David hated Central. He hated the overcrowded train station, the absurd prices of the cabs, the general attitude of the city. East City was one of those special big cities with the charm of a small town, with lovely little buildings and canals that nestled together like some unplanned masterpiece of a puzzle. Central sprawled.

But Mariya had wanted to arrive early. "It is for practice," she had said. "I need to know how my voice carries in venue."

He hadn't meant to travel with her, for his conference would not be for another week, but Mariya had somehow convinced him that the trip would be fun. So he had asked another professor to take over his classes for just one more week, and he had chosen to join Mariya on the early morning train. Even that had been unenjoyable, because Mariya had suggested they play cards, and she excelled at bluffing.

He looked around the hotel lobby while Mariya waited on a low settee. She had been right: the theatre and government had paid for a much finer hotel than the one he would have stayed in alone.

"Mr Bauer, correct?" asked the concierge.

"Yes," he said as he stared at the chandelier and wondered how many individual crystals surrounded the electric lights.

The lift to his right opened, and he glanced over out of curiosity and felt all air leave his lungs.

It was her. The friend. Riza's friend. The one whose telephone number he had actually been after. The one he had considered flirting with the night after he and Ellen had been fighting because he had made the decision to tell her that he did, in fact, have a wife, but that it was alright, and his wife knew about the relationship, and they would be getting divorced eventually—And he needed to stop telling the girls he dated that he was married. It never ended well for him. Of course, that had been before he had realised Riza's friend was married, and he didn't mess around with married women. He understood the irony of it.

And she certainly was married, and the man next to her was probably her husband, and they were probably having problems because they didn't look at one another, but they did have a short and aggravated exchange before the man leaned in and kissed her cheek and—It wasn't his business.

It wasn't his business.

He turned around again and steadied his breathing because she was definitely married and it wasn't his business.

"Your key, Sir," the concierge said to him as he slid a key and a card with the room number across the counter. "And have a lovely day."

David doubted he would but he thanked the concierge anyway and left the check-in counter.

"Riza!" the pretty friend called, and he looked up so quickly he felt dizzy.

But there they were, both in full uniform, General Mustang and his aide emerging from the lift. They stopped and spoke to the dark-haired woman for a moment and then left through the lobby doors, perhaps off to make more populist remarks on the radio.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he made his way across the lobby to where Mariya waited.

"We're staying in a different hotel," he said.

Mariya looked up at him through her eyelashes. "And you are paying for new hotel?"

"If I have to," he said as a bellboy approached and picked up their cases. "Leave those."

"Don't listen," Mariya said to the boy. "Take them."

"Masha," he said. Singing for one night was one thing, but keeping up their charade under the noses of the military for the entirety of their stay was quite another. "Mustang is here."

"Please," she said to the bellboy, who scurried away with both cases. "You will live," she said.

David inhaled and grabbed her shoulders. He was becoming increasingly less convinced that they would live past the end of their trip. One of them, Mustang or Riza or her friend or someone, would notice that their marriage was not what it seemed. Their future would be bleak, at best. "Masha," he said again.

She shook him off and went to the lift. "I am hungry." She turned and looked at him. "Coming?"

He shook his head. It had been a bad idea from the beginning, and he had known it. Still, he followed her and, as the lift operator turned the crank, said, "I hate this city."

Edward ran the spoon under the tap for the third time and hoped Winry would be back soon. If Yuriy threw his spoon one more time, Edward was going to start screaming too.

"No!" Yuriy cried as Edward came back.

Edward grabbed a mushy carrot off the plate—perhaps he had overcooked them, but that was no reason for hysterics—and popped it into his mouth. "See?" he said. "Yummy. Please, just try—"

Yuriy grabbed a handful of the carrots and hurled them on the floor. "No!" he screamed again. It was a new favourite word.

Edward mashed his fingertips into his eyes. "What do you want? Do you want peas? Apples?" He leaned in. "Just tell me what you want."

"No!"

Edward ran to the electric refrigerator and grabbed a basket of strawberries. Yuriy loved strawberries. But when he held one out, his son grabbed it and threw it across the room with another emphatic "No!"

