Riza had been in the Parliament Chamber several times before, when Führer Bradley had sent her to deliver messages to the Parliament clerks. The room had changed since then. The chairs where the leaders had once sat were gone, except for one filled by the president, as Parliament had negotiated the separation of the führer and the president during Führer Grumman's first term. The Fuhrer's seal had once hung above them, but it had been removed. Someone had painted the white walls between the dark wooden columns green.

The shouting, however, was the same.

On the floor below the gallery, one parliament member bellowed about a proposed addition to the constitution while proponents and opponents cheered and jeered at their leisure.

"It is impossible to fully predict human action and depravity," the man said over strings of mockery coming from the other side of the hemicircle. "Therefore it behooves us to adopt this into law—"

The noises from the detractors overwhelmed his voice, and though he continued shouting and pointing with rage, Riza could no longer discern his words.

Someone, grey-haired and harried, rushed down the centre aisle and approached the president with a folded letter.

Riza straightened on the gallery bench. It was Vogel. The parliament members seemed to not notice his presence, though he must have been carrying a message from the Führer himself.

Vogel spoke to the president for several minutes under the continued discord, and Riza watched him point to something in the letter and jab his finger on the president's agenda. While the President read over the paragraph, Vogel scanned the chamber. He turned and found Riza in the gallery. He did not smile, but he raised his hand in greeting. She did the same, and then he left as quickly as he had come.

"You know him?" asked a woman with a Colongan accent, mountainous consonants and songbird vowels.

Riza looked at the woman standing next to her, her complexion rich and dark and creased around her eyes and mouth. Finger waves of black and silver hair peeked out from under a velvet cap, and every thread of her clothing, from the yellow ribbons at her neckline to the cutouts in the leather of her shoes, was vibrant.

"The minister," the woman clarified after a moment of silence.

"We've met," Riza said. There were only a few others in the gallery with Riza, and most of them were reporters from various newspapers and radio stations. Riza had dressed simply, hoping to observe and avoid unwanted notice. She had endured quite enough reporters.

"May I?" the woman asked as she gestured to the bench.

Though she dreaded any questions or conversation, Riza scooted to one side and nodded.

"Have you been before?" the woman asked.

Riza took a deep breath. "No."

The woman chuckled. "I suppose the first time must look chaotic. But, see," she said, and she pointed to the madness below. "It is carefully constructed. Each one has the same amount of time to speak—"

"Ninety seconds," Riza said. She had been counting. She had arrived with the determination to learn as much as she could about the new government's processes. If she was to have Vogel's position in the future, she would need to know everything.

"Yes!" the woman said, delight lacing her voice. "So you see much."

"I suppose," Riza said, and she wondered what the reporter wanted from her. Nothing, she reminded herself. She could offer nothing. She stayed away from the campaign, and no one knew what the führer was to her, what the General was to her. She was no one.

"That's good," the woman said. "If you're studying politics, an eye for details will serve you well." She pulled off a lace glove one finger at a time and reached toward Riza. "My name is Ana."

"Riza," she said. "Hawkeye," and, not wanting to be discourteous, she accepted the handshake. The clasp lasted for seconds only, but it was warm and sure and made Riza's chest flutter with something like a memory.

Ana smiled a mother's smile. "What a lovely name." Then, "I think you're too old to be in school."

Riza smiled and looked back at the Parliament floor. "Personal development."

"I see," Ana said. She laughed. "You sit like a soldier."

Riza's shoulders tensed, and she forced herself to lean back in her seat. She was of no use to reporters, but she would prefer to deflect what questions she could. "How often are you here?"

"Every day," Ana said. Before Riza could ask if she were a correspondent, she added, "My husband is down there. Though he has been saving his argument."

The shouting on the floor continued, and the president banged his gavel and called for order.

Riza thought that even if Ana were married to one of the parliament members, she could still be a reporter. However, that meant she would understand how the legislative body functioned, and Riza could benefit from that. "Will they vote today?"

"No," Ana said, and the men slowly sat back in their seats. "There will be many hearings. It may take months."

Riza looked at Ana. "Months for one law?"

Ana smiled at her. "It is how things are done."

Riza shook her head and looked down while a second gentleman stood and began his own speech, though a new wave of dissent quickly drowned his voice.

"Do you find it exciting?" Ana asked.

"Yes," Riza said. It was true; her heart beat in her fingertips as she watched a new country form below her, the product of all she and the General had fought for over so many years.

