Foul Lady Fortune
: Chapter 18

Outside the washroom, Rosalind paused for a moment, taking in the stillness of the second level. Danger, her brain warned, and she tamped it down with a vexed I know. It felt like the dance hall had gone quieter, before she realized it was only the music downstairs hitting a lull so it could launch into its next set.

Rosalind urged herself to move. She walked along the second level with her eyes trained forward and her gait casual, taking no time to peer down onto the show floor. She didn’t want to risk Yōko or Tarō seeing her and asking where Zilin had gone. It was a guess, but she proceeded in the direction of the stage, circling around velvet chairs and chatting couples until it seemed like she was above the dancers. There had to be a way down for maintenance….

Rosalind sighted the red partition screen. She pushed it aside, her gloved fingers giving only a light nudge. Ah—success.

“Maybe I’m not such a bad spy after all,” Rosalind muttered, hurrying down the narrow stairwell. She emerged in a hallway with a frightfully low ceiling, which meant she was either behind the stage or in a basement level under it. The details didn’t matter. There was only one door in sight, so Rosalind entered.

The first thing she noticed was the array of costumes dumped on the floor. Then: the vanity mirrors set up in a row, its table space bursting with cosmetics. Five changing cubicles stretched down the length of the dressing room, the curtains of each one roped neatly.

No one was present. Rosalind strode near the cubicles, reaching out to undo the ropes and pull the curtains shut one by one. They were heavy and cumbersome, hanging down a tall rod and sweeping onto the floor like the skirts of an overconfident debutante. When the first rustle of activity came from the hallway outside—the voices of showgirls returning for a costume change—Rosalind slipped smoothly behind one of the cubicle curtains.

The main door to the dressing room flew open. The girls started to complain about how much they hated the next routine, how the lights were too bright, how the feather boas itched. Rosalind reached into her pocket. When her hand met only air, she pressed along the lining of her dress, and came up empty too.

“Damn,” Rosalind whispered, peeling her gloves off. She was out of poison. “If you can’t be a good spy, can’t you at least be a good assassin?”

The curtain twitched. One of the showgirls stepped in. Before she could scream, Rosalind clapped a hand over the girl’s mouth, the other one coming around her neck.

“Don’t struggle.” Rosalind pressed her thumb and her index finger onto the showgirl’s pressure points. She was an echo of herself from only minutes prior, but this time her voice was gentle even while her fingers pushed hard. “I promise you’ll have a bigger headache if you struggle.”

The girl looked familiar. The set of her eyes, the pencil-thin eyebrows. Her name seemed to hover at the outer periphery of Rosalind’s memory, but then her head lolled as she fell unconscious, and Rosalind wiped her thoughts away before she could dwell further. If she knew her once, that was in the past. If she knew her once, that was Rosalind Lang’s life and not Janie Mead’s, and she couldn’t slip up from being Janie Mead.

Rosalind exhaled shakily, letting the showgirl slump to the floor. It didn’t sound like the girls outside had heard the struggle. With a regrettable wince, Rosalind moved the showgirl so she wouldn’t tip over and hit her head. Then she eased the costume out of the girl’s hands and put it on instead.

An orange dress, decorated with furs along the shoulder. The bottom cut off like a leotard, paired with fishnets. It had been a while since she had changed with such speed, counting the beats inside her head to time their next stage appearance. She was finished before the voices outside were done, waiting for the moment they looked around to count their numbers and pause, yelling, “Daisy! What’s taking so long?”

Rosalind picked up the orange top hat from the floor. She pinned it to her hair, undid the low bun at her neck, and stepped out. No one paid her any attention; no one noticed she was an entirely different girl while she pretended to adjust the strap of her dress, her face inclined away. The sparse minutes between changes were too frantic, too busy, and she became one with their unit as they pushed through the hallway and up three small steps, down another passageway, and into the wings of the stage.

The stage was built low, raised just two steps higher than the rest of the show floor. And it was from here, tucked in the shadows, that Rosalind finally caught sight of Orion again, leaning against one of the dance hall pillars.

He looked like he was here to enjoy the show. He had abandoned her on their task while they were under a joint code name, while their mission was at a turning point, to enjoy the show?

What is wrong with him?

The music switched into their cue, and someone nudged her from behind, moving the mass of dancers out from the wings. In her sheer disbelief, she forgot to resist, reverted four years and fell into old habits to keep the show going. But Rosalind had pulled on a costume only to trigger an evacuation, to get close enough to the only thing in this dance hall she had observed that could incite enough chaos: the smoke machines onstage.

There wasn’t enough time, though. She would look too suspicious lunging for them now. The piano keys merged with the trumpet, and Rosalind’s eyes moved to Orion again. She recognized this song—in fact, this exact lineup of songs—from the Scarlet burlesque club. She had a better idea.