It was, he decided, one of the worst weeks of his life. First, he had learned that his brother had taken the State Alchemist exam—and he had learned it from Mustang, no less! Then, Yuriy had discovered the concept of free will, but he seemed interested in exercising that knowledge only while Winry was busy examining the aeroplane engine in their yard. And to top it all off, Mustang had given that interview, the one that kept Edward tossing and turning at night.

"He's not talking about—" Winry had said.

"She's from the East," Edward had been quick to say before shoving a sandwich into his mouth. Riza had trusted Edward, and if Mustang was determined to be a moron, that meant it was Edward's job to protect her secrets. Even if that meant lying to his wife. Still, Winry would understand that sort of lie.

Yuriy snatched the spoon off the table and threw it as Winry, covered in black grease, walked through the back door and into the kitchen.

The spoon clattered at her feet, and she looked between it and Edward before asking, "What's happening?"

Edward threw his hands in the air. "I'm trying to feed your son!"

Yuriy wailed and slung another handful of carrots, and Winry rushed to the table. "Has he eaten anything?"

Edward stood and backed away. "He's eaten maybe two bites?"

"Alright," Winry said as she tried to catch flailing limbs. "Do you want to nap now or after you eat?"

Yuriy screamed and kicked his little legs as fast as they would go.

Edward turned toward the window that looked out to the main road and grabbed the back of his neck. By some miracle, Trisha had not woken up from her own nap.

A nap sounded perfect at that moment, and if he and Winry could manage to talk Yuriy down, he would suggest they go upstairs and drop face-first onto their bed until one of the kids screamed them awake again—

Then he saw them. Two figures walked up the path to the house, and Edward felt his temperature rise.

"No way," he said.

Winry wrestled with Yuriy and said, "What?"

"He's back." No telephone call, no warning. True, Alphonse had learned from Edward how to be as uncommunicative as possible, but there was no excuse for doing something idiotic, never telling one's family, and walking home as if nothing were wrong. Edward knew because he had tried to do the same hundreds of times in his youth.

"Ed," Winry said over Yuriy's continued screams. "Don't kill him."

"No, I'm gonna kill him," he said, and he stormed into the front room, onto the porch, and down the steps.

Alphonse dared to smile while Edward marched toward him, and that only made Edward tense his shoulders more.

"Ed," Alphonse said. "We just—"

Edward shoved him hard, and a leather suitcase hit the ground. Garments scattered in the dirt while Mei shouted something in Xingese.

"Hey!" Alphonse cried. He jumped back to his feet and hunched forward. "Ow! I will destroy you!"

Edward didn't care that Alphonse was the better fighter. He shoved him again. "I had to find out from Mustang, you dumbass!"

Alphonse stepped back before Edward could push him again. "Well, it's not my fault he told you!"

Edward stopped and puffed out his cheeks. "What?" He shook his head. "That's not the—" He wouldn't let Alphonse derail the conversation. He gestured between them. "We talked about this! Years ago!"

"Yeah," Alphonse said. "Years!" He held out his hands. "So much has changed, and I—"

"You went along with this?" Edward said as he rounded on Mei.

She put her hands on her hips and spread her feet. "I did. So what?"

"Don't yell at her," Alphonse began, but Mei continued.

"He did it for you!"

Edward felt as if the air had been knocked out of his chest, and he looked at Alphonse again. "I can't—I trusted you with something—"

"It was your idea first!" Alphonse said.

Edward tugged at his hair. "For me!" He reached forward again and Alphonse—finally—retaliated by slapping Edward's hand away. "And what do you do? 'Oh, I think I'll just pop by the Führer's office and join the military—'"

Alphonse caught Edward's next strike and pushed him back. "It's a different military now, Ed!"

"It's a military!" Edward said. He lunged forward and grabbed Alphonse's shoulders and tried to pull him forward. "A military is a military!" Alphonse grappled with Edward's wrists as Edward added, "Do you realise what Izumi is going to do when she—"

"Alright, stop it!" cried Winry, who, somehow still wrestling Yuriy, pried them apart.

Edward stepped back, and the two glared at each other, flushed and breathing heavily.

