The rain fell heavy on her shoulders, and Riza was grateful for the raincoat Armstrong had thought to provide them, though it provided less protection than she would like. Rainwater trailed down her face and neck and soaked her shirt underneath, making her skin feel clammy and cold. She had been through worse, of course. Weeks in the scorching desert, freezing foxholes in the North—she smiled as she recalled her conversation with Brosh.
She hefted her rifle and looked down into the street below. The rain had rendered their binoculars useless. It wasn't all unfortunate, though, for while binoculars could help one see farther, Riza had always preferred seeing wider. And that night, any threats would be trying to get close to the building rather than staying far away.
There had been nothing out of the ordinary so far, but the rain made her anxious: a side effect of working for the General for so long, she supposed.
She heard Brosh's voice behind her, and then the voice of the Cretan captain. Berger was back, and it was Brosh's turn to take a break. He'd be back in ten minutes, and then she could step downstairs, dry off and enjoy the warmth for a moment, and perhaps find something to eat.
She looked down the empty block. Armstrong had set up a three-block radius around the building, so no pedestrians or automobiles passed. The faint sound of music and conversation floating up from below cast an eerie atmosphere over the quiet street.
She sniffed and breathed against her wet, cold knuckles.
"Here," Berger said beside her.
She looked at him and accepted the flask he offered. It was warm in her hands. "Thank you."
He watched her without speaking, and she took a drink. It was tea sweetened with honey. It was nice.
She passed the flask back to him and turned to face the street again.
Berger stayed beside her and tugged at his raincoat. He muttered to himself in Cretan, and then he pulled a wet handkerchief from his pocket and swore. "Miesce."
Riza coughed to hide her laugh, but he noticed and said, "Do you speak Cretan?"
She shook her head. "Not since primary school." She adjusted her grip on her rifle—the rain had made the stock slippery.
"You learned 'miesce' in primary school?"
Riza shook her head. It wasn't a word appropriate for a classroom. "My friend taught me," she explained. Breda was not a school friend, though, so she added, "He was stationed at the border—" Her cheeks heated as she stopped herself. The past border conflicts would not make for the lightest conversation. "Some years ago."
"But of course," Berger said, as if the thought of Amestrians' shooting at his countrymen was normal. She supposed it was.
She swallowed. Regardless of everything that had occurred between the two nations in the past, Creta had sent a diplomat to Amestris, and Amestris would be sending their own in the coming weeks. Peace was becoming a reality rather than a hope.
"Is it always so wet?" Berger asked, and she looked to the side to see him wiping his damp handkerchief across his face.
"Almost never," she said. The East was known for violent storms at the end of summer, but Central was not.
He hummed and folded the handkerchief before putting it back in his pocket. "Well, then. I look forward to being dry for the next three years."
She nodded. "You're part of permanent security." It would have been a hard-won position, one that came with good lodgings and pay, though he would have had to give up his life at home to live in a foreign country for a few years. She wondered what that must be like, to leave behind loved ones and friends and make a new life in a place where no one knew you or spoke your language or consumed your food, to be sick with longing for home.
She had never been homesick, not even in Ishval; she hadn't had the time.
And for what would she have been homesick anyway?
"Perhaps we will work together again," Berger said.
Riza shook her head. "I don't think so." When he looked at her, she added, "I'm in the East."
Berger nodded and said, "Of course." Then, "Close to Ishval, yes?"
Her neck burned. Perhaps he had meant to recall their conversation from earlier in the evening, perhaps he had been referencing the reconstruction efforts, or perhaps he was boasting about his knowledge of Amestrian geography. It made little difference to her, and she rolled her shoulders back and said, "We should be working."
Berger snorted in a way that reminded her of the General. "Nothing is happening," he said as he waved a hand at the empty street below them. "The ambassador is inside, the ground security is—"
"Even so," she said. Then she stepped closer to the concrete barrier at the edge of the roof.
She heard the rustle of his rain jacket, and for a moment she thought he would fight her. But then she heard the wet slap of soles against the rooftop moving away from her, and she sighed.