Rosalind followed the last of the dancers out smoothly. Her mind shut down. She felt the hot lights and the eyes from the crowd; she felt the glittering chandelier overhead chase geometric refractions along her cheeks. Her gaze stayed on the chandelier for one beat, two beats, three. The music soared into a lull, letting the showgirls take their position, letting Rosalind replace her place on the right side of the stage, plainly in Orion’s line of sight.

She caught his gaze. She held it, waiting, waiting…

But he didn’t recognize her.

When the song took its fast melody and Rosalind fell into the steps of the routine, she could tell in the way that his stare stayed politely intrigued, in the way he tilted his head and swept his eyes up and down, following the line of her arms when she extended them, the length of her legs as she slid across the stage.

Dancing was no art in Rosalind’s mind. It was a carefully calculated series of steps, a persuasion that could be used to sway minds and change thoughts. It was as scientific as any chemical reaction, only the variables at work were colors and limbs and movement. That was how she remembered the routines even years after learning them: one flourish after the other in a formulaic input and output.

The saxophone took its solo. The first line of dancers scattered off the stage and dispersed onto the floor, seeking targets who would give generous tips. At the Scarlet club, they used to split their earnings with management at the end of the night. Funny how it worked—Rosalind had been familiar with the idea of pinning down a target and carrying out a mission long before she had turned assassin.

The second row of dancers fanned out. Rosalind, with Orion’s eyes still on her, made a beeline right for him, waiting for the moment he caught his blunder, waiting for that glazed stupor to sharpen.

It didn’t. Not even when Rosalind stopped in front of him. Not even when she set her hands on his shoulders and smoothed them down, stopping on his chest, because all he said was, “Listen, I’m a married man—”

“I know, you blockhead. You’re married to me,” Rosalind interrupted. Her demeanor switched, a quick snap from alluring showgirl to furious wife, her hand seizing the loose collar of his shirt. “You abandoned our task for this?”

The mist in his eyes finally cleared. Recognition sank in, his lips parting as he reconfigured the sight onstage with the girl he had been partnered with. For a long second, Orion was at a loss for words.

“I really did have business to take care of,” he finally managed. “And now it is taken care of. Why are you wearing a dancer’s costume?”

The music was changing, signaling a return to the stage. Rosalind spared a glance over her shoulder. “We can discuss this later. Give me your pistol.”

Orion jerked back. “What?”

“Your pistol,” she demanded again, holding her palm out. “You brought it, yes?”

“Yes, I brought it, beloved.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and took it out hurriedly, pressing the gun into her open palm and closing her fingers around it before anyone could see what they had just exchanged. His words grew more and more frantic, matching her hiss. “Why didn’t you bring yours? And don’t tell me you don’t own one—I would laugh until the pigs started flying.”

The dancers were turning back. They took little steps, mimicking the motions of woodland animals ambling in the wild. Rosalind was the only one who stayed unmoving. That had been her metaphor. That had been the instruction she used to teach the girls their choreography.

“I don’t own one.”

“Why not?”

“Drop it.”

“Clearly you need it—”

“I don’t. Like. Carrying. Weapons,” Rosalind spat. There was a volatile anger curling in her gut. Something about Orion Hong ground her gears to an intolerable degree. “Now get ready to run.”

“What?”

Rosalind turned around, aiming the pistol at the chandelier on the stage. Right before any of the girls reached the steps to the stage, she fired one bullet after another at the glass chandelier on the high ceiling.

She didn’t like weapons, but she had once belonged to the elite of a vicious gang. She knew how to use them. She knew how to shoot, even if her aim wasn’t perfect.

The chandelier broke on the fourth bullet and crashed to the stage.

“Go!” Rosalind snapped.

The dance hall erupted with chaos, movement bursting in every direction. Rosalind caught a flash of orange at her periphery, and she tucked the gun into her costume, hiding it from view and spinning to follow the rest of the dancers. There was too much going on for anyone to notice that she had fired the bullets. While other patrons rushed to bottleneck the front entrance, the dancers fled for immediate safety, and Rosalind was quick to join them in hurrying around the stage and into the dressing room.

As soon as the door closed after them, Rosalind broke from the crying girls, heading for the cubicle where she had left the other dancer. Daisy. She did remember the short-haired showgirl. But like everyone else in the city, Daisy was older, a changed version of herself. When Daisy woke up, she would think it unfathomable that the same Rosalind from four years ago had attacked her.

Rosalind pulled the curtain tight. She changed fast. The zip of the costume came down, the hat dropped to the floor, her bun was pinned back. When she put her qipao back on, it almost snagged on the gems in her hair, but she pulled the collar up quickly and looped the fabric off the sharp points, the lace sitting tight around her neck again.

How much time had passed since the chandelier fell? How long would it take to evacuate the dance hall? How long did Alisa need to drag the body?