"You want to kill each other?" Winry asked. "Fine. Just—" She stopped when Yuriy squealed with joy and reached out for Mei. Winry, mouth open and brow furrowed, looked from the suddenly delighted child she held and his aunt. "What?" Then she shook her head and, before Mei could say anything about it, shoved Yuriy into her arms. "Never mind. Just stop it!"

Alphonse gestured to Edward and said, "Win—"

"Shut up," Winry said. She held up her hands while she stood between Edward and his brother. "When Granny died, I became the head of this family. So you're both going to do what I say." She pointed to her chest. "And I say we're going into that house, and we're going to talk about this like rational adults."

"See," Edward said because Alphonse seemed incapable of making any rational decisions, "to do that, we'd all have to actually be rational ad—"

Winry wheeled around. "Really?"

Edward was going to say that this was between him and Alphonse, that they didn't need a big family conference, but Winry raised her eyebrows. So he huffed and turned back toward the house. He and Alphonse could always fight it out their way later.

As they neared the house, he could see the aeroplane and the square where Winry had pulled away the siding.

"What happened to the aeroplane?" Alphonse asked, his every word grating on Edward's nerves.

"Relax," Winry said. "I put everything back where I found it."

"You know," Edward said as he looked behind him, "I can't believe you didn't say anything—"

"Well, it's not like you tell me everything," Alphonse snapped back, as if Edward had something to feel guilty for keeping to himself.

Edward stopped and turned. "What does that—"

"House!" Winry said as she pointed toward the door, then she pushed past Edward with Mei and Yuriy close behind.

Alphonse shrugged but kept his frown in place. Edward shook his head and rolled his eyes, and he followed his wife.

"Where is Izumi?" Alphonse asked as he caught up to Edward.

Edward considered not telling him. If Alphonse thought he was keeping secrets, then maybe he would. But in the end he said, "We got a postcard a few days ago from some giant canyon in Elcana."

Alphonse nodded. "That's far."

"Yeah," Edward said. It was a two-week trip by steam ship, which meant that even if Izumi learned of what Alphonse had done, it would be some time before she could reappear and end both of their lives. "Good thing, too."

Mei looked back at them while Yuriy played with a silk knot on her dress. "I can't believe they're so calm now," she said to Winry as they climbed the steps to the front door. "When my siblings fight, one of them ends up poisoned or stabbed."

When they reached the door, Winry held Edward back while Alphonse and Mei went inside. Edward's earlier weariness came rushing back as he waited for her to speak.

"You know him," she said when the door closed. "The more you yell at him the more he's going to fight back."

He scoffed. It was ridiculous that she thought she could lecture him about his own brother.

"He's just trying to help," she said. Then, "We needed a solution."

"You can't—" Edward shook his head to clear the sudden ringing in his ears. It was ridiculous that she would try telling him how to handle Alphonse, but it was unbelievable that she would support his ridiculous decision. "Mustang and I agree on this!"

Winry raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And," he said, because it was obvious, "if we agree on something, it's most likely objectively correct."

Winry blinked at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Go inside."

Mustang considered himself a man of strategy, one who could consider the implications of different moves and the implications of choosing to place pieces with intention. He could weigh his options and come up with the better solution. He excelled at it.

But when he pulled his finger off his knight, it was with a deep uncertainty. It wasn't the wisest play.

"You could have made another move, there," Grumman said in that light, airy way that told Mustang he had just lost.

He cleared his throat. He knew there had been another move. He had seen it. "You would have taken my queen." Of course, he wasn't sure Grumman would have taken the bait. It would have opened up a path to his king, and the Führer was a better player than that. But there was a chance that Grumman would have come up with another strategy to get himself out of trouble.

Grumman chuckled and moved his own queen across the board. "Always so withholding."

Mustang moved his bishop and took Grumman's queen and smiled. "Well, she's the most powerful piece on the board."

Grumman smiled back.

Mustang looked back at the board and—No. He rubbed the back of his neck because Grumman had just done what Mustang should have done, and he should have moved his rook instead, and he should have moved his queen—

Grumman knocked Mustang's knight out of the way. "Oh, ho!" He folded his hands on his knee. "Checkmate." Then he pointed to a small section on the board. "See, if you had just sacrificed her, you would have had me."

Mustang doubted that very much. He was even more certain that he had ensured his loss much earlier in the game, but he said, "I'm rusty."

"I see," Grumman said. Then, "Shall we play again?"

"I'll set it up," Mustang said, and he arranged the white and black pieces in their places. It was a fine set, all carved marble with gold banding between the squares and green velvet under the bases of the heavy pieces. These queens would hold no hidden compartments, the board would not be folded or transported. It was solid and permanent and it belonged among the velvet and dark wood furnishings in the Führer's sitting room.

They began again.

"You know," Grumman said after a few moves, "I got up a few days ago and decided I needed to buy my Elizabeth a gift for her birthday. I was halfway out of the residence by the time I remembered she's been gone for more than thirty years!" Then he laughed.

Mustang did not find it funny, so he hummed. He wondered how the Führer could make light of his illness or of the passing of his daughter. He wondered if it were before or after the Führer had escorted Alphonse to the exam, for Mustang had tried for several days thereafter to schedule an appointment before finally getting one almost a full week later than he would have liked. Then he shook his head and realised several more turns had passed and Grumman was closing in on him again.

"And yet," Grumman said, continuing his tactic of disquieting nonchalance, "even with my wits scattered to the winds, I've got a lead on you." He moved his rook and readjusted his spectacles. "What's our score now?"

Mustang moved his bishop and watched Grumman take his pawn. "Does it matter?"

Grumman laughed again. "I suppose not. You'll never catch up before these old bones are in the ground." In a few more moves, Grumman had cleared both of Mustang's knights from the table. "You need to think strategically, my boy."

Mustang shifted in his seat and pondered the board. "Like you do?" For Grumman used strategies in games for which Mustang did not know the rules. "What are you doing with Alphonse Elric?"

Grumman hummed and nodded. "Clever boy. Very skilled."

Mustang made his decision and pushed his queen into play. "You escorted him into the exam."

Grumman moved a pawn. "Oh, my boy. I may be losing my mind, but I remember that clearly."

Mustang put his finger on his rook but did not move it. "Why?"

Grumman let the silence hang as he sat back in his armchair. "Tensions are mounting abroad," he finally said, "there are problems along our Eastern and Northern borders, and we're hurtling toward a global war." He smiled in that innocent way of his. "I'm only making sure preparations are in place for when you take office." He looked down at the board and Mustang's still finger.

"And nothing else?" Mustang asked.

Grumman smiled. "We're looking to advance some of our strategic capabilities."

Mustang pulled his hand back and laced his fingers between his knees. "Why him?"

"Well, he was the only one good enough this year, wasn't he?" Grumman said.

Mustang held the Führer's gaze. The military still boasted several dozen State Alchemists, any of which could contribute to general "strategic capabilities." Which meant that Grumman was specifically interested in Alphonse for those advancements.

"I saw what his brother was capable of," Grumman said, "and I was curious to know if he had the same potential. And my, my." He shifted, and the afternoon sun glinted off his spectacles. "He does impress."

Mustang's chest tightened, and he moved his rook. "Were you watching?"

Grumman made his own move. "Word got back to me, and I knew he could be useful." He looked up and smiled. "You did too. Otherwise we wouldn't be having this discussion."

It wasn't much of a discussion, Mustang thought, with Grumman playing coy and Mustang having to do all of the guesswork. Still Mustang knew him well enough to understand that he would be learning no more details, so they played.

Several moves later, Grumman said, as if he were commenting on the weather, "It's never too early to start setting up your board."

"I don't want him on my board," Mustang said, and he clenched his jaw because he saw how Grumman had cornered him with just a few pieces. "I don't want him or his brother anywhere near my board."

Grumman hummed. "Be wary of sentimentality." They each made a move, and then he said, "Do you know why I became the Führer eight years ago and not you?"

Mustang rolled his tight shoulders.

"Because I didn't play the game like you did," Grumman said, and he took one of Mustang's pawns with his knight. Mustang pushed his king one square in a hopeless attempt to avoid being checked. "You played with ideals and feelings, you played to achieve some moral principles." He moved his knight again.