Ana laughed. "It's tedious and wasteful." She gestured to the rows of chairs radiating from the president's podium. "But this is how it's always been. Even new parliament powers didn't change that." She sighed. "But a new führer..."

Riza's breath hitched, and she watched Ana from the corner of her eye. The older woman's voice held that same cadence the General's often did when he planned, measured and deliberate. Riza might have misjudged her. Ana might have been a politically-minded wife, though Riza would need to verify her allegiances. "Are you—"

"Ah!" Ana said, and she pointed down again. "It's his time."

Riza looked back to the floor where the president banged his gavel again. She wondered how many sessions she would have to attend before she would also be able to predict in what order the Parliament members would speak.

"The gentleman from the North yields the remainder his time to the plurality," the president said. "Mr Kaufman, your dissent."

A man seated near the centre of the room tucked some papers into his pocket and stood. His blond hair was streaked with grey, his pale skin lined with exhaustion and concentration. "Thank you," he said, and the smooth timbre of his voice carried easily in the Parliament Chamber. He straightened his shoulders, and all the tiredness seemed to melt from his face.

Every muscle in Riza's body tightened as she leaned forward to listen to Richard Kaufman, the General's main competition in the election, deliver a speech. Then she remembered Ana—Ana Kaufman!—next to her, and glanced over.

"Oh, please, God," Ana whispered. "Let him be good."

It was the first time that day that Riza had heard true silence in the Parliament Chamber. There was a respect in that silence that sent Riza's heart sinking to the floor. Charlie had said they would not find support in parliament, and as she watched even those who must be Mr Kaufman's political opponents give him more deference than they had given their own party members, she understood.

"Imagine with me, for a moment," he began, "a world in which the gentleman from North City's proposal came into fruition." His delivery lacked the sharp, discordant passion that had marked the other speakers. Instead, he spoke with a calm and believable assurance. "In that world, we could punish criminal acts we cannot imagine, because we would not need to predict them. We could guarantee punitive justice for war crimes, for the destruction which ravaged the East twenty years ago."

Rumbles of discomfort and concurrence began, and Riza gripped the cloth of her skirt and forced herself to not nod. It was what she and the General wanted—for those who had participated in the Ishvalan extermination to face justice.

"These would be good things," Kaufman continued. The members of his party behind him shifted and grumbled. They had not anticipated his arguments.

"And yet," he continued, and the back of Riza's neck prickled, "it is in that same world that we hand over freedoms and protections under the law for which we all strive. For what, in that world, is to stop a man from criminalising the ideologies of his political opponents to secure his own power?"

Several cries of affirmation sounded from his party, and that freed the tongues of some dissenters, though most stayed quiet.

"The gentleman from North City is correct in saying that we cannot predict the breadth of human behaviour," Kaufman continued, his voice swelling. "But a single man's using and abusing the laws of this nation and this parliament for his own benefit? That we do not have to imagine, for we lived it! The gentleman calls not for peace and justice, but for a reversal to a government without those things!" His volume rose to a full shout as he jabbed his finger toward the opposition's seats where one of the former speakers sat with his arms crossed. "This idea that we could punish a person for an act he committed before it was punishable by law—This is not the democratic argument of selfless men, but the scheming of would-be despots!"

"Despots!" cried the opposition leader as he sprang to his feet. "This coming from the man trying to become—"

"Perhaps," Kaufman shouted, "Mr Brecht would prefer to return his parliament seat to the military!"

The response was lost in the rising din of insults and applause.

Riza pressed her fingers to her mouth, for what Mr Kaufman proposed was unthinkable. Ishval had been an executive order, the extermination of the region a legal act, yet everyone responsible for carrying out that order should stand trial for it, legality be damned. The law was not always right. She knew that. And unjust laws must be made just, and those who followed them brought to the same justice. There was no alternative, no matter what Mr Kaufman said. It was the only way forward.

"We practised for hours last night," said Ana Kaufman.

Riza watched the woman next to her, how her finger traced a proud smile and how her dark eyes danced.

The president banged his gavel and called for some measure of decorum from the gentlemen of the Parliament.

Mr Kaufman's was a good proposal, Riza allowed. However, something needed to be done about Ishval. Some sort of justice had to be administered, some sort of exceptions had to be made for acts of mass murder.

As the men quieted, the president declared that they would take a recess and Ana said, "Would you join me for lunch and tea?"