Rosalind poked her head out from the cubicle, eyeing the overhead lighting. The moment she saw there was only one large fixture on the ceiling, decorated with an elaborate seashell design, she withdrew Orion’s pistol again and pointed. Before the girls had scarcely caught their breath and stopped crying, she had shot the lights in the room, blanketing them in absolute darkness.

The girls started to scream, reaching a fever pitch. Fortunately for Rosalind, that gave her the opportunity to rush out from the changing cubicle and charge for the door, ramming into multiple bodies on the way. It didn’t matter; they couldn’t see her. She was back in the hallway in no time, looking around furiously to determine which direction was—

Orion skidded around the corner. “Jesus, Janie, where did you go?”

“What—I thought I told you to leave!”

They couldn’t stand around arguing like this. Before Orion managed a retort, Rosalind grabbed his wrist and hauled him with her, hurrying away from the back of the stage and through the dance hall, avoiding the large shards of glass. They burst out the doors with a mass of other patrons, swallowed into chatter and conjecture immediately.

“Was it a shooter? I thought I saw a shooter among the showgirls!”

“Don’t be nonsensical. How could a showgirl do that? It must be poor installation. It happens in these places.”

A cold wind blew onto Rosalind’s face. The Frenchwoman beside her was near hysterical.

“Mr. Mu! Mrs. Mu!”

Orion whirled around, seeking the echoing voice. Yōko and Tarō were pushing closer from the other side of the crowd, waving frantically.

“Janie, hide the pistol.”

Rosalind bit back a curse. The pistol was crammed shallowly in her sleeve, barely concealed from anyone who looked directly at her. Thinking fast, she reached for Orion and wrapped her arms around his middle, tucking herself into his chest as if she couldn’t bear to hold herself upright anymore. While her arms were hidden under the fabric of his coat, she took the pistol and slid it back into his inner pocket, safe and out of sight.

A breath of relief whispered out from her lungs. As soon as the weight of the pistol settled into Orion’s coat pocket, she felt him relax too, and he settled his chin atop her head.

“Good,” he whispered, quietly enough that only she heard him. For a moment, Rosalind didn’t move, her cheek pressed to the smooth fabric of his shirt, the contact humming with warmth. Remaining these extra few seconds was a necessity—a matter of avoiding suspicion. All the same, she had to admit there was an unexpected sense of safety that came with being wrapped up like this, secreted away from the world and hidden in a hollow that would snarl before it let its cherished subject be taken away.

“Thank goodness we found you two.” Yōko finally pushed through the crowd, coming to a stop before them. Rosalind pulled away almost reluctantly, sliding her arms out from underneath Orion’s coat as Tarō caught up too. “Did you see how any of that happened?”

“Not at all,” Rosalind replied. “I ran into my husband again just after you left. Next thing we know, there’s screaming from downstairs and we needed to hurry out.”

“So incredibly bizarre,” Tarō agreed. “Who would have thought a place like this would be the site of such chaos.”

“Indeed.” Orion’s agreement came with an aggrieved air. Yōko and Tarō didn’t seem to catch his tone, but Rosalind glared at him in warning, which he ignored. “Who would have thought?”

A blare of sirens came down Thibet Road. Police, arriving to survey the scene. Just as their flashing lights pulled up outside Peach Lily Palace, Rosalind caught movement at the mouth of one of its alleys and spotted Alisa, waiting there for her attention.

She looked casual, completely at ease. When she finally caught Rosalind’s eye, she nodded once, then disappeared with the crowds along the sidewalk.

Rosalind put her hand on Orion’s elbow. “Qīn’ài de,” she said. “Let’s go home now.”

Orion nodded tightly. Yōko and Tarō bade them farewell, though the two were more distracted by the sirens. With her grip tense, Rosalind gave another tug on Orion’s elbow, and he finally turned to follow her away.

They had ridden separate one-person rickshaws home, so there had been no chance to talk. As soon as the runners let them off outside Rosalind’s apartment building, scurrying away after taking their coins, however, Rosalind felt the air grow thick. She stepped in through the building doors and trekked across the courtyard. Orion’s heavy footfall was a dull echo on every stair up.

They reached her apartment. The door opened. The door closed.

“You better start talking before I blow a gasket, Janie Mead.”

Rosalind whirled around, throwing her gloves onto the couch seat. “That is so rich of you,” she returned. “Please don’t forget that you were the one who slunk off without explanation.”

“Walking off for a few minutes was enough reason to smash a whole chandelier without consulting me first?” Orion exclaimed. “What was going through your head?”

“If you want to be consulted, maybe you should be around as active events are happening.”

Orion made a noise of disbelief. “You are so hostile for no reason—”

“Hostile?” Rosalind echoed. “Because I was fulfilling our task? Maybe you should adopt some more hostility—”

“How was crashing the chandelier helping our task?”