Mustang saw that there were no further moves he could make. If he moved his king, Grumman's queen and bishop and rook would be able to take it. If he moved another piece, Grumman's knight would end him. The game was over. He sat back and let the heaviness of defeat sink into his gut.

Grumman folded his hands on his knee. "I played to win," he said. "Checkmate."

Mustang took a deep breath through his nose. He had played for higher morals, and perhaps that had been his downfall. He thought, as he so often did, of that great, black gate that he had been forced to open because he hadn't been fast enough, strong enough, smart enough, because he had refused to move on and leave Hawkeye to her fate even though she had asked it of him. He thought of those classical alchemical symbols carved in the doors, of salamanders scurrying through the triangle of water and suns encompassing the triangle of fire, or mercury and sulphur and salt, all in an array so similar to yet so beyond his master's work, the culmination of his entire life. "But in the end," he said, choosing his words, "those moral principles are all we have."

Grumman laughed at that. "I know it too well! Here I am, at the end of my days, half-mad and half-dead, and nothing to show for it but the emptiness left by my sins." He checked his grin and looked at the pair of doors behind the sofa where Mustang sat. "Are you certain she won't come in?"

Mustang nodded once. He and Hawkeye had already had the conversation, and she had been brief but firm. She would wait outside. "I'm certain."

Grumman turned to look out one of the large windows while Mustang set up the chess board again—not for a game, only so it would be ready for when Grumman wanted to play again with another aide.

"And power," Grumman said. He looked at Mustang, who put the black queen in place. "That's what I have."

Mustang frowned. It seemed to him that as his time as Führer continued and his condition worsened, Grumman had less and less power.

"Oh, Vogel may run the show every now and then," Grumman said, waving his hand, "but they all believe I'm doing it, and that makes it mine."

Mustang set down the last pawn and watched Grumman look out the window and across the skyline of the city. It recalled something Charlie often said, that the truth didn't matter nearly as much as what people thought the truth was. How strange it was that for the past fifteen years he had devoted himself to moving the country from a puppet government to a new one, which was supposed to be honest and working in the interests of the people, yet still relied on those same principles of artifice and ruthlessness to function.

"What about your lost lady love?" said Grumman with his sly grin. "Surely when you get elected you can eliminate all obstacles in your way."

Mustang brushed his hands on his trousers, because the legislation packet still sat, untouched, on top of his suitcase. "I wish it were so easy." He waited for Grumman to say more, hoping he would mention how a Führer could change certain laws and, maybe, return to the often repeated idea of marrying his granddaughter.

Instead, he said, "How tragic," and reverted his gaze to the window.

Of course, Grumman knew more of family tragedy and lost love than most men. He had lost his wife, then his daughter, and his only granddaughter showed little interest in even speaking with him.

Over the past few days, that same granddaughter had shown little interest in speaking with Mustang as well.

He stood and straightened his uniform jacket. "I should go. I have a meeting later."

Grumman stood as well.

"Whatever advancements you're making in 'strategic capabilities,'" Mustang added, "don't pull Alphonse Elric into it."

Grumman only laughed. "My boy, you know as well as I do that the choice, up until he signs his contract, is his. I can't force him to accept anymore than you can force him to decline."

Mustang grunted. In their last telephone conversation, Fullmetal had expressed that the two of them were in agreement—Alphonse couldn't be a State Alchemist. Between himself and Edward, they could talk Alphonse out of it.

"One last thing, my boy," Grumman said, and he grabbed Mustang's forearm. "If you want this," he said as he looked around the sitting room, "you have to play to win. And you have to be prepared to pay whatever the cost may be."

Mustang clenched his teeth. There were some prices even he would not pay.

Then the Führer chuckled and released him with a jovial pat. "But you know that, of course! You're an alchemist. Equivalent exchange, and all that, eh?"

"Is that what you would do?" Mustang asked, for even though he understood why Grumman had let him take the fall for the Promised Day, he could not imagine doing the same.

"Of course, I would," Grumman said. "And I did." When he looked back at the door, Mustang remembered that when he had shouldered some of that blame, Hawkeye had shouldered it with him. Grumman had let her fall just the same. Then, "Do give her my best."

"I will, Sir," Mustang said, though he doubted she would have much to say on the matter.

