This was animation from the gutters of the city, rising amid the ash of low-ceilinged factories.
Celia raised her fist.
It was the new set of footsteps entering the office that finally forced Benedikt to perk up, shaking himself out of the near trance he had put himself in to remain quiet. It was the way the sound came in: shoes dragging, deliberate.
Benedikt didn’t have to see Marshall to know that it was him. Nor did he have to see him to guess that Marshall had his hands stuck in his pockets.
“The cars that Lord Cai sent are here,” Marshall said. He was feigning casual, but his voice was tight. “They’re ready for everyone.”
Benedikt listened hard, trying to gauge how many Nationalists were pulling their coats off the backs of their chairs and filtering out of the room. The office hadn’t been that full to begin with, yet he didn’t hear enough footfalls exiting. Indeed he was right when another conversation started up between General Shu and someone else, debating their next move for the Communists who had escaped.
“érzi,” General Shu said suddenly, summoning Marshall to attention. “Where are the letters for central command?”
“You mean the nasty envelopes I personally licked to close?” Marshall asked. “I put them in there. Do we need them now?”
There had been a pause in his speech. With delay, Benedikt realized the missed beat had been because Marshall was pointing. And the only place to point at . . . was this filing closet.
“Fetch them, would you? We need to be off in a few minutes.”
“Yessir.”
Footsteps, dragging his way now. Benedikt looked around frantically. At the end of the closet space, there was a small cardboard box, which he had to assume was what Marshall was coming in for. He walked toward the box, then faltered, freezing three steps away from it when Marshall opened the door, stepped in, and closed the door after himself.
Marshall hit the light switch. He looked up. Widened his eyes.
“Ben—”
Benedikt clamped a hand over Marshall’s mouth, the effort so aggressive that they slammed into one of the filing cabinets, bodies locked. Benedikt could smell the smoke clinging to Marshall’s skin, count the lines crinkling his brow while he tried not to struggle.
What the hell are you doing here? Marshall’s eyes seemed to scream.
What do you think? Benedikt silently responded.
“What happened?” General Shu called from outside. He had heard the loud thud.
Carefully, Benedikt eased his hand away from Marshall’s mouth. The rest of him didn’t move.
“Nothing. I stubbed my toe,” Marshall called back evenly. In the same breath, he lowered his voice to the quietest whisper and hissed, “How did you get in here? The Kuomintang have an execution order for Montagovs, and you deliver yourself right to the door?”
“No thanks to your father,” Benedikt shot back, his volume just as low. “When were you going to tell me—”
“Bad time, bad time,” Marshall interrupted. He heaved an inhale; their chests rose and fell in tandem. Marshall was dressed in uniform, each polished gold button on his jacket digging between them. It seemed the walls were closing in with how close they were, the space shrinking smaller and smaller.
Then Marshall swerved away suddenly, squeezing through the narrow passage and retrