Foul Lady Fortune

Orion watched his wife lock up their apartment the next morning, craning his neck while he adjusted his shirt into place. He had wrinkled his previous night’s outfit beyond saving. This new selection was far more comfortable. The collar tucked against his vest. The sleeve cuffs rolled up once so that the length was just right.

He was quite fond of silk. Before he was sent off to England, his mother used to pick out his outfits every day, matching a nice shirt to a pair of trousers and adding a small tie or a pin. It was always his favorite when she chose silk, because she would pick him up and nuzzle her face into the sleek fabric, then release him for a short second when she pretended that he had slipped out of her grasp. She always caught him again to his delighted squeal, “Māma, hold on tighter!”

He missed her. After he was sent abroad, it was never the same even when she came to visit. She took the journey without his father because his father needed to work. And each time she stepped into London with her host of household staff, a parasol clutched in her hand, Phoebe needed her more, needed some momentary sense of parental affection that she had almost been too young to remember before being shipped off.

Orion had spent eight years in England. He hadn’t been allowed to pack his bags and return home until after he received word of his father’s trial, and by then his mother was gone. Before Orion and Phoebe had finished crossing the ocean to get back, she had fled into the night with nary a note nor a goodbye.

The circumstances of her absence haunted him. Whether he had done anything to cause it. Whether she had truly left on her own, or if someone had taken her, or if—God forbid—his father had done something. Being three and a half years older, Oliver had finished his education in Paris and returned to the city long before Orion did, had witnessed their father’s descent, had described their mother’s alleged disdain growing in that period. It didn’t matter that General Hong was later cleared. Their mother had already walked out the door, unable to bear his traitorous reputation—or at least that was what Oliver had claimed before he left too.

“Ready to go?”

Orion blinked, returning to the present. Janie Mead was looking at him, waiting for them to take the stairs down.

“After you.” Orion ushered her ahead, following a step behind. Once he returned to her side in the courtyard, he held his arm out in front of her. “Feel this.”

Janie dropped her keys into her bag, her eyes narrowing. “Must I?”

“Feel it. Come on. It’s silk.” He waved his arm around. The grass was wet with dew, brushing against his ankles while they strolled through and pushed out into the driveway. Perhaps it had rained sometime during the night, though he hadn’t observed any sounds while asleep on the living room couch.

With a sigh, Janie reached out and pinched a segment of his sleeve, acting as if he had coated poison onto the fabric.

“Delightful,” she said, in a tone that signaled the very opposite of delight.

Janie Mead didn’t bother speaking for the rest of their walk to the office, though Orion attempted several more topics of conversation. By the time they were nearing the gates of Seagreen Press, Orion gave up on trying to win a genuine reaction from her. She looked to be in her head. She looked to live in her head, in fact. There were two types of people in the world: those who hid their wreckage on the inside and those who wore it on the outside. Orion was everlastingly afraid that a single frown from him would appear a cause of concern and incite others to dig into his troubles. Janie Mead, on the other hand, clearly did not share the same burden. If she was angry, you knew it. If she was distracted, you knew it. Hell, one glance at the pinch of her full lips and Orion knew that he would need to call her name twice before she responded, and even then, she would be annoyed to be disturbed from her reverie.

“Ready?” Orion asked quietly, stepping through Seagreen’s gates.

In near unison, the two of them waved at the guards out front. As soon as they passed security, Orion offered his arm to Janie. This time she took it without complaint, her fingers settling gingerly into the crook of his elbow.

Her hands were so delicate. No calluses on her palms, no roughness at her nails. Even an agent in administration would have been given some training from their handler; even Silas, who mostly did informational spying, knew how to throw a punch just in case any mission reared an ugly turn of events.

Where had they found someone like Janie Mead?

Before he had quite gathered the words to ask, they had reached the third floor, entering into the production department. Janie immediately halted, her nose wrinkling at the group of people standing around the reception desk. It looked like some impromptu social event was being hosted right over her work space. Perfect.

