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by Genevieve Valentine

  Some of her hair had come loose from the scarf. His neck ached from sitting so still.

  “They’re building a facility back home,” she said.

  It was so quiet Daniel barely heard it over the singer, who’d moved on to something high-pitched that required him to slap the guitar every so often to keep the time.

  Of course. That was what her Chordata meeting had been about. They’d want it gone, and she’d need to help them if it was going to work. She had the path to the Americans.

  Finally he managed, “You going to see it?”

  Bad question—the answer wouldn’t tell him whether she was just taking an anniversary trip with the boyfriend or actually planning to do something about it. He was still amateur at this. He didn’t know how to talk around things that mattered.

  “I think he’ll want me to take him,” she said. (Vague, deliberately—he guessed Magnus for the first one and Ethan for the second.)

  Then she looked over. He couldn’t see her expression, just the shift of her hair giving way to a crescent of her skin, one dark eye. “I don’t know if I want to.”

  That answered the question he’d asked, and one he hadn’t.

  “Well, send postcards, come back soon.” He saw one dark eye, the shadow along the curve of her nose, the corner of her mouth.

  “If I don’t come back, it’s not because I decided to retire. Don’t believe that, from anyone.”

  Oh, shit. He hadn’t even thought—he’d seen her slide a knife right through someone. He took it for granted she’d live through the tough years.

  The buzz of traffic was beginning to drill right into his ear. “You’ll come back,” he said. It sounded deeper than he meant it. He cleared his throat. “When do you leave?”

  “As soon as I can convince him it was his idea.” She stood. “Any idea who . . . anyone I should be looking for once I’m abroad?”

  For a second he could see her in the streetlight that carved circles under her eyes and sucked away the living depth of her until she was two-dimensional. He wished he hadn’t looked. It was being thirsty and swallowing air. How could she go back to her country with some lie? What did it matter? What could she do about it except bring more weight on herself? Don’t go, he thought. You’re someone who can never go home.

  “The boss would never tell me. But you’ll be fine. You’re a good liar, and you can tell when the cameras are rolling. You’ll see whoever it is.”

  He felt like she was holding her breath, like he’d wounded her, and the flash of guilt was hard to hang on to. He needed some of his own back. If she hated being called a liar, she was in the wrong line of work.

  Without knowing why, he asked, “How long did it take you to clock me tonight?”

  The shadows sliced across her face as she looked past him and above him, east. “I knew where you were standing as soon as I opened the door. Take care.”

  There were footsteps on grass, then gravel, then pavement, then gone. Daniel had a moment of vertigo, as if there was so much behind him that he must be tipping forward, sliding somehow. He gripped the bench.

  The world ahead of him, where he knew there was a river and a far bank and roads for hundreds of miles, was nothing but black. It all dropped off suddenly at the edge of the lamplight; he had been staring at it so long he’d forgotten how close anything was.

  4

  Suyana opened the door of her apartment forty-one minutes after Ethan dropped her off in the lobby, wearing the same dress he’d dropped her off in, her hair undone and her shoes in her hand.

  Magnus was at the dining table, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie draped over the doorknob of his bedroom, work laid out around him in careful white tiles. He still worked on paper; he claimed it was for accountability, but she suspected he enjoyed the old-fashioned shuffle of accomplishments. Judging by the stack at his right hand, he’d started getting nervous about her maybe an hour ago, when the last fifty pages started to go askew and had yet to be corrected.

  He glanced up when she came in, went back to reading. “I hope all that dishabille happened after the photographers were finished, or we’ve wasted an evening’s wages on Oona alongside the little dinner detour that cost us six hundred for the empty table. Did you stop for ice cream and fall?”

  For a moment she considered dropping the shoes just for the sound they made, but she knew how much they cost. She watched him breathe in, carefully out. IA trained; you couldn’t get him to breathe heavy if you ran him a mile.