Hawkeye rose from a bench when he entered the little waiting area.

Mustang swallowed and gestured behind him. "The Führer sends his best."

She nodded once, her expression careful and placid. "Thank you, Sir."

Neither of them said anything more as they left the residence, but he watched her as she drove back to the hotel, her hands tense on the wheel and her eyes staring straight through the windscreen.

Part of him wanted to grab her hand at every light, to insist that the silence had gone on long enough, and to demand that she talk to him. She could hit him again if she liked. She could do whatever she wanted as long as the constant stoicism ended.

Another part of him, the more reasonable part, knew that it was temporary. Once they were more used to the distance and the self-imposed rules, things would go back to how they were meant to be. Things would be easy, and there would be far less temptation for either of them. He could resign himself to a lifetime of longing and dissatisfaction, and that would be the end of it. That should be the end of it.

The thought left a sour taste in the back of his throat, and when they pulled up to the hotel and she handed the keys to a valet, he said, "Tell Neumann I'll be there in a minute. I have a headache."

"Shall I get you some aspirin, Sir?"

"No," he said, because what he wanted was a moment alone to let his mood pass. No, what he really wanted was a moment with her to say over and over anything she wanted to hear that might ease the tightness in his chest. "I've some in my room. I'll get it myself."

"Yes, sir," she said, and she left him to find his scheduler and their guests and make his excuses.

He made his way up the left and into his hotel room, where he collapsed on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his collar so that he might breathe easier. It wasn't quite like screaming, but it was good enough. He raked his hands through his hair and then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumbs. All he needed was a moment before he put on the charm and the smile his donors expected to see.

He counted away two minutes. Then two more. Then, in the middle of the fifth minute, the telephone on the bedside table rang. He grabbed the receiver, and a cheery operator said, "Good evening, Sir. I have a telephone call for you from Eastern Headquarters."

"Put it through," he said, and he rolled his shoulders while he waited for the lines to connect until he heard a pop. He said, "What?"

Breda's voice answered, "I have good news and bad news, Sir."

Mustang sighed. He had told Breda several days ago to make sure that there was nothing linking him to the East before Ishval. He didn't know which discomfited him more: that Breda hadn't even questioned the order, or that there was bad newsl. "Give me the bad first."

"The 1900 census was counted late," Breda said. "Just in time for a certain name to appear in the East."

His gut sank. "What's the good news?"

"I said 'was.'"

Mustang sighed in relief. Breda had already pulled the records from the shelf then. They only had to hope someone hadn't already gone snooping through records in the East, though it was unlikely anyone would have thought to look there in the first place.

"I'll have a chat with our friend in the Central Archives," Breda continued, "and see if she can…correct this oversight."

"Good," Mustang said. He then recalled that the Central copies of Eastern records were destroyed in the Third Library fire. The Elrics' friend with the eidetic memory would have to produce two identical copies, but that would be implied when Breda asked for the favour. "Is there anything else?"

"I can't be certain unless you are, Sir."

Mustang leaned forward and rubbed at the stiffness in his jaw. He had been certain before, but he hadn't remembered a census from that year. How many more documents existed that could link him to Amlingstadt and, ultimately, to the Hawkeye Estate? "Check the land district office and make sure there are no further discrepancies."

"Yes, Sir," Breda said, and Mustang hung up the telephone and put his head in his hands.

She had been right, as usual, and he had been an idiot.

The packet of papers Hawkeye had given him caught his eye. He had taken the Minister to the Führer legislation and tossed it on top of his suitcase. It glared at him, taunting him, so he stood, grabbed it, and threw it into the case where he could forget it.

His thumb twitched, and he grabbed his wrist. It wasn't bad yet, and it wasn't anything that couldn't be helped by a—No. He had decided. There would be no drinks before anything related to the campaign. He couldn't afford to be careless again.

He flexed his fingers. Neumann was waiting for him with several potential donors, and he had delayed as long as he reasonably could. So Mustang returned to the lobby and went to the doorway of the lounge.

He spied the table immediately, and a server offered to escort him, but before he could accept or decline, a woman in dark green slid from the bar and to his side.