"For what it's worth," Berger called to her, and she turned her head to look at him, "I hope I am wrong about you. We all do."
Riza could think of nothing to say to that, so she nodded once.
"Well," Berger said as he uncapped his flask of tea, "not all." He raised the flask in a mock toast. "But the mad ones do."
Riza looked back over the city and, in spite of the rain and the chill and the ever-growing dampness of her collar, she smiled.
Winry wanted a nap.
It was all she had wanted for days, and she had no doubt that if she told Edward, he'd do his best to put her to bed.
Mei had been kind enough to let Winry dig through the innards of the aeroplane, but there was still so much to examine and diagram. She needed to order a new rotor for one of her patients, she had to buy groceries that weekend, and Yuriy and Trisha needed all the extra attention she could spare.
But that night supper was over, Alphonse had taken care of the washing before he and Mei had disappeared, Edward was putting the children to bed, and there was nothing preventing Winry from going to sleep early.
Except that Edward had been fidgeting and jumping all evening, as if he were anticipating something. She needed to talk to him if she were to get a proper night's sleep.
"Winry?"
She yawned and leaned back in her chair. "Are the kids asleep?"
Edward dropped into the chair next to hers and drummed his fingers on the table. "Yeah." After a moment of tapping out an erratic rhythm on the kitchen table, he pulled his hand back and cracked his knuckles and started bouncing his leg. The automail rattled and clanged, and she made a mental note that she needed to perform a tuneup the next morning.
"Where's Al?" Winry asked.
But Edward shrugged. "Who knows?"
Winry sighed. "Well, did you talk to him before he left?" When Edward shrugged again, she clenched her jaw. Ever since Alphonse and Mei had returned from Central and the State Alchemist Certification Examination, the brothers had been civil at best. "Ed, you have to let it go."
"He's gotta let it go!"
Winry clucked and Edward crossed his arms, though his leg never ceased moving. "He's gotta let it go," Edward repeated, quieter.
She took a deep breath. "He's trying to help."
"I don't want his help!" Edward said, and he smacked his palm on the tabletop. "It's not even his fault!"
Her chest tightened. "He's your brother."
Edward crossed his arms and turned his head toward the wall.
"Ed," she ventured again, "he's family."
"I know that," Edward said.
Winry watched his leg bounce for another few seconds before she said, "You're on edge."
He shrugged and uncrossed his arms. "I know." He cracked his knuckles and shook out his hands. "I feel like…" He shook his head and sighed.
"Like what?" Winry asked.
But instead of answering, Edward said, "Everything is so complicated all the time. I—" He gestured between them. "We're here to stay away from all the complicated, political, military bullshit."
Winry hummed and looked down at the table.
"Do you remember when things were simple?" Edward said with a slight break in his voice, as if the words hurt him.
"Simpler, maybe," she said.
"When it was just the three of us?" Edward continued. "Family, like you said." He leaned forward and offered her his hand on the tabletop, and she took it. "I just wish it could be like that again. Simple. You and me and Al."
Her head snapped up. "And the kids," she said. It seemed strange to her that he would reminisce about any time before their children. He loved their children. He was utterly devoted to them.
Edward jerked his hand back. "Of course, 'and the kids,'" he said, as if by "three" he had always meant "three plus two more."
Winry shook her head. He was a rubber band that night, pulled taught and ready to snap at any provocation. As much as she wanted a resolution, she decided she would have to let him sleep off his anxiety and—
He jumped to his feet. "I gotta go."
Winry straightened in her chair. "Where are you going?"
Edward rolled his shoulders. "I don't know. A walk? To see my mom and dad, maybe. I just—I don't know," he said again. He shook his head and walked toward the back door. "I just gotta get out."
"Ed!" Winry called, but he ignored her, stomped out the screen door, and slammed it behind him.
Winry groaned and dropped her head toward her chest. Boys—Elrics, in particular—were stupid. She was sure that if Edward and Alphonse would stop being so stubborn and let go of their stupid pride for five minutes, whatever rift had formed between them would heal.