  “Would you like to hear how Ethan and I spend our time between official functions and this door?”

  Ten seconds went by. He never looked up, never turned the page. It was the luckiest thing in the world that he had this weakness, and whatever it was (jealousy, disgust, some shred of privacy), he’d never check the lobby cameras to confirm her story. He’d consider it low.

  “Was the pizza your idea?”

  “He likes a spontaneous woman. Makes him feel like I really believe it.”

  “It disturbed our plans for the evening.”

  “Ethan had me under his arm looking surprised and protective, in a situation that was actually candid. You can’t plan anything that effective.”

  Magnus looked up, as if the “you” had been a singular accusation rather than a tactical given. “Suyana, I’m sure you think this is sufficient, but this isn’t just a relationship between you and the public. It’s a relationship between our office and Ethan’s office, and whatever you think you’ll gain from cute stunts, you’ll lose if his office begins to think of you as unpredictable.”

  “Only if they can convince Ethan to leave me behind. What are our numbers?”

  He glanced at his watch, like that was where the answer was, and said with unimaginable coolness, “Seventy-two percent approval, last I looked.”

  “Then I suppose whatever we do after the photographers are finished is good for business, isn’t it?”

  Eight seconds.

  “The trainer’s due in at six thirty,” he said. “Better get some sleep.”

  “You too. You lie better when you’re rested. That page is blank.”

  If he looked up again, she didn’t see it. She slid the lock on her bedroom door, set her shoes in the closet, and stepped under the shower until the makeup and the hair cream and the body lotion and the scented shimmer and the perfume and the remnants of Ethan’s cologne caught on her temples were gone, and she smelled like nothing at all.

  × × × × × × ×

  To get Ethan to Peru, Suyana would have to talk to Martine. To talk to Martine, you talked to Grace.

  The Paris sessions made the most of curled-plaster moldings and rich wood that always made their votes look vaguely like a royal affair; something exciting and carefully considered under the domed fresco of the morning sky, and everyone who raised their hands to vote was pointing to the coming dawn. The New York branch office was supposed to exist as a courtesy to the Faces when they traveled to the States to conduct business, but the building was a Plan B in case they got locked within American borders, and everyone knew it—including the designers, who had constructed the sort of high-ceilinged, antiseptic affair that would look good in the background of photographs of grim decisions being made.

  She waited for Grace in the lobby of Grace’s office. The hallway outside was as anonymous as the hallway in Suyana’s wing—in a Plan B you had to make sure no one knew where to reach the people who mattered—but the offices were so different that Suyana had laughed when she walked in, and was glad only the receptionist saw.

  Suyana’s suite had two small offices that branched off a windowless room just big enough for a table and four chairs, facing each other and waiting for guests that never came. As Suyana’s star had risen over the year, Magnus had requisitioned some funds from back home. Now the chairs all matched, and the empty wall was filled with an enormous photograph of the rainforest. Magnus hadn’t asked for her opinion, so she refused to tell him she liked it, but having that deep g
reen arching under the blue sky made it easier to breathe when the door was closed.

  Grace had a lobby big enough for a receptionist and two couches. It looked out into a glass-walled meeting room with a view of the courtyard, and a hallway that disappeared into a number of rooms Suyana was afraid to imagine. Somewhere there were sounds of a kitchen.

  Colin opened the door and stepped inside, and a moment later Grace blew in—an outfit of chiffon and leather that looked so uncomfortable there must have been a photo shoot—saw her, and said, “Don’t give me that look, please.”

  “Suyana, lovely to see you as always,” said Colin, in a way that sounded both welcoming to Suyana and scolding to Grace.

  “Thank you, Colin.”

  Grace stopped short of rolling her eyes, but she zipped up the leather jacket over the low neckline of the sundress with a violence that made the receptionist flinch.

  “Your charge is unprofessionally hungry, and forgot she’d promised to take Suyana to lunch. We’ll stick to the neighborhood,” she said, as Colin frowned and scrolled furiously through his tablet. “No cars necessary. We’ll be back in an hour.”