"Oh," Riza said, and she let her hand fall into her lap.

Ana smoothed out her skirt and stood. "My husband will have his own meetings, and I'm usually quite alone."

She had a remarkable opportunity, for Ana Kaufman must not know how close Riza was to Mr Kaufman's opponent, or else she would not have extended the invitation. Or she might know, but it would still be foolish to refuse if Riza could learn something. "Yes."

When Riza had risen, Ana led the way out of the gallery. "It is lovely to meet another woman who's interested in politics. My daughter was, too," Ana said. They descended the stairs to the lobby together while she continued, "I always thought she'd run for a seat herself and become the first…" She took a deep breath and sighed. "Ah, well. She would study law."

"She's studying here?" Riza asked.

"In East City."

Riza bit back a smile. Though she did not know what he would do with the information, the General would want to know that Richard Kaufman's daughter was living in East City. "You must miss her."

Ana hummed. "Do you have children?"

Riza's shoulders tightened, and she shook her head. "No." She had imagined children. She had imagined them hundreds of times, with black hair and dark eyes and cheeky grins. "None." Then she cleared her throat. "Do you have others?"

"Just Myrtle," Ana said. "But she arrives tonight for a visit with her friend, and she is like another daughter to us." When they reached the lobby, her smile widened and she cried, "Darling, you were marvellous!"

Richard Kaufman, smiling under a grey moustache, approached them and kissed Ana on the cheek. "Thank you, my love," he said, his voice gentle and calm. "I see you've made a new friend," he added as he turned to Riza. "Is she dragging you to lunch? You can tell me if she's threatened you."

"Oh!" Ana said, and she smacked his arm.

Riza smiled at the obvious affection between them, even as the tightness in her shoulders grew. She did not know if he would—she had only been in Parliament for a few minutes nearly ten years earlier—but she hoped he would not recognise her as Bradley's former aide.

"Darling," Ana said, "this is Miss Riza—"

A man across the lobby called out to Kaufman and waved him toward the door.

Kaufman led the women outside and said, "I'm sorry. I must run." He put his hat on his head and extended his hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss." When Riza shook his hand, he added, "If she tries to load you into a cab, run."

Ana clicked her tongue as her husband left them for his colleagues.

As Riza watched him go, she said, "Forgive me, but isn't your husband running for führer?"

Ana straightened her spine, and her smile hardened. "Oh, we don't need to talk about that."

"Of course not," Riza said. The General would want to know about that reaction. She would tell him later when she saw him. She smiled. "You must be so tired of it."

Ana fiddled with the edge of her glove for a moment before she said, "There's a little place around the corner." Her expression warmed again. "They have the most divine crescent biscuits…."

While Ana sang the praises of the various pastries and teas, Riza thought she saw someone else emerge from the Parliament building, someone with blond hair whose thin form towered over the politicians. Before she could look closer, Ana linked their arms together and pulled her down the pavement.

"They also have an oolong that I just love."

The morning's filming had been disastrous.

It had started with the prompt cards. Whoever had been responsible for writing down the script Mustang was meant to deliver had written it too small. He was exhausted, and he couldn't wear his spectacles on film. He had needed to lean forward to read those stupid cards next to the camera.

Still, they had tried a few takes that way before the director shouted at the intern to make fresh cue cards. "And make 'em big this time! And can you stop putting the light in the man's eyes! He's squinting!"

Hawkeye would have felt vindicated by that.

A very small but undeniable part of him blamed Hawkeye. It was due to her that he was so exhausted, really. He hadn't been sleeping well since that conversation; he fretted over her one-sided determination to enforce those standards upon which they had agreed. And, as was her predilection, she exceeded standards.

She refused to acknowledge any conversation that did not pertain to their work. She didn't smile at him. She denied him everything he had come to take for granted.

It was an impermanent change. He understood that. Still, he felt the loss with an acute tightness in his chest and a fog in his mind that too closely mimicked mourning.

What he wouldn't give to return to normalcy! Surely she too missed talking, and laughing with him. Surely she too desired the familiarity he did.

Yet she was unrelenting.

Mustang knew she was right. He knew it was necessary, for he had crossed too many lines and had taken too many liberties. She was protecting him.

That knowledge roiled in his gut every day and every night. So, he was tired. It was a happy fact that he was a general and could pin the dark circles under his eyes on his work.