Rosalind fell quiet. Sooner or later, someone would replace Tong Zilin’s body. It would summon the authorities, and the authorities would come sniffing around Seagreen Press. Orion would hear about it then—how Zilin had been killed tonight. Perhaps he would put it together. Or perhaps he would consider it too absurd that it had been by Rosalind’s hand. He didn’t know that she was an assassin. He didn’t know that she was Fortune, plucking cards out of men’s pockets and shredding whatever luck they thought they had on their side.

“You will have to trust me,” Rosalind said plainly. She was being unfair, but he also hadn’t communicated why he slipped off, nor told her why he had disappeared that first night. Why should she give up her secrets?

Yet Orion wasn’t backing down.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, pacing a small circle around the living room. “Someone could have gotten hurt.”

Rosalind scoffed. “And?” For once, Orion Hong was not carrying a conversation merely with light jibes. Of all matters that he decided to take seriously, why choose this? Where was this version of him at other times?

“Don’t tell me you are that callous—”

“So what if I’m callous?” Rosalind snapped. “I don’t care if some rich patron gets a little scratch. I don’t care if the dance hall has to rebuild and use its precious funds for renovation. I care about hauling this forsaken country off its knees, and I’ll do whatever that asks of me. Won’t you?”

The apartment fell silent. Rosalind’s voice had risen louder and louder in volume as she spoke, and now her final demand boomed across the living room with an echo. It seemed to trigger something in Orion, because he surged forward, his jaw tightening with each long stride. Rosalind stepped back in an attempt to keep their distance, but she had scarcely taken three steps before her shoulders hit the wall. As much as she tried to look unruffled by Orion’s threatening proximity, her heart was thudding in her chest.

“I—” he said forcefully, “—am doing my best.”

Rosalind swallowed hard. With no less than an inch between them, she watched Orion’s throat bob up and down too.

“All I can do,” Orion went on, “is my best. Some of us don’t have the luxury of working only for the cause, of being national heroes. Some of us need to care about ourselves, too.”

The hitch in his voice took Rosalind’s attitude down a small notch. There was something too raw there, utterly different from his usual easiness.

“I’m not asking you to be a national hero.” Her words came out quietly this time. “It doesn’t take a national hero to smooth over the cracks in one city.”

Orion stepped back, putting space between them at last. There was a flicker in his eyes—a crinkling of his brow that Rosalind caught before he looked away. Acknowledgment. Surrender. As if somewhere deep within him, he thought Rosalind was right, even though Rosalind was only being harsh to steer his attention away from the why of the evacuation tonight.

“What would have happened if you were caught?” Orion asked. “What would you have done if the glass slit a foreigner’s throat and they didn’t let us leave until they found the one who’d fired, and then the Nationalists threw us to the wolves instead of bearing the scandal to save us? What then? Do you wish to be a martyr, Janie Mead? Because I do not.”

When Orion looked at her again, Rosalind didn’t avert her gaze. She stared, brazenly.

“That is a meaningless hypothetical,” she said. “It didn’t happen.”

“And if we’re going to continue working together,” Orion countered, “I need to hear your answer. I will not condone recklessness. I have too many people to protect. A family name to uphold.”

Rosalind’s fists tightened. The unspoken part of his statement hung in the air: I have too many people to protect—do you?

No matter what Rosalind did or how she behaved, the only person she could damage in this city was herself. Her sister already wore the label of the enemy. There was no one else Rosalind cared to look out for. But she didn’t know if that was better or worse than constantly trying to hold other people on her shoulders, bearing burdens without the same courtesy returned to her.

“As I said—meaningless.” She pushed away from the wall. “They have us bound in matrimony and in code name. Do you think they would separate us that easily? You’re stuck with me until the end.”

Orion drew a rough hand through his hair. The dark strands fell forward, like slashes cut into his stricken expression. He didn’t look at her. Perhaps he didn’t want her to see the loathing that would be in his eyes. Dao Feng had practically stated up front that he trusted Orion most to carry out this mission and Rosalind most to keep an eye on him. He wouldn’t allow an agent transfer at this point.

“God,” Orion muttered. “Whatever.”

Before Rosalind could ask what that was supposed to mean, Orion pivoted and walked into the bathroom, the door slamming after him. Seconds later, she heard the sink run, water splashing loudly against the basin. The conversation between them was over, though it had achieved nothing. Outside, there came the hoot of an owl, its call surrounding the apartment. Night was thick and heavy, permeating the windows with a darkness that seemed tangible, that could be grabbed and molded into shape if she opened the window and reached out.

“Good night, I suppose,” Rosalind muttered. She drew the blinds, pulling them down firmly. By the time Orion emerged from the bathroom, Rosalind had already closed her bedroom door.