Alphonse helped people. It was who he had always been, even if, as Edward had pointed out, the trouble wasn't his fault.
Winry's chest tightened and she gripped the front of her blouse.
Edward had said their situation wasn't Alphonse's fault, and he was right. It was hers.
She had overlooked their finances in favour of helping others, and as a consequence her family was fractured. There was a tension in every interaction, an edge to every conversation, as the men she loved tried to correct her mistakes and ended up upsetting everyone else.
People needed help. They needed a mechanic who could make them walk again, lift again, provide food for their families again. Winry was one of the few automail mechanics in the East, and she was the only one for several land districts. So when people came, how could she turn them away?
Edward wasn't angry with Alphonse, not really—he was angry with her.
She heard a creak on the stairs outside the kitchen, and she sat up. "Al?"
Footfalls pattered up the stairs, and Winry stood and went from the kitchen to the front room. Again, she called out, "Alphonse?"
When no answer came, she climbed the stairs and knocked on the closed door to the spare room. "Al."
The door opened, but it wasn't Alphonse on the other side. "Hi," Winry said, and the back of her neck burned.
Mei, her cheeks blotched with red and her eyes downcast, brushed hair out of her face.
Mei nodded. "I just forgot my, um…" She took a deep breath and held up a small, purple silk purse. Then she brushed her hair back and looked at a spot over Winry's shoulder. "We were headed into town. You don't need anything?"
Winry fingered the seam of her trousers. Mei had heard Edward's "just the three of us," and Winry had forgotten that Mei was part of the family too. But unless she brought it up, Winry couldn't tell her to dismiss everything as Edward's stress and attitude getting out of hand, and her omission hadn't really meant that they didn't want her there. "I'm fine." She smiled. "Have fun."
Mei nodded, and then she waved her hand toward the room behind her. "Thank you. For putting us up right now." She twisted her purse in her hands, and the small coins inside clinked. "We'll be out of your way as soon as we—"
"Don't be ridiculous," Winry said. "You're family."
Mei furrowed her brow. "I know."
Winry bit her lip. The word "family" hadn't meant much in Mei's life recently. Her family in Xing hadn't wanted her. Why would she assume this one would? Winry opened her mouth to assure her that she would always be welcome, no matter what happened, but Mei started edging out of the doorway, past Winry.
"I'll just…" Mei pointed down the hall toward the stairs.
Winry nodded. "Sure."
She waited until Mei closed the front door behind her, and then she slumped against the hallway wall and hugged herself.
She could fix a refrigerator or an automobile engine. She could take apart the innards of an aeroplane and put it back together again. She could make a person a new arm or leg from metal sheeting and copper wires. But what good was all of that if she couldn't fix her family?
She stood for a moment longer in the silence and stillness, and then she pushed herself upright, went to check on her sleeping children, and settled into bed for a restless sleep.
Mustang made the unfortunate mistake of making eye contact with Neumann, who, once again, jerked his head toward the Cretan Ambassador and his entourage.
Mustang had no idea how Neumann had managed to get into the party at all. He had been against his team's attending, and he had told Charlie that it wasn't a campaign event. Charlie had said that every public event Mustang attended for the next year would be a campaign event, and Mustang couldn't argue with that. Nor could he argue with the fact that it was Neumann's job to speak with and set up meetings and events with Amestris's rich and powerful, and a great many of those rich and powerful were in attendance that night.
And so Neumann had somehow secured an invitation—perhaps through other contacts he possessed—and had spent every second since Mustang's arrival encouraging him to leave his date's side and play politician.
Mustang could see that Gracia was uncomfortable. It was apparent in the way she tugged at her black dress—far less impressive and fine than the evening gowns worn by the other ladies—and in the way she clutched his arm for the first half-hour they were there.
He wouldn't leave her, no matter how she insisted that she was fine even if she didn't know anyone else there and no matter how many times Neumann caught his eye from across the room and gestured toward the Cretan Ambassador.