Even the makeup artist had assumed as much. She had clucked as she had dabbed some pressed powder under his eyes and told him he needed to take time off. Such a handsome man shouldn't look so ragged, and she knew plenty of ways in which he might relax.

The suggestion, normally a welcome one, had irked him.

The set was ridiculous as well. In between failed takes he had complained to Charlie and Roth about the set-up, a sitting room with a fireplace and false cosiness. He was running for führer, so shouldn't he be in a set in a spot of authority?

"No one doubts your authority, Sir," Roth had said. "You're a four-star general. It's practically tattooed on your forehead."

Charlie had agreed. "We have to consider your personable image. You're failing on likability right now."

"I don't believe anyone finds me unlikeable," Mustang had said. His entire persona relied on charm, after all.

Charlie had studied him for a long moment before saying, "No?"

Mustang took issue with the director as well, who seemed determined to not know who Mustang was. He called him "the man" and—Mustang's least favourite—"the subject." It was as if he were an experiment, some coefficient in an alchemical equation, and not one of the most high-profile candidates for führer.

One of three, as General Hauser had held his own official announcement party two days earlier. His team had not been surprised, though Neumann had noted that some of their potential donors and endorsements and engagements might be pulled away by a second military candidate. But Hauser ran Central Headquarters, and he was news in the city. Every member of the film crew had been discussing it all day, and they all quieted whenever Mustang drew near.

It was all quite aggravating.

He detested the whole arrangement so much that, when the director had called for a cut to adjust the lighting a third time, and when Roth and Charlie had approached the scriptwriter to discuss some matter of verbiage, he slipped away to a corner of the studio and did his job.

He found some solace in the repetition of telephone calls to Eastern Headquarters, in checking on and issuing orders to various departments, in hearing from his own unit.

Breda had a variety of updates for him. He had, since passing Mustang a pitiful file before the trip, uncovered more information on Elise Holfer, their one lead regarding that "Amestrian Freedom Army," the insurgents who had blown up a shipping warehouse and hijacked every radio transmission in the country. He had also been in contact with their friend, Miss Sciezka, in the archives, and she was willing and able to correct that error in the Eastern census records.

"I'm on my way to the station," Breda said. "I'm catching the next train out. One of my contacts at The Eastern Tribune has informed me that someone in Amlingstadt claims to have known you as a child."

Mustang tightened his grip on the receiver and leaned against the wall. "People will say anything for attention." He wondered who the claimant was. Hawkeye would know. She seemed to recall more about his three years in that town than he did.

"Yes, Sir."

He watched from his dark corner as swarms of technicians and grips flitted around the room and buzzed with conversation.

"Do you think Major Hawkeye would—"

Brightness exploded in Mustang's face, and he squeezed his eyes shut while Breda continued. In a moment, the offending light swivelled away, and he glared at the lighting operator and a man with a clipboard.

"I don't even know why we're doing this," the one with the clipboard whispered, though loudly enough that Mustang could hear. "He's going to win on name recognition alone. No one knows or cares who the other candidates are. Except Hauser, and he's a moron."

Mustang smiled.

"It's stupid," the man with the clipboard continued.

The other fiddled with a thick, black cable attached to the light. "I thought you were a fan of Mustang's."

"Sir?" Breda said.

"Yeah," Mustang said, and he leaned toward the two men.

"I was," said the one with the clipboard, "back when the Hero of Ishval was taking out the trash. But now he's brought one of them with him."

Mustang squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes.

"I don't even know if I'm going to vote," said the one messing with the light. He shrugged. "It's pointless."

"Maybe not," said the other. "You could always vote against him."

"Sir?" Breda said again.

"What."

"Should I—"

"Use your judgement, Breda." He watched the two men walk away, still conversing, and he cracked his neck from side to side. There was something else, something he had forgotten in the chaos of filming and the comments about Ishval and Roth and the memories of a tiny town he had briefly lived in as a boy. There was a reason he had telephoned Breda.

"Then I'll call Major Hawkeye as soon as I arrive," Breda said. "I don't—"

"What do you know about Mariya Ivanovna Orlova Pavluochenko?" he said as he recalled their interaction for several nights before.

"The opera singer?" Breda said. "Major Hawkeye actually asked me for—"

"She wants something from me," Mustang said. He knew about the file Hawkeye had asked for; he had flipped through the pages, searching for the singer's intentions to no avail. "I'd like to know what that is." When he had said as much to Hawkeye, she had only said, "Have you considered asking her, Sir?"

