Rosalind tested the sturdiness of the handcuffs around her wrists now. Without giving herself time to flinch, she pulled her knee up and slammed into the chain. The handcuffs came off, albeit alongside her scraped flesh. Her raw skin screamed, whole ribbons dropping onto the floor with the metallic cuffs, but it would pass. So long as she did not scream. So long as she bit the inside of her cheeks as hard as she needed to control herself and remain quiet.
Small droplets of her blood fell to the wooden floor, seeping through the gaps and staining whatever was downstairs. In less than a minute, however, her skin turned from red to pink, then from pink back to lightly tanned brown.
From that first mission onward, she only ever wanted poison. Poison was irrefutable. If there were others like her out there, they could take a blade to the throat, they could take a bullet to the gut, but poison would rot them from the inside out all the same. Her cells had been altered to knit together against any wound; they had not been altered to withstand a whole system collapse. Working with the only weapon that could kill her was a way of reminding herself that she was not immortal, no matter what the Nationalists said.
It was comforting, in its own strange way.
Rosalind stepped out from the water closet and started down the stairs, making her way back onto the street at the pace of a leisurely stroll. She did not want to raise any suspicion if she was sighted, and she managed to trace her steps back to the train station, passing the same alley from before. The black car was gone. So too was the body of the constable whose neck she had broken when she made her escape.
“It is your fault,” Rosalind muttered aloud. “It is your fault for combating me. You could have left me alone.”
She pivoted, crossing the road. The water fountain had been turned off to conserve energy through the night. Rosalind’s fingers trailed along the edge of the basin when she passed, picking up a layer of dust, then rubbing it away when she reentered the train station, her heeled shoes clicking on the tiled flooring. If anyone in here recognized her as the same girl who had been hauled out no less than half an hour ago, they did not show it. The woman inside the ticket booth barely looked up until Rosalind leaned in, one hand braced on the counter and the other smoothing down her hair.
“Hello.” Rosalind’s voice was honey-sweet. Soft. Entirely innocent. “A ticket for the next train to Shanghai, please.”
3
When the grandfather clock struck midnight, its echo rang cavernously through the mansion house. It wasn’t that there was a lack of belongings to absorb the sound—plush couches lined every common area, circled by large flower vases and antique paintings hanging on the walls. It was only that the Hong family had been downsizing their staff these recent few years, and now they merely had two servants left, which gave the house a ghostly sort of emptiness that was impossible to counter.
Ah Dou was nearby, adjusting his spectacles as he organized the calling cards that had been stacking up on the foyer cabinet. And on the living room couch, sprawled sideways with his legs over the armrest, was Orion Hong, looking the very epitome of frivolous and relaxed.
“It’s getting late, èr shàoyé,” Ah Dou said, casting a glance at him. “Are you preparing to retire soon?”
“A bit later,” Orion replied. He rose onto his elbow, propping himself up on the couch pillows. His dress shirt wasn’t made for such a casual posture, and the white fabric strained at the seams. If he ripped it, maybe it would make him look tough. Disregarding the fact that Orion was the least tough-looking person in the city. Maybe he could scare someone off with his pretentious dishevelment. “Do you think my father will be home tonight?”
Ah Dou peered at the clock, making an exaggerated sound while he straightened his back. It had rung minutes ago, so they both knew exactly what time it was. Still, the elderly housekeeper made a show of checking. “I would guess he’s staying at the office.”
Orion tipped his head into one of the pillows. “With his work hours, you would think he’s on the front lines of the civil war instead of running upper-tier administration.”
It wasn’t that Orion was home often, either. If he wasn’t assigned on a mission, he was luxuriating somewhere in the city, preferably in a loud dance hall surrounded by beautiful people. But on the nights he did return, it was strange to see the house in its state. He should have been accustomed to it by now, or at least grown familiar with how it emptied bit by bit every year. Yet each time he came in through the foyer, he was tilted off-kilter, lifting his chin to look at the chandeliers dangling off the main atrium and wondering when the last time was that they had been lit at full brightness.
“You have your father’s spirit,” Ah Dou answered evenly. “I’m sure you understand his dedication to his work.”
Orion flashed his best grin. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m only dedicated to a good time.”
The housekeeper shook his head, but it wasn’t true disapproval. Ah Dou was too fond of him for that—before Orion had been sent off to England, he had grown up with Ah Dou hovering over his shoulder, whether to report to his nanny that he was wearing his jacket or to make sure that he had eaten enough for the day.
“Would you like some tea?” Ah Dou asked now, setting the calling cards down neatly. “I shall make you some tea.”
Without waiting for a response, Ah Dou shuffled off, his slippers clapping against the marble flooring. He parted the beaded curtain into the dining room, then disappeared into the kitchen, making a clatter of the water kettle. Orion sat up straight, running a hand through his gelled hair.
A single strand fell into his eyes. He didn’t bother brushing it out of the way. He only rested his arms on his knees and eyed the front door, though he knew it wouldn’t be opening anytime soon. If Orion had wanted his father home during the nights he returned, he could have made a phone call ahead of time and confirmed first… but they weren’t that sort of family anymore. General Hong would ask if there was anything pressing to be addressed at the household, then hang up if Orion said no.
It didn’t used to be like this. That seemed to be his daily refrain. Once, his father would come home at five o’clock on the dot. Orion would run at him, and even though at nine years old he was getting too big to be picked up and swung around, his father did it anyway. How terrible was it that his happiest memories came from such a distant past? England in the years following had been a blur of gray skies, and then nothing was the same after he returned to Shanghai.
A sudden rustle sounded from upstairs. Orion’s gaze whipped toward the staircase, his attention sharpening to a point. To the left of the second floor, his father’s home office was situated in an open-plan room: a large dome of stained glass shining patterns down onto his desk when the sun was in the right position. In the night, the entire house echoed the loudest from the office; the shelves and shelves of books looped above the desk did nothing to insulate the space. His father had been particularly fond of pacing alongside those books during Orion’s youth, always tapping on the railing of the walkway that curled up to the shelves. The bedrooms were to the right of the main staircase. Sometimes Orion would hear the metallic clanging when he was sleeping, taking the sound as a lullaby.