But, he supposed, that even if a foreign diplomat couldn't endorse him, it wasn't a terrible thing to have an ambassador in his pocket. Mustang would go speak to him, eventually, but it wouldn't be because Neumann was sending him less-than subtle signals from across the room.
"You should go," Gracia said for the third time that evening. "I'll be fine. And," she added as she looked toward Neumann, "I'm worried your friend might hurt his neck soon."
Mustang looked too. Neumann stood in a small circle of other partygoers, but he stared at Mustang and jerked his head toward the ambassador and the Minister of State.
Mustang shook his head. It was bad enough that Neumann was a full head taller than any other person in the room, but the whole situation was made worse by Neumann's lack of subtlety.
"Gracia, darling?" a woman said behind them, and Mustang and Gracia turned.
"Katherine?" Gracia said.
"My God." The woman called Katherine said, and she leaned in to kiss Gracia on both cheeks. She stepped back, patted the front of her dark blue gown, and smiled. "It's been years!"
"Oh," Gracia said, and she loosened her hold on Mustang. "I'm here with—" Gracia looked between Mustang and the woman called Katherine, and she smiled as well. "Roy, this is Katherine Hahn."
Mustang offered his hand to the other woman. "As in Major General Hahn?" The major general had started at Briggs, if Mustang remembered correctly, until he had been promoted up and out to Central eight years earlier.
Mrs Hahn accepted his hand. "The same."
"Katherine," Gracia said, "this is General Roy Mustang."
"We've met," said Mrs Hahn. "It's good to see you again, General."
He only smiled, for while he knew her husband, he wasn't sure he had ever known her.
She waved one gloved hand in the air. "It was years ago, and very brief. At the führer's inauguration. Though we haven't seen you at too many events for officers since."
Gracia patted his arm. "He doesn't come to Central as often as he should." Gracia looked at him with narrowed eyes, but she still smiled. "Though he knows he's welcome."
For the second time that day, a woman was admonishing him for staying away for too long. His shoulders tightened. "The East keeps me busy."
Mrs Hahn nodded. "If your campaign goes as everyone anticipates, I'm sure we'll see a great deal of you here."
Mustang relaxed at that. It was an interesting comment, more so if it at all reflected the sentiments of the major general, who was stationed directly under Hauser. Charlie would want to know. "I'm sure you will."
Mrs Hahn's gaze shifted back to Gracia, and she said, "It's been so long. I don't think I've seen you since…" She took a breath and pressed her lips together. "Well."
Gracia pressed a hand to her chest, and with sincerity said, "I'm sorry."
Mustang sought for a way to defend her, to insist that there was nothing wrong with withdrawing from society during grief and with finding different society in the aftermath, but Mrs Hahn spoke first.
"No!" she cried, and she reached forward to touch Gracia's arm. "Absolutely not."
Gracia heaved a sigh, and a smile returned to her face.
"It is good to see you," Mrs Hahn said, and she looked at Mustang. "Can I steal her away? We've so much to discuss."
Mustang was more concerned with Gracia's comfort, and he leaned in and asked, "Will you be alright?"
"Oh, yes," Gracia said, and she watched Mrs Hahn signal to another group of ladies, who all looked over with bright smiles. "I think so." Then she said, in that same chiding tone from before, "And you can go meet that ambassador." She looped her arm through Mrs Hahn's and the latter led her toward the circle of ladies.
Mustang looked back toward the corner of the room where the ambassador had stood since his arrival. He was surrounded by partygoers and politicians, and, at that moment, General Hauser.
Mustang flexed his fingers and grabbed a wine flute off a passing tray. There would be time to meet the ambassador later when he wouldn't have to edge Hauser out of the way. He knocked back the too-sweet sparkling wine and placed the flute back on the tray—it wasn't a campaign event, after all.
And in the meantime, there were other connections to be made.
He considered giving Neumann the attention he wanted and asking him if anyone else worthwhile was in attendance, but the orchestra swelled again, and he looked to the little stage where they played. The singer was absent.