“What is this?” she muttered beneath her breath.

“I’ll introduce you,” Orion said happily. He put his hands on her shoulders and started to push her forward, despite the reluctance in her step. Out of his periphery, he sighted movement by the cubicles, but it was only another colleague peering to see who had come into the department before turning back to her work. Liza Ivanova—the one whom Janie had been in such heated conversation with. He needed to dig to the bottom of that.

“I’ve already met one of them,” Janie Mead said, keeping her voice low so the group wouldn’t hear her as they neared. “Zilin, the man on the right. Jiemin practically accused him of being hanjian.”

Oh? Orion tried to cover his surprise. Like yesterday, Jiemin was not paying any attention to what was going on around him. He kept his feet propped up on Janie’s desk, far more invested in his little book. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Not enough basis,” Janie returned immediately. “Someone else’s word alone cannot mark him as suspicious.”

“Yes.” Orion nudged his mouth closer to Janie’s ear, getting his last retort out before they reached the group. “But accusing someone else of being hanjian without basis certainly is suspicious—ah, ohayō, how is everyone today?”

Orion had done his rounds, meeting every colleague in the department yesterday, intent on making a good first impression. They were all around the same age, late in their teens or newly in their twenties. It made sense: when the imperial effort prepared to send representatives, they searched for fresh blood out of school. Fresh blood who had not yet seen enough of the world, who wanted so badly to impress their elders and perform their duty to the country. It was the same on the other side, wasn’t it? If Orion had been older and wiser, maybe he wouldn’t have shoved himself into the covert branch, put himself at the mercy of following his handler’s every instruction. Maybe he would have sought more options to achieve what he wanted. There was no use regretting it now—he was a spy, and he was good at it.

“Hello,” the girl on the far left said in English. She beamed, waving at Orion and extending a hand to Janie Mead. “You must be the lovely wife.”

Janie reached out to shake, her red lips curving into a smile. Orion watched her—adopting a loving expression even while his gaze sharpened. He supposed he should be glad that Janie Mead knew how to act wonderfully sociable and still chose not to when it was the two of them alone. Perhaps that meant he was in acquaintance with the truest version of her, that he need not worry she was hiding something.

Somehow, he doubted it.

“Darling, meet our colleagues.” Orion smoothed his hands from Janie’s shoulders to her arms, pivoting her inch by inch to introduce the people around them. “This is Miyoshi Yōko. Ōnishi Tarō. Kitamura Saki. And… Tong Zilin, is it?”

Zilin frowned, seeming unimpressed that his was the only name Orion had snagged on. It was surely the easiest, so he knew it was a deliberate move on Orion’s part.

“Correct,” Zilin said. He turned his attention to Janie, nodding at her wrist. “Did that come from Sincere?”

Orion felt the jolt of surprise from his wife when she looked down, as if she had forgotten what was there. A thin bracelet sat looped below her sleeve, dangling with a silver charm.

“I cannot remember,” she answered. Janie Mead spoke in such a peculiar way. It wasn’t that she was not fluent in English; she sounded like she had been well educated in some Western society, where she had picked up their mannerisms and speech patterns, where she had learned the precise way they added a quick rise to the end of the questions. Even the best tutor wouldn’t care to nail in the miniature habits.

But her accent sounded drawn out. Feigned. Not American.

Janie looked up, pretending to ask Orion if he might know, and Orion shrugged.

“I may have gifted it to you. I have simply lost track over the months,” he said.

No matter. Orion could keep listening until he heard what the discrepancy was. English was the common tongue in the office. Their Japanese colleagues were not fluent in Chinese, and most of the domestic Chinese hires would not know Japanese, so Janie Mead couldn’t hide from him forever.

“Hmmm…” Without asking for permission first, Zilin grabbed Janie’s wrist, examining the bracelet. Orion frowned immediately, wary over the gesture, but it would be impolite to make a commotion, especially when Janie was letting him take a look, unperturbed.