"General Mustang," she said with a Drachman accent as she extended her hand. There was something familiar about her face, about the sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. Also familiar to him was the rich timbre of her voice. He knew her. He must.

He clasped her hand and smiled. "Hello."

"I'm Mariya," she said as they pulled their hands apart. "I—"

"Mariya Ivanovna Orlova Pavluochenko," he said because he knew why he recognised her. "I know. I saw you in The Courtesan." The performance had only been a few weeks earlier. She gave him a dazzling smile, and he continued, "You were spectacular."

"Oh," she said, and she cast her eyes downward with an expression he knew well. It was the false modesty of one who knew they were better than etiquette would allow them to admit. "Thank you." She looked up at him again, and he waved the server away. "You always come," she said. "Always different girl. You never stay."

Across the dark, smoky room, Neumann raised his hand to signal at him, and Mustang held up a finger. "I'm a busy man," he said.

"Not so very busy, I hope," she said, and he looked back at her. She flashed that smile again. "It would be shame if you miss performances due to election."

He smiled back because he knew the game she had started. "Is there something I can help you with?"

She opened her mouth, but a man behind Mustang said, "Masha?"

The singer's smile faltered as David Bauer rounded Mustang to stand beside her. She hissed something to him in Drachman, and he responded.

Mustang had forgotten what he had learned on the train: his housekeeper's son was married to an opera singer. "I was just speaking with your lovely wife," he said. They hadn't been flirting—at least not seriously.

David looked at him and frowned—it was that frown he had inherited from his mother. "Yeah," he said.

Miss Pavluochenko rolled her eyes and smacked David's arm with the back of her hand.

She had been about to ask him something. Hawkeye had also asked Breda to investigate David because she had thought his skills would be useful. Mustang had never known David to be verbose, but the couple was in front of him, and he thought it wouldn't hurt to extend the conversation. So when Neumann waved at him again, Mustang held up his finger once more and said, "I didn't realise the two of you were in town."

"We are," David said. He turned to Miss Pavluochenko and said something in Drachman, grabbed her elbow, and turned back to Mustang. "Good to see you." Then he led her back to the bar.

He watched them bicker in whispers as they walked away. He took a deep breath and shook his head before approaching Neumann, who looked quite frantic, at a table with three other men.

"Gentlemen," Mustang said.

"General Mustang" Neumann said as all the men rose to their feet. His head almost hit the glass pendant light above the table, and he hunched over while he made the introductions and Mustang shook each guest's hand. "This is Mr Howe, Mr Dunst, and Mr Tritten"

They were all businessmen of some sort, factory owners and men whose fortunes grew with every modern advancement and population burst. Mustang smiled. "Wonderful to finally meet all of you."

"You too, Sir," said Mr Howe.

When they had all sat down, Neumann gestured to a server and said, "Anyone care for a drink?"

Mustang had decided to abstain, but it was the sort of thing one did during meetings and negotiations such as these. So, when the other men assented, he did as well. It would only be one.

Geneva Menke kicked off her heels and turned the knob while she slowly closed the door, careful to not wake Myrtle, who would be taking her exam in the morning. When she stepped into the darkened apartment, though, she noticed a sliver of light on the floor and the low murmur of the radio in the kitchen.

She tiptoed across the room and pushed open the kitchen door.

Myrtle had strewn her books and papers across the tiny table, and she was dressed for bed, her hair already pinned and tied under her silk turban and her yellow dressing gown bright against her dark skin. But she was not reading nor preparing to leave for the bedroom. Instead she leaned forward with her fingers steepled against her lips while she listened to the late-night radio commentators.

"We have been following The Central Times and others as, over the past week, their reporters have been investigating," said one commentator. "And tonight, we're going to summarise all of that for you and try to work out who this mystery woman is and, more importantly, who General Roy Mustang is."

Geneva stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. It was no wonder that Myrtle was listening—she was Richard Kaufman's daughter, after all. No one had mentioned any other candidate since General Mustang's radio interview, not in papers and not on the radio. Myrtle might not agree with her father on everything, but the fact that another candidate had so easily eclipsed him in the media had her anxious.

"You're still up," Geneva said.