He searched the room and saw her, glittering in deep green satin, headed toward the double doors that led to the covered terrace. The plan he had begun formulating that afternoon came together in his mind, and he turned away from the ambassador, away from Neumann, away from Gracia and her friend. He followed the singer.
On the terrace, the light patter of rain hitting a flagstone path replaced the music and the din of conversation indoors. The singer—Ms Pavluochenko—leaned against a post at the start of that path that wound through the lawn and into the darkness, and, still under the cover of the roof, held a lit cigarette between two fingers, though she seemed more interested in watching it burn down than actually smoking.
He stepped toward her and said, "Malivet."
She straightened and turned to face him. With one dark brow raised, she asked, "E na dergovash da Drachni?"
He chuckled and shoved his hands into his trousers pockets. "No." He looked across the dark lawn as he explained, "I learned some in secondary school, but that's all I remember. 'Hello.'" Then he looked back at her and grinned. "Well, that and, 'Na khyldzanish nishuchimna.'" He had practised that compliment in the mirror for hours in his boyhood, and it had served him well. Girls loved being told they looked beautiful, and a foreign language made the line sound far more romantic.
Instead of appearing flattered, Ms Pavluochenko laughed at him and said, "I am sure you say this many times."
He shrugged. "Not so much in recent years."
She dropped the cigarette onto the flagstones and ground it beneath the sole of her shoe.
"I saw your husband earlier," Mustang said, and she looked up at him. He shrugged. "He doesn't like me very much."
She laughed again. "He does not like anyone. It is not insult."
He took a breath and raised his eyebrows, "I don't doubt that, Ms Pavluochenko."
"Mariya," she said, and she dropped her head ever so slightly to one side. "Masha to my friends."
He grinned. "Masha." The invitation to informality had come quickly, and he was glad. It would make everything easier. "You wanted something from me, I believe." He leaned against the post opposite her and continued, "It's fortunate. I want something from you."
Mariya put one hand on her hip and the other under her chin. Then she rolled her eyes and began, "My husband and I have…unusual relationship."
"Yes," he said, and he wondered how many men had approached her with a romantic proposition that she had come to expect it. A prince, he knew, and several opera patrons, he suspected. "I had gathered that much." It was a tempting thought, and as he looked into her green, upturned eyes, he did consider it. It would be a nice distraction, and it had been a long time since he had been involved with anyone—months, at least. But he wasn't sure how it would look if he took up with a married opera singer so soon after his gossip-inducing interview, and he might need her husband in the future, if Hawkeye was right. And Hawkeye. So he cleared his throat and said, "As much fun as I'm sure we would have, that's not what I'm after at all."
She blinked and her coquettish smile fell, though only for a moment, and then it was back.
He pressed on. "You're familiar with General Hauser—or, rather, with his brother."
She straightened, and the smile left her face. For a moment, she looked at him, then she turned her attention to the lawn. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and when she looked back at him, it was with a frown. "You want me to spy for you."
He hummed. She was quick.
Mariya shook her head. "I am not spy." Then, with that stony expression in place, she said, "Good evening," and she turned to go back inside.
He felt a sudden coldness in his chest, but he dismissed and called after her, "It's a pity. I had quite the offer in mind." She didn't stop, so he added, "You haven't heard from your mother in a while have you?"
She did pause then, and he could see her shoulders rise and fall with her breath before she turned around and, eyes wide, asked, "My mother?"
"It's not a threat," Mustang said, "but I know people who might be able to…" He shrugged and let the possibility hang in the air. He hadn't asked Breda about it, but he was sure it could be done.
She took one step toward him. "You," she said, her voice low and skeptical, "will help me contact my mother."
He let his head fall back as he laughed. How small her thinking was! If she was willing to consider spying for him in exchange for a letter, he could only imagine what she would do for his real offer. "You underestimate me," he said. "Your mother, your younger siblings…I'm quite certain I could bring them here."