“I was eyeing one in the window just like it for my fiancée,” Zilin continued. His accent had the slightest lean into British, but not as strongly as Orion’s. Perhaps he had spent fewer years there, or he had picked it up from a British tutor without leaving the city. “But I didn’t have time to go in and buy it before our picture started.”

Tarō leaned up against the reception desk, an eyebrow lifting. “Which picture? I thought you weren’t one for the theaters.”

Zilin finally let go of Janie’s wrist. He puffed his chest. “Those ones from Italy. They play on Sundays.”

“Those films are fascist propaganda.”

Orion stiffened, a breath of horror snagging in his throat at Janie’s proclamation. It was valid enough to say. Shanghai’s theaters were open to taking pictures from every corner of the world, and the current Italian market was notorious for pushing in a selection extolling the achievements of fascism. The theaters would play it without complaint; it was up to the viewer whether they wanted to watch two hours of documentary footage about empire-building. There were fascist branches in the Kuomintang too. The films certainly had an audience.

But silence had swept over the group. Some things were known by all but unspoken for the sake of propriety.

Saki chuckled lightly, waving her hand and breaking the tension. When Orion relaxed, he realized belatedly that Janie must have felt his grip tighten on her arms.

“Oh, that’s an exaggeration,” Saki said lightly. “The same critics would probably denounce our paper too.”

“Right,” Janie replied without missing a beat. She reached for a file on her desk, raising her hand for a small hello to Jiemin. “Please excuse me now. I must tend to a meeting in five minutes.”

Orion let go of Janie as she moved, but his eyes continued tracking her while the conversation among their colleagues pivoted direction. Ambassador Deoka had summoned her for a meeting in the morning, simply to meet the new hires. Orion had already seen the ambassador yesterday and discerned nothing of note from their exchange, except maybe that Deoka dyed his hair too often and was drying out his forehead. Perhaps Janie would pick up more.

Orion turned over his shoulder. Janie walked out the doors of the production department. Then she stopped, leaning against the wall outside.

“Do excuse me as well,” Orion said quickly, bowing his head in apology. He spun around and followed her out the doors, coming into the hallway. Janie Mead didn’t stir. She was staring into space when Orion neared and touched her elbow.

“Hey.” His greeting echoed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Janie said. She couldn’t have sounded more like she was lying if she tried. Her words were void of emotion. As if she were reading off a script. “Where is Deoka’s office?”

Orion did not answer her. He tried again. There was something that he could tug from her—there had to be. “Give me this first: Are you okay?”

Janie’s eyes flickered up sharply. There seemed to be a reprimand in that single look. He knew, of course, that okay was too vague a question for the expression she was wearing. All the same, where else could articulation start? If they couldn’t find okay, how did they slide into terrified? How did they unravel enraged?

For a moment, Janie remained quiet. Then she looked over Orion’s shoulder, and he turned too to follow her line of sight—to watch Yōko waving her arms around excitedly, the group by the reception desk throwing their heads back with raucous laughs before dispersing to get to work.

“They’re not all bad, I know,” Janie said, her voice as soft as the brush of a feather quill. “But when they are here only because their empire is trying to swallow us up, it’s so hard not to hate them.”

That last part came out with vehemence, spat more than said. When Orion swiveled back around, he felt an electric shock run down his spine, felt it dislodge something within him. She should know better than to say such things out loud. And yet she had said it anyway, had let the words take shape instead of swallowing them in.

Orion, biting down on the back of his teeth, hurried Janie a few steps away from the doors. He couldn’t decide if it was bravery or stubbornness. He couldn’t decide if the buzz that had started at his ears was admiration or fear. For so many years, he had survived where he was and kept his family name untarnished by playing it safe and staying unopinionated. It was not that he didn’t have national loyalties; he wanted freedom and autonomy as much as anybody off the streets. He would pick up his gun for this country if the occasion arose one day. Their current mission was a matter of national protection—if he didn’t believe in it, he wouldn’t be here.