Myrtle jumped, reached forward and switched the power dial on the radio. Then she turned with a radiant smile. "Just taking a break from some last-minute cramming."

Geneva nodded and joined her at the little table.

Myrtle busied herself with looking over her notes and pretended as if the radio weren't there. She had been acting the same way ever since the interview, as if by calling attention to it she would cause Geneva's disappointment to bubble over into something explosive.

Of course, the news surrounded Geneva anyway. Everyone wanted to be the first to uncover the mystery lady's identity, every newspaper owner wanted it on their front page. Other reporters asked her about it at work. Robert had made it clear that she was to discover who this woman was, and to "leave behind that affair with his aide business." So it didn't matter how careful Myrtle was. If Geneva's disappointment were to escalate into anger or depression, it would have already.

She took a deep, painful breath. Even in those first few days, she had been so certain that she was right, that, somehow, he had lied. But the public records she had managed to find revealed that he had been telling the truth: he had been born and raised in Central, and his aide had been born and raised in the East. Still, some part of her clung to a hope that he had attended a boarding school or something—anything that would place him in the East in 1900, when he would have been fifteen. Then someone else had uncovered his primary school records, and then his lower and upper secondary school records. The conversation had shifted then. Not only was he a handsome, tragic romantic with a long-lost and possibly forbidden love from childhood, but he was also some sort of prodigy, who had begun his education in a state school in a district known for poverty, overpopulation, and prostitution, and had graduated from a private institution on a full scholarship. What was more, he had completed upper secondary a full three years early.

It was the sort of melodramatic life story that one usually found only in novels or radio dramas. The genius child of the gutter rises high above his birth, attains alchemical and class notoriety, rebuilds a backwater and struggling region, and becomes the leader of a nation. It was a proper narrative.

So of course the gossip reporters in Central were combing through class rosters, determining which girls had been entering the secondary school as he had been leaving, making telephone calls and scheduling interviews with anyone who claimed to have known him. Geneva herself had received five telephone calls that week: three from girls who couldn't give her more information than was publicly available, and two from the same girl with a thick Eastern accent who swore Roy Mustang had lived in her town for two years and so had obviously been lying.

She had to give credit where it was due. He had clearly wanted to dominate the news cycle, he had succeeded, and there was no end in sight.

She looked at Myrtle, who flipped through a stack of coloured notecards. "I have a second assignment," she said. A second one, in addition to answering the same questions about Roy Mustang.

Myrtle looked up and smiled. "That's good."

Geneva nodded. "Johanna Müller."

"Right," Myrtle said, because she knew several Central socialites. "Hasn't she been seen with Paul Engel?"

Geneva sighed. It was ridiculous that she was writing about two new money so-and-so's going on dates, as if that were as newsworthy as an election or international relations. But writing about such absurdity was the price of admission into the world of journalism, or so everyone claimed. "Yes, but we got a tip today that they might be second cousins or something." And that meant she had the duty of investigating and either proving or disproving the rumours.

Myrtle set her cards on the table. "That's convenient."

Geneva furrowed her brow.

"My mom called today," Myrtle explained. "She and my dad want us to come and visit."

Geneva pressed her lips together for a moment, and then said, "Us?"

Myrtle shrugged. "Well, she said 'bring your friend,' so…" She leaned forward. "I'll be finished with the exam, you'll be able to do some digging on Johanna Müller, your next column won't be due until next Thursday, and I know my dad will let you use his typewriter…" She reached across the table and grabbed Geneva's hand. "Genny," she said, "just call in sick and run away to Central with me."

Geneva smiled at that. "Alright."

When they had gathered all of Myrtle's study materials and were climbing into bed, Geneva pulled her knees to her chest. "Are you going to tell them?"

Myrtle slid below the coverlet, and Geneva laid down beside her. "I want to," she said, and then she turned on her side and asked, "Is that alright?"

Geneva bit her lip. It was a frightening idea. If Myrtle told her parents about them, then Geneva would have to tell hers. And neither one of them was certain how their parents would react.

Myrtle shifted closer so that their noses brushed. "Maybe time has made my parents less traditional." Then she smiled. "Who knows? Maybe my dad will even add it to his campaign platform."