  “I really only need a minute,” Suyana said softly to Grace as they headed out. This wasn’t on the schedule—she’d miss her global briefing with Magnus, which was one of the few things he was good for, and she’d be in front of cameras unscheduled twice in twenty-four hours, which would grate on him even though it was only Grace.

  Grace said, “Then the price is lunch. I’m famished. They wouldn’t let me eat after lunch yesterday so my stomach would be flat in this hideous dress during high winds.”

  “You should date Ethan,” Suyana said, rolling up the cuffs of her shirt the way Oona had taught her and scooping her hair over one shoulder to make a backdrop for her face. “Last year magazines called me overweight. Now that he’s seeing me, I’m a bombshell. When we go out, we’re supposed to order dessert.”

  “Tempting,” Grace said as her bodyguard opened the front door ahead of them and Grace plastered her hands to her thighs as the breeze picked up and photographers on the sidewalk started photos, “but it’s Ethan. I’ll pass. You’re doing so well, I’d hate to interrupt a winning streak.”

  Suyana scraped her teeth across her lips to bring color into them, and followed.

  × × × × × × ×

  They had the kati roll place to themselves, given that only two people could stand inside it anyway, and Grace’s bodyguard was outside, preventing photographers and patrons alike. (Suyana had tipped twice the cost of her food to make up for the trouble, and still had to try not to glance outside at the line.)

  Grace was trying hard to maintain a diplomatic face stretched too tight across curiosity. “And you want Ethan to take you.”

  “Yes. It should be his idea. That has to be the press takeaway.”

  “Why can’t it seem like something you wanted?” she asked; it was demanding more than incredulous.

  Suyana looked at her. “I’ll be conducting some personal business.”

  Grace’s expression settled. “Mmm. Well, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the vote of confidence in my ability to get Martine to do anything. However, the Paris session starts in five weeks. If I suggested to Martine that she take a trip to the homeland and burn out a week of freedom by touring research facilities for Margot’s pet project, she’d knock me into the street.”

  Suyana couldn’t bite back a smile. “Maybe you could convince her that touring facilities in Norway with Margot would get her in good standing the next time there’s a shuffle in the Central Committee.”

  “And would distract Margot from whatever godforsaken thing you’re planning to subject yourself to,” Grace pointed out, pulling napkins out of the holder as the cashier passed her a brown paper bag. “You don’t plan by halves, I’ll give you that.”

  “Can’t afford to.” Suyana took her bag and thanked the cashier as Grace tapped the glass door with a fingernail to let Adam know they were coming out.

  (From where he was standing, third in line, Daniel looked slowly from Grace to Suyana, as if he’d been daydreaming and was only now noticing the place was shutting them out.)

  “You know, it’s terribly odd, but because of some dismal legislators who have nothing to do with me, the United Kingdom’s trade relationship with the United States has been a little rocky recently,” Grace said, not looking at Suyana.

  Suyana’s stomach sank. America and the UK weren’t on good terms? Why hadn’t Ethan told her? How could this lunch be spun out by the British press? Why would Grace want to go outside with her if she knew it would put Suyana over a barrel?

  That was exactly why, Suyana realized a second later. This lunch was in broad daylight on a busy street so that Suyana would be caught in the middle of whatever the press tension was and have to help Grace in order to get out clean. She was angry for a second, but only at her lack of research. Grace was asking for a very small favor on a very large debt; she was happy to pay.

  “What a shame,” Suyana said, falling into step with Grace for the walk back to the International Diplomatic Corps offices. (Paris had decided fifty years ago that only they housed the actual Assembly, and the States would have to make do with whatever title they could manage for the administrative setup they’d already built.) Grace’s legs were so much longer that Suyana struggled not to give up and switch to double time, but double time looked bad in photos. She pushed through.