But it was dangerous to voice it. Dangerous to bring it out into the light rather than keep that belief tucked deep in your chest. Better to say you follow instructions from the top in the fight for national dignity. Better to play at being a soldier, doing what you were asked, and if the government decided to switch who was an ally and who was an adversary at the expense of the people, there would be no hurt cut deep into your heart.

Orion’s mouth opened and closed. Though there was no one watching them, he reached out and brushed a lock of Janie’s hair out of her face.

“I understand,” he said shortly. “I do, Janie.”

More than he wished to. He knew exactly what she felt because it was the same rage he’d had toward his father when the hanjian accusations came rolling in. It was the insistence that there was a mistake, tracing the evidence back with a shaking finger and that breath of relief when, indeed, it did not line up—when it could be proven that his father was not a traitor. Orion cared too much about keeping the waters calm around him, could easily play pretend and smile while he was on a mission, but resentment lurked heavy in a corner he tried not to reach into. It had been there since those early years when his tutor brought in language instructors, when they forced in the British accent, the perfect French, then Japanese as the political stage started to change. It had grown heavier as he read the papers, the headlines about foreign business ventures controlling the country, different imperial efforts taking root.

Hatred did have a home in him, however weak the hearth was.

Janie pulled away. Her eyes flickered down the hall, avoiding Orion’s gaze. “Where is Deoka’s office?”

Orion pointed along the corridor, then gestured left with his hand. He felt unsettled. Something about Janie Mead was persistently intent on unsettling him.

“Third door,” he said, his volume returning to normal. “Don’t forget to bow first.”

Janie nodded her thanks and hurried away.

Rosalind felt like a bobblehead as she nodded her thanks, hurrying away with Orion’s watchful eyes on her back.

She didn’t give herself time to grow unnerved—or even more unnerved than that conversation with Orion had already made her. She raised her fist and knocked on Deoka’s office door.

“Enter.”

With a deep breath, Rosalind turned the handle, then stepped in. Ambassador Deoka was sitting at his desk, fingers clacking down on a typewriter. Remembering Orion’s reminder, she performed a small bow, folding her hands at her lap. The door clicked closed after her.

“Hello,” Deoka greeted in Chinese. He didn’t slow his typing. “Name?”

“My surname is Mu, production department reception assistant,” Rosalind replied easily. “I was told to report in.”

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Mu.” Ambassador Deoka finally stopped typing, reaching under his desk and pulling open a drawer. Though it took him no longer than a few seconds to find what he needed and bring it forward, Rosalind’s mind worked in rapid-fire, viscerally imagining what he might retrieve: a pistol to shoot her, a bomb to release, a dossier that exposed every wrong she had done as Rosalind Lang, each hit counted on her name.

Instead, it was only a map of the office building.

“I must give you this,” he said. “Production stores a lot of its excess material, so the marked crosses are the appropriate filing rooms. Don’t put anything anywhere else, understand? I don’t want a mess in my building.”

Rosalind moved forward, hand outstretching. Just as she took the slip, Deoka’s phone rang, and she jumped, dropping the paper.

“My apologies, my apologies,” Rosalind rushed to say.

Deoka didn’t look bothered; he merely nodded to excuse the blunder. As he began to speak rapidly over the phone in Japanese, Rosalind crouched and scurried a few steps to pick up the paper from where it had fallen on the floor.

She paused. There was a crate by the corner, looking dark and out of place with the office’s beige color scheme. With a quick flick of her eyes at Deoka and finding him to be facing away, his chair turned to the wall and his attention fixated on whatever he was animatedly explaining, Rosalind leaned over and made a quick scan of the crate’s topmost surface.

SHIPMENT INVOICE A29001

September 25, 1931

From:

Warehouse 34

Hei Long Road

Taicang, Suzhou, Jiangsu

Weekly issue—Seagreen Press.