Her breath caught, and she played with an emerald on her breastbone. He wondered if her jewellery was rented or gifted to her by a patron. "Mama…" she said.
He leaned back. It would take manoeuvring. He would need to confirm that her family was still in that one region—Belkovia, if memory served—and that they hadn't slipped out of the country with other refugees before Drachma had sealed the border. And then there was the matter of getting them across the border undetected…It would be difficult, but not impossible, not when he was friends with the director of national intelligence.
She would accept. She had to.
But she lifted her chin and said, "And what else?"
He blinked and shook his head. "What else?"
Mariya lifted one shoulder. "There must be something special you can give, ah? Something Hauser cannot?"
"Going to the highest bidder?" He said, and when she set her mouth in a line, he held up a hand. "It's commendable." Still, she didn't fully understand who he was. She didn't understand what he knew. He pushed off the post and walked to her. "How about this: you say nothing about our chat tonight, and stay in line, and I won't turn you in."
She scoffed. "I could turn you in." She smiled up at him. "This is illegal, ah? Spying on opponent?" She shook her head. "Some men think they are wolves."
He looked down at the flagstones for a moment. The soft music and conversation from the party inside drifted through the open doors, and he smiled as he considered his next move. "Such an interesting idea," he said, and he looked up. "A tour of the continent."
Mariya hummed. "I am singer."
He pressed a hand to his chest. "And I'm only a dog of the military. No," he said, and he let his hand fall. "There's no need for modesty here." He looked into her eyes and asked, "What happened in Creta seven years ago? I'm so curious."
Her gaze did not falter as she said, "I do not know what you mean."
He waved a hand in the air. "There was that whole trade debacle. What was it over?" He snapped his fingers. "Steel. Creta wasn't budging, and then you showed up for two weeks, and the president agreed to all of Drachma's demands." He shook his head. "Quite the coincidence, isn't it?"
She hummed again, as if to suggest that some might find it fascinating, but she thought it rather mundane. As if she were accused daily of playing dirty global politics.
"And then you came here," he said. Then he took a step closer to her and lowered his voice, "Most of the people inside will be voting for me in next year's election," he said, recalling Mrs Hahn's earlier comment. "Who do you think a person would believe? A foreign entertainer and former mistress to a Drachman prince?" She swallowed, and he continued, "Or the next führer?"
She pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin. "You have no proof."
He leaned forward, and she did not pull away. Good. He didn't want the aid of someone who could be cowed. "How do you know?"
"Because there is no proof," she said. "Because I do not spy on Amestris."
He believed that, and not only because she had shown herself to be an accomplished liar. She had lived too far from the halls of power for too long. He figured that if she had wanted Grumman's ear, she would have managed it before seven years had passed. But that didn't mean his threat was weightless. "Oh, Masha." He clicked his tongue, and she flinched. That was interesting. "You know who I am. Do you not think I could get proof if I needed it?" He had Breda and that girl with the eidetic memory falsifying census records for him. He could create letters and telegrams with hardly any effort.
She pulled away from him and tucked her dark, curly hair behind her ears. "Why not make proof about Hauser, ah?"
He rubbed his hands together. There was a limit to false rumours—a powerful man such as Hauser could easily disprove them. "I need something true. Something irrefutable by him or his team." He tucked his hands back into his pockets. "Accept or decline. You're free to do either." He smiled at her, and she did not return it. "I'm not a monster. Even if you turn me down, so long as you stay quiet about my offer, you have nothing to fear from me."
She narrowed her eyes.
"But should you choose to accept…" he said. "I always keep my promises." He leaned back against the railing at the edge of the terrace, just out of the rain. "And I think you know that another buyer might not."
A song finished, and there was light applause as conversations continued in the vacuum.
Mariya turned away from him, and he thought she had decided against him. However, she stopped in the doorway and said over her shoulder, "How do I tell you?"
His heart hammered in his chest. "I have a regular box. I'm sure we'll see each other before too long."
She said nothing more before slipping back into the crowd of people.