  “Isn’t it? When you’re back from your rainforest honeymoon, I could use some quality time for something charming and selfless.”

  “We’ll walk dogs for charity,” Suyana suggested. “The three of us.”

  Grace sighed and assumed a carefully pleasant expression, since one or two cameras were still pacing them close enough to catch it. “How wholesome.”

  “Did you want to make conversation with him at dinner all night?”

  “God, no,” Grace said, as they scaled the stairs and ducked inside. “You win.”

  As they parted—or rather, as Grace slid effortlessly through the bustling admins and Suyana watched her and felt like a boulder—Suyana nearly asked again about Martine. She needed to be sure Grace would follow through.

  But you only got to demand terms when you were the person in charge. And if she couldn’t trust Grace (and she should; only old habit kept her doubtful), it was just because Suyana was a gourd too cracked to hold water, and that was the last thing Grace needed to see.

  “Dog walking in Paris,” she said instead.

  “I’ll try and become a dog person by then,” Grace called over her shoulder, just before she turned the corner and the hallway lost all its life.

  “The committee meeting’s in twenty minutes,” Magnus said as she came into the office, “which gives you enough time to tell me what you and Grace talked about.”

  “Boy trouble.” Suyana dropped the paper bag on the table. “This is for you.”

  Magnus raised his eyebrows for a second before he could get his face under control—he must be worn down; he wasn’t usually this stressed until a week into chambers. “Thank you. And for yourself?”

  “I have a photo shoot in a week.”

  He passed it back. “Your figure is being celebrated. Weight loss invites speculation.”

  For a moment Suyana could only look at the bag he held in two fingers. He glanced at her, then decidedly away, until she reached out and took it back.

  “I can skip the committee meeting,” Suyana said. “I’d prefer a news update.”

  “An agenda item we’ve actually planned for. How novel,” Magnus said, but he was already reaching for a folder at the far edge of his desk, and Suyana sat at the cramped table and armed herself against surprise.

  × × × × × × ×

  Most of the time you volunteered on a committee was justifying the time and money being spent on you. Suyana had been asked to be on the Cultural Heritage Committee after she returned from the Incident (which was the way ever
yone inside the IA talked about it, except Kipa, who always called it “your captivity” in a way that sounded both patently false and the kind of solemn that comes with a saint).

  Since Suyana’s first year in the IA, she’d tried to work just hard enough that no one resented her presence, and not hard enough to raise eyebrows. She’d attended the Taste of a Hundred Lands fund-raiser, speaking briefly about mazamorra corn pudding to a group of people who were paying four hundred dollars a plate to listen to her be pleasant. She’d helped draft a plan for a Cultural Grievance Committee to which marginalized groups could appeal without having to first declare themselves at war with their government. “A move toward mediation, rather than confrontation,” she’d written, because if there was one thing politicians liked hearing, it was the idea of a middle ground.

  Murat Eren had been the draftee to present it to the Assembly for ratification (Suyana wanted nothing to do with any of that). He had dark eyes and a sweetly sly expression that blesses one diplomat in a thousand; the Assembly was scheduled to vote in Paris a month from now. Suyana was very nearly proud.

  The trick to the rest of it was lying low when you had to. When France and Sweden nominated themselves as the Cultural Heritage delegates to the International Exchange Conference, Suyana arranged a “Ten Great Things About Being a Girlfriend” interview with Elite the afternoon of the vote. France and Sweden were Big Nine; she couldn’t quite bring herself to vote for them, but you didn’t vote against them. She and Magnus had worked out ten things that were mildly infuriating to them both; Magnus tapped his stylus too fast against the desk whenever he said things like, “The way he smiles when you wear the necklace he bought you.”

  But she didn’t want to think about necklaces any more than Magnus did, when the time came. She’d had one once, it hadn’t gone well, and there was no point reminding anyone. She’d made the number three thing “The way he’s so proud of my accomplishments” instead.