Taicang, Rosalind thought. Isn’t that where Celia is assigned? Her last letters had been postmarked with that location. Why was there a printing factory all the way out beyond the city? Surely there were cheaper options nearby.

Before Deoka could spot her wandering interest, Rosalind stood up, pretending to dust off the map. His phone call was finishing, and she hurried in front of his desk as he was hanging up, her hands folded in front of her with the paper clutched tightly.

“I will distribute materials accordingly,” Rosalind assured once she had his attention again. She inclined her head, surveying his desk subtly. Some note cards, some scattered files, nothing else as suspicious as those crates—and if the invoices were correct, they were nothing but shipping boxes. “Is there anything else?”

Ambassador Deoka waved his hand. “No, no. Back to work, please.”

Rosalind faltered for a second, almost taken aback. She didn’t know what she had expected in this meeting, but she was surprised. Perhaps some more interest on Deoka’s part regarding her presence at the office, even an iota of suspicion. He only looked eager to return to his typing.

“Yes, sir.”

Bizarre. Truly bizarre. She hadn’t expected a laughing villain twirling his mustache, but this was almost too normal.

She backed out of the office, opening the door just as Zheng Haidi was preparing to come in. Haidi offered a slight smile, extending her arm to give way and usher Rosalind out first.

“Thank you,” Rosalind murmured. Once she stepped past, Haidi entered the office, the door closing after her. For a moment, Rosalind remained there, her eyes narrowing as conversation began inside. The walls were too thick for her to hear anything. She could press her ear against the door, but anyone walking the hallways might catch her. It wasn’t worth it. With a sigh, Rosalind proceeded back to the production department, smoothing out the map in her hands.

There were four levels, two red crosses on each floor.

It didn’t look insidious. Even the layout of Seagreen Press could not hide mysteries: each room was straightforwardly accessible, marked clearly for its function.

Rosalind turned the corner and entered the doors of the production department, making for her desk. Jiemin looked up briefly when she returned but said nothing. She took a seat, set the map down, and glared at it in concentration, like she could unveil secrets she had not previously seen if she just stared hard enough.

“Darling!”

Rosalind gasped, startled by Orion’s sudden appearance before her. Jiemin cast her a funny look, wordlessly asking why she wasn’t used to the sound of her own husband’s steps, and she pretended there was a mosquito over her shoulder, thwacking around the air to play off her reaction.

Orion paused. “What are you doing?”

“Annoying little flying insect,” Rosalind said. She smacked Orion’s arm, committing to the act. “Ah, there we go. I think I got it.”

“Ouch,” Orion said quietly, rubbing his arm. “Can I speak now? Is the insect gone?”

Jiemin had turned back to his book. Rosalind nodded, and Orion leaned in, whispering into her ear.

“I did some asking around. Many of our fellow colleagues are going to Peach Lily Palace tonight.”

Rosalind frowned. She knew the name. Peach Lily Palace was a dance hall. When it opened on Thibet Road five years ago, the venue had been in direct competition with the Scarlet burlesque club, and Rosalind had been asked to reinvent her routine for the sake of keeping the Scarlet club fresh and new.

Now the Scarlet club had gone under, transformed into a restaurant, while Peach Lily Palace remained operating. A handful of the Scarlet dancers had jumped ship to Peach Lily Palace even before their proper shutdown. Dancers weren’t exactly needed when club owners started getting involved in civil war instead.

“We absolutely must go too,” Orion finished.

“Tonight?” Rosalind replied in a whisper. A sweat broke out at the back of her neck. Would the old dancers recognize her? Or was it so absurd to imagine her still alive that they would think her a mere doppelgänger?

“It will be fun.” Orion brushed her hair along her neck. Whether he knew that she was nervous and was easing her reaction, or it was merely a coincidence that he chose that moment to play with her hair, she could not tell. He was clicking his tongue in approval, already moving to return to his desk. “Tonight it is.”