Mustang heard paper rustling on the other end of the line. While he waited, he checked his silver pocket watch, which he had been allowed to wear because it at least hinted at authority and intellectualism, and saw that he had been on the telephone for the better part of an hour. "Get it to me as soon as you can," he said. "I have to go."

He just heard Breda say, "Yes, Sir," before the line went dead.

He hung up the receiver and turned around, looking for the two film set workers who had been discussing him and the company he kept. But they had vanished with their disconcerting observations to another part of the studio, and, having nothing better to do, he resolved to make his way to where Charlie and Roth stood in conversation with the script supervisor.

He shoved his hands in his pockets while he walked. Charlie had insisted on his wearing civilian clothes. It was part of Charlie's goal to make Mustang "appear likeable." Mustang thought he ought to tell Charlie that with tensions mounting on borders, he should appear as a strong military presence; casual might be the desired look of the present, but things would change if that Amestrian Freedom Army made another play or if Armstrong's predicted war with Drachma began.

As Mustang neared, he saw Roth shaking his head and hear him say, "No, this is incongruent with the parts of his platform that are public. And this…" He tapped a section on the script. "He doesn't talk that way."

The script supervisor pulled out her pen. "So how would you—"

"Sir," a man said behind Mustang.

He turned, teeth clenched, and said, "What is it now?" And he found himself looking up into Neumann's wide eyes.

Neumann took a step back and ducked his head. "I just…." He fidgeted with a button on his waistcoat. "I was at Parliament earlier…."

Mustang folded his arms across his chest. He didn't have time for hemming and hawing.

"I've not told Charlie," said Neumann, "and I'm not going to." He smiled. "You know how he gets."

Mustang certainly did. But if Neumann didn't say whatever his news was, he was going to find out how Mustang could "get." He took a deep breath. "Just say it."

"Well," Neumann said, "I saw Riza with Richard Kaufman and his wife."

"Major Hawkeye," Mustang said, because the familiarity made every muscle in his body tighten. Then he registered the back half of the sentence, the part that was even more absurd than Neumann's calling Hawkeye by her first name.

"Miss—Major Hawkeye," Neumann said. "Yes." He rubbed the back of his neck. "And I know that you know the rules about military involvement in the election."

"Yes," he said. It was an absurd rule: no active military personnel could be involved in the national elections unless they were candidates. It was aggravating. Without that rule, he'd have Hawkeye working on the campaign team, and then he wouldn't have to listen to people calling her "Riza" or making wild accusations about her meeting with the opposition.

And even if they were true, she'd tell him herself. He didn't need Neumann playing messenger.

Neumann nodded. "I would just…I'd be…."

"Spit it out," Mustang said.

"Careful," Neumann said, and he looked at the ground. "About who we send to spy on our opponents. If anyone recognised her—"

"I'll keep that in mind," Mustang said. Then he stepped back and studied Neumann. His scheduler had no business on set, as far as he was aware. The event was already scheduled and in progress. "Why are you here?"

Neumann pulled out a small, black date book. "There are some new schedule developments as of this morning."

Mustang cleared his throat, because Neumann had just told him where he had been that morning. "Charlie said we can't get any meetings with Parliament members."

Neumann said, "I know," and he grinned in a sly, cheeky way that reminded Mustang of Alphonse Elric, when the boy wasn't trying to ruin his own life. "I'm filling him in once he's done with all that." He gestured to the writers' circle over Mustang's shoulder.

"Right," Mustang said, and, having no desire to prolong the conversation with pleasantries or listening, he turned and walked back toward Charlie and Roth.

Whether Hawkeye had been at the Parliament building or not, whether she had been talking with Richard Kaufman or not, whether Neumann had hallucinated the whole thing or not…She would tell him. She would always tell him. He would ask if she did not volunteer, and she would tell him.

A sharp pain shot through his wrist when he reached Roth, Charlie, and the script supervisor, and he grabbed his hand behind his back.

Roth handed suggested edits to the script supervisor, and she scanned the updated pages.

"Wow," she beamed. "You know, you're really articulate."

Roth straightened his back and pressed his lips together while Mustang and Charlie shared a look. In the East, Ishvallans had been friends and neighbours and classmates. In Central, they were foreign, and the old government's propaganda had left deep scars.