He sighed and turned to look into the dark. He had another piece on the board, and from that, someday, a whole array of moves he might make.
He closed his eyes and listened as, behind him, the orchestra began again and, after a moment's applause, a rich soprano voice soared above the music.
He would stay outside for a moment, he decided, before checking on Gracia and the Cretan ambassador. He could use another flute of that sparkling wine as well. But it was cooler outdoors and the rain wasn't so terrible as long as he stayed dry.
Riza heard the footsteps splashing on the wet rooftop before she felt Brosh tap her shoulder.
"Anything interesting?" he asked.
"Not in this weather," she said, and she passed him her rifle. She would have to disassemble and clean it that evening to prevent rusting.
"There are towels downstairs in the kitchen," he said, "and there's hot food if you want it."
She nodded and went to the rooftop door. Once she was inside, she peeled off the raincoat and unfastened her holsters. She would have to hand them over when she got downstairs. Armstrong had been clear: no one inside the building would be armed, except for the ambassador's own security.
It had been negotiated between the Amestrian Minister of State and the Cretan government when they had planned the event. Trust was still in its beginning stages.
Riza descended the service stairs, passing doors to other storeys until she reached the ground floor, where she passed her effects to two lieutenants—one in Amestrian blue and one in Cretan green. The Amestrian officer pointed her down the hallway toward the kitchen, and Riza thanked him before moving on.
There was a little strip above her boots that the raincoat hadn't been long enough to cover, and the wet wool clung to her legs as she walked.
She passed service door, closed in accordance with Armstrong's orders, on her way to the kitchen, where one of the cooks handed her a soft towel, a mug of coffee, and a bowl of creamy carrot soup and offered her a seat at a long table where various embassy staff were gossiping about who they had seen at the party. The soup was a little bland, but it was hot and warmed her through. The coffee smelled and tasted divine, and it burned her tongue as she swallowed. Then, as she dried her face and the wet cloth at her ankles with the towel, she looked at the clock high above the doorway and decided that, in the few minutes before she had to return, she would look in to check on the General.
She left the bustling kitchen and made her way farther down the hall to the open archway that led to the embassy's ballroom.
She hadn't had much time to appreciate the room earlier, when the setup had been ongoing and she had been receiving orders. But she looked around her then. Lush velvet curtains hung from every window, and the panelled walls soared up to a stained glass ceiling supported by black iron rafters.
Everyone in attendance wore glimmering satin and silk. Everything sparkled under the glow of the electric chandelier.
Riza scanned the room until she saw Gracia Hughes surrounded by a group of other women, who laughed while they chatted together. The General was not beside her. She kept looking for him, but he was not near Armstrong, who stood against the wall like a great stone statue, nor was he near the ambassador who was furtively checking his watch while he spoke with General Hauser, nor was he near the stage, where the orchestra began a new piece and the singer smoothed down the front of her emerald green gown and began singing the melody.
"Riza?" someone called as they approached her.
She turned her head to see Mr Neumann, who smiled at her and continued, "I didn't realise you'd be here!"
He gestured around the room and said, "To be honest, I'm finding this whole thing rather dull. At any other event we'd have a full dinner or a dance or something, but Creta's idea of a party seems to be standing and talking for hours." He took a step toward her. "But I hope you're having a good time. Can I get you a drink?"
Riza pressed her lips together. "I'm working."
Mr Neumann flushed as he seemed to notice her uniform. "So, you are." Then he shrugged away his embarrassment and said, "Well, never mind about that drink then. Or the good time. You must be more bored than I am."
"Have you seen the General?" she asked.
"Mustang?" Neumann said, and she nodded, for there was only one general who concerned both of them. "He stepped onto the terrace a few minutes ago. I was just on my way to pull him inside. I've been trying to get him to meet the ambassador."
Riza smiled and felt her chest lighten. The General was hiding from his responsibilities, even ones that helped him. She should have expected as much. "That's good." Then she looked back down the hall to the service stairs and said, "I have to be getting back."
