.

"Boy!" she heard him shout up the stairs. So much for the afternoon at the improvised range. Berthold herded the young man out. "Your lesson today - assist Ms Hawkeye. Follow every instruction she gives you. Riza, work him hard." Berthold scooped up a pair of shoes from the rack and tossed them onto the porch before shutting the front door firmly. The boy sat dutifully on the stoop and put on his shoes. He stood and faced Riza, holding out a hand.

"Can I carry the baskets for you, Ms Hawkeye?" Roy Mustang asked.

"No, thank you, but the icebox is around the back," she replied. Babysitting her father's apprentices was more than enough extra work without them interfering with her system with all their 'help'.

They walked the gravel path that led to the hub of houses and stores that made up the small village. "Today," she told him, "we'll get fresh vegetables and meat for the market. Then we'll go to the lake and catch some fish for supper." The firing range would have wait for another day.

Mustang nodded, keeping up with her fast pace easily.

It turned out he was actually quite a good assistant. He knew which fruits and vegetables would stay the longest and showed no qualms about the awful smell at the butchers. He didn't speak much to Riza, but he made pleasant small talk with the vendor and offered smiles to girls his age as they passed. Once she caught him watching her, but when she looked again he was busy with some interesting lint in his pockets.

The walk to the lake was as silent as the one into town. It was strange. This boy was Berthold's 17th apprentice, but he was the first that didn't bother Riza. He'd gotten the opportunity to spend time alone in her company, but never once had he addressed her flirtatiously, protectively, or condescendingly. In fact, he almost seemed reverent. For the first time in many years, she found herself curious about one of Berthold's students.

"Where are you from?"

Mustang's steps slowed marginally. "Central," he answered plainly.

"And your parents? Where did they come from?"

"They're from Central, too, as far as I know." There was a laugh in his voice, and Riza flushed with the realization that he'd caught on to her actual inquiry. Subtlety never was her strong suit.

"My grandmother was from Xing if that's what you wanted to know." He hopped a few feet ahead of Riza, the full icebox securely held in place on his shoulder, and kicked a stone into a nearby tree trunk. "You could have just asked."

"No, I couldn't have," Riza replied, causing the boy to look back at her with an unimpressed expression. "It's rude to point out when someone looks different."

Mustang shrugged and kept walking. "I didn't think you cared about those kinds of things."

Riza stared at his back. Since when did this boy start making deductions about her? She was barely around the house as it was - he could barely have made a passing impression of her. He began walking faster, finding a path in the undergrowth as they left the road behind. Riza hurried after him.

"What about you?" he asked, hefting the weight of the icebox onto his other shoulder. "Where is your family from?"

"We don't have an interesting background. We're just Amestrian." This was the right way to the lake - had he come down to the waterside before?

Mustang let out a huff, casting another flash of onyx at her. "You don't have a foreign family to be interesting. I think you're very interesting," he said.

Riza scowled. She took it all back: he was just as irritating as any of the others.

Fishing was an activity that went well with conversation. Jenny used to sit with her sometimes before her dad inherited some land outside North City and they moved. Today, as the afternoon faded into early evening, neither Riza or Mustang attempted any further discussion until the sun fell low on the horizon. Riza left him clumsily gutting the fish as she trekked home with the icebox. As she came up the path, Berthold stepped out of the house. Riza sighed to herself - the collectors were still here and she'd have to keep Mustang occupied for a little longer. At least this had to happen in the middle of summer. There were still hours more daylight left.

Berthold met her much farther from the house, nearly running to make sure he stopped her before she reached the gate. That was... unusual. Were they more persistent, today? He stopped when he reached her. What he said once he caught his breath sank Riza's heart.

"Find somewhere else to spend the night. They're not leaving yet."

Riza's eyes lowered from Berthold's face to the front door of her home, less than 100 meters ahead. A door that opened, revealing a woman around her father's age, an aristocratic streak of white crossing her forehead where the rest of her tightly bound hair remained a thick brown. The maroon travel dress spoke of her significant class.

"Will she be gone tomorrow?" Riza asked, pushing her disappointment away for the walk back to the lake.

"I don't know." Berthold fished some crumpled bank notes out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand. "Come back in the morning before the milkman. You're the local delivery girl."

"Brother Berthold?" called the woman from the door, lilting the harsh sounds in his name.

Slowly, Riza looked back up into her father's suddenly terrified face. "Do you have a safe place to spend the night?" he asked, his eyes averted.

"Yes, father," Riza whispered, not trusting her voice. She was barely keeping her shock off her face. Apparently, she didn't do a good enough job. Berthold flinched like she'd punched him.

"Go. It's going to rain tonight." He snatched the icebox from her hands like her presence stung him and limped back up the pathway, shoulders straining. "I'll be with you, sister!" he called back.

Riza turned around and walked steadily down the road. "The regular boy was held up on another delivery, so they had to send their girl instead," she heard the explanation he shouted out. So, the woman didn't know about Riza, and Berthold didn't want her to. Good to get the story straight, Riza thought bitterly.

He hadn't wanted her grandfather in their lives - that made sense. Berthold was passionately opposed to the fuhrer's militaristic control of Amestris and the constant border wars, and General Grumman sat on a council table with Fuhrer Bradley himself. What would the reason be this time? That beautiful woman, Berthold's sister, Riza's aunt. Why couldn't she know about her?

Riza forced herself to walk steadily. No running until the road turned the bend around the trees. It took more effort than should be reasonable. Her eyes stung, her chest suddenly heavy and the air too thick. If she couldn't run, there wasn't much else to do, she sniffed, and tears were falling from her eyes to the gravel as she bowed her head and walked on. By the time she turned the bend and stepped into the woods that led to the lake and the boy she was about to have to look after, Riza was done crying. That's just who Berthold was. He always had a reason for doing what he did, and they were always good reasons. He also believed no one could ever grasp the way his mind worked, so why waste time and energy trying to explain. The result was meanness and cruelty. This time was no different.