And Mustang could not imagine the discomfort Roth felt then, hearing those words when the only friends near him had played a hand in the annihilation of his people. He wondered what worse things he had overheard that day, if the conversation Mustang had been privy to had reached Roth as well.

Finally, Roth said, "Thanks."

Charlie slapped him on the shoulder. "Thank God for it. I hate hiring people who aren't good at their jobs." Then he turned his attention to Mustang. "Script changes."

"Now?" Mustang said. They had already begun the filming process, though they would be retaking everything. It still seemed a late hour to be finalising a script.

"Does it matter?" Charlie said. "You're just reading. Though I don't understand why they weren't done yesterday when Roth sent over his notes." He looked at the script supervisor. "While we're talking about people who are good at their jobs."

The scriptwriter looked abashed at the pages in her hands. "I'm going to run this over there," she said.

Charlie nodded. "Good."

She hurried away to the director and some other crew members.

Charlie noticed Neumann waving at him and excused himself. Mustang watched them speak briefly; Neumann showed Charlie the date book, and Charlie smiled.

He looked back at Roth, who kept his head down and his hands in his pockets. "Are you hating this as much as I am?"

Roth shrugged. "For different reasons." But he did relax.

Mustang watched the crew scurry around, writing up new cards and adjusting cameras and lights. Someone would call him to the set soon, and he would have to begin reading and pretending all over again.

He was better in front of people. He understood people, how they thought, how they moved. But cameras didn't think like people, and they couldn't be distracted by artifice or overlook sleight of hand and careful word choices. Cameras thought nothing and saw everything.

"Want a drink after?" Roth asked.

Mustang released his hand behind his back, still and painless for the moment. "Badly."

Just then a young assistant approached them and said, "Sir? We're ready for you." She gestured to the plywood and cardboard set and the uncomfortable armchair in front of the centre camera.

Mustang rolled his shoulders and marched back to do battle with the film industry for the second time that day.

Riza's chest was heavy with weariness, and she must have dozed off twice before she decided to close her book and go to her room. She had meant to wait up for the General, to tell him that she had established a rapport with Ana Kaufman and that she had learned some cursory information about the General's political opponent. However, midnight had come and gone, and he had not appeared in the lobby.

She tucked the book under her arm and made her way up the lift and down the hall. After washing up, she peeled off her clothes and redressed in her pyjamas, then she pulled back the coverlet and slid between the sheets of the bed.

She had just let her head fall against the down pillow when a knock sounded at her door.

She wanted to ignore it, to go to bed and sleep like she so needed to, but the person on the other side of the door knocked again. So she slipped from the bed and into the hotel's provided velour dressing gown and went to answer.

She looked through the peephole, expecting a butler or a lobby boy. Instead she saw the General.

He had been drinking again. She rested her head against the door before opening it. "Sir."

He took a step back when he saw her, as if he suddenly remembered the time and where they were and that anyone could come down the corridor. His hair was mussed and his clothes disheveled, and there was a certain unsteadiness in his manner. Likely, he had indulged himself after an exhausting day, and she would need to be more guarded.

"Is everything alright, Sir?"

He shook his head. "Fine." He realised he was slumping down the wall, and he pushed himself up and ran a hand through his hair. "How was your day?"

She pulled the dressing gown tighter around her shoulders and leaned against the doorframe. They had discussed boundaries, they had agreed on lines and rules, but he had a tendency to forget what was appropriate after a few drinks. "Is everything alright, Sir?"

He met her eyes then looked away. "I've been good."

Her gut twisted. She couldn't pass any information, useful or not, to him when he was like that.

He sighed and said again, "How was your day?"

Riza tightened her grip on the dressing gown. It would be better to maintain respect and distance and send him on his way as soon as possible. "It went well. Thank you, Sir."

"Good," he said, and she was ready to bid him a goodnight when he added, "What happened?"

She closed her eyes as her head pounded. How could he be so stupid?

She opened her eyes, intent on asking him as much, but she stopped when she saw those dark circles under his eyes.

In another time and place, she would have pulled him into the hotel room, sat him on the bed, and smoothed out every weary line. She would have held his face between her hands, run her thumbs over the shadows under his eyes until they disappeared, brushed her fingertips over the greying hair at his temples.

But they didn't live in that time and place.

So instead, Riza said, "You can't do this." They had discussed. They had agreed. But he had always preferred to overstep rules and agreements if he determined they didn't suit him.