Neumann grabbed her hand, and she tensed, but only for a moment. "Surely you can stay for just a few minutes longer?"
She pulled away from him. "I can't."
"Oh." Mr Neumann ducked his head and then grinned at her. "Perhaps I'll see you after? At the hotel bar?"
"Perhaps," she said, and she left him.
She went back down the hall, past the kitchen where the head chef had started shouting about the sear on a lamb chop, past the service door where rainwater collected on the ground where it was cracked open—
Riza stopped, and her head felt light. All service doors were to remain closed.
It could have been innocent, one of the staff stepping outside for a cigarette on the stoop or someone removing waste from the kitchen and forgetting to use the pre-approved exits. Regardless of the reason, the security of the embassy was compromised, and she needed to assess the threat and inform a superior.
So Riza pushed open the door and saw nothing, only a darkened lawn and falling rain. No one waited outside, no staff stood under the eaves while taking a break, no refuse bags sat on the stoop. She saw no evidence that someone had used the door to get out, but someone might have used it to get in.
She stepped through the open doorway and reached into her jacket for a pistol she didn't have. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and, holding onto the door with one hand, she checked the other side.
There was no handle outside. She took a ragged breath. There was no handle outside, and that could only mean that—
"Hawkeye?"
She spun around and saw the General standing out of the rain on a covered terrace. He furrowed his brow, and he watched her for an answer while the rain soaked through her uniform and hair.
She looked at the door which she still held open and back at him. "Someone opened this from the inside." It could have been a mistake, but all of her training and years in the military had taught her to never assume a mistake.
As had his. The General's expression shifted. He nodded and said, "Go tell Armstrong. I'll get the ambassador."
"Yes, Sir." She left back through the door and closed it behind her. Then she hastened down the hall and into the ballroom, where she searched for Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong. But he was not against the wall where she had last seen him, nor was he close to the stage where the Minister of State began to address the crowd.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," the Minister said, and the din of conversation quieted. "I want to thank you all for coming."
"Riza!" she heard Neumann call, and she clenched her jaw. She didn't have time.
He stepped into her path and said, "You're soaked!"
She looked around his tall, thin form. Had Armstrong stepped out? She would find Ross, then, who was coordinating ground security. "Excuse me," she said. There would be time to apologise for being brusque later.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I have to go," she said, and turned to move away from him and find Ross.
"Riza," Mr Neumann said, "You don't look well."
There. She saw Armstrong step into the room from the main entrance. "I have to go," she said again, and she started to push between another gentleman and lady.
"Wait!" Neumann grabbed her hand for the second time that evening and said, "You'll catch cold if you—"
The room applauded again, and she cried, "Mr Neumman, let me go!"
He did, and she looked for Armstrong again, but instead she found the General, making his way through the crowd and toward the ambassador and trying to signal the attention of one of the Cretan guards.
A chill overwhelmed her, and she stepped toward the General, already shoving past the Cretan soldiers at the edge of the stage.
Again, Mr Neumann called, "Riza!"
But she pushed through the crowd as the ambassador came onto the stage and shook the minister's hand. The applause subsided as he stepped forward to address the crowd.
The air shifted.
A sharp crack—a gunshot—cut through the silence, and the ambassador fell.
Yes, I'm late. Some of you were right and I needed a little more time easing back in, and Passover really snuck up on me this year. Like it does literally every year. Every other holiday and festival I anticipate, but for whatever reason, Passover just—woof. I can't explain it. And it sends me into a frenzy every damn year, so at some point you'd think my brain would note that Purim happens and then it's four weeks until Passover, but no.
In unrelated news, if you are following the podcast, I have a now! You can get there and find more information on the podcast in general via my profile page. And some of our tiers have merch after your third donation! Like you can get a sticker that says "alchemy causes problems, violence solves them" or a t-shirt that says "'stang gang" on it, which you can wear while you and your closest friends do the 'Stang Gang Shimmy. I think both of those make more sense if you're following the podcast, so check us out! Because we think we're hilarious.