The General frowned, and his nose wrinkled. "We're just talking."

She shook her head. "No."

The lift down the hall chimed, and a young couple, laughing and stumbling in a sideway embrace, stepped out and passed between Riza and the General on their way to their room.

The General needed to leave.

She pursed her lips and glared at him, but even in his inebriation he was clever, for he looked at the ceiling instead of at her. He couldn't interpret her looks if he refused to see them.

When they both heard the couple's door click shut, he said, "You know, people would probably be more suspicious if I didn't hit on you."

She clenched her fists in the velour so hard she could feel her nails digging into her palms. "Don't." He didn't get to twist things they had discussed and agreed to fit his own whims.

He did look at her then, with his jaw clenched and his eyes alight, and for a moment she thought he would fight her again. Instead he dropped his head and sniffed. When he looked up again, he was smiling. "Two more weeks of this," he said. "Then we'll be home."

"Home," she repeated. It was strange to consider that she might soon be away from the chaos of their extended sojourn to Central City. Yet she would go home, to the East, and she would sit in the office with Havoc, and she would see her dog—No. She wouldn't do that.

"Lots of interesting people here, though," he said.

"Yes, Sir." In Central they were surrounded not only by his campaign team but also by other generals, the Führer, various friends and acquaintances. Each of them required a visit, or a meeting, or a favor. She longed for space to simply be and breathe in her own home and amongst her own things.

Of course, the General had a home in Central. "Have you visited her yet?"

His smile fell and he narrowed his eyes. After a moment, he shrugged.

"She'll be furious if you don't go soon." In Riza's experience, Madame Christmas was not forgiving, especially toward the General.

He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, then he stuck his hand into his coat pocket. "Speaking of family," he said. He pulled out a pale envelope. "This was at the front desk."

She took the envelope when he offered it. The paper was heavy, and on the front flap was an embossed seal. On the back was, written in fine script, "To General Roy Mustang." She looked up at him. "It's for you."

"It's not," he said with a tight smile.

So she pulled out the card, thick and trimmed with gold filigree, and she read:

"Enjoyed our match the other day. I've been starved for decent players. We ought to schedule a rematch—if you can bear it. I'm hoping to fill my calendar with other engagements. You might know my granddaughter is in town. I do hope she'll join me for dinner on the twenty-seventh of this month. I'll be sure to pass along your regards."

Führer Grumman had grown tired of waiting, then. She forced her shoulders to relax, made the effort to unclench her jaw, and looked at the General.

He had shoved his hands in his pockets, and he kept his head down as he asked, "Are you going to go?"

She would, or perhaps she wouldn't. One didn't turn down an invitation from the führer. Still, it was unkind of the führer to extend an invitation that might not be wanted. "I suppose I must," she said.

He smiled at her, placated by the words and missing the tension in her voice.

She took a deep breath, one that did not quite fill her lungs, and said, "I'm going to bed. I suggest you do the same, Sir."

The General stopped smiling and took a step toward her. "Wait."

"Goodnight, Sir." She closed the door before he could say more.

She didn't go to bed—not straight away. Instead she looked at the card and the envelope, both crinkled in her fist, and she ran them over the bedpost to smooth them before telling herself that it didn't matter. She tossed the message in her suitcase and climbed into bed.

There she weighed her options, to go or to decline, and fell into a fitful sleep without a decision.

Wooooooooow. Thank you all so much for your patience. I have had...So I posted the last chapter and then had to pack my life into two suitcases so I could move back to North America. Transoceanic moves are a nightmare. So I had to adjust to that for a minute. And then I started grad school, and then I started work, and then I finally had time and the energy regularity to write last week, and here we are. The good news is that The Great FireWall can no longer interfere with postings or communication. The bad news is that I need to think of a new excuse for my laziness...

There are so many white people here. And everyone speaks English All. The. Time. I'm inundated with English every day. And I have to carry my wallet with a physical metro card and a credit card everywhere I go? Like a peasant? And then WeChat started popping up in conversations and I was like, "Oh, finally. US-based WeChat. No more wallets. Living that phone-only life." And that's...That's not what happened. At all. How has this country survived as long as it has? What sort of dark ages are you lot living in?

And, like, I realise I just escaped the Great FireWall, but, at the same time...What the fuck, guys.

On the other hand, I ate a Cheez-It for the first time in three years yesterday, and it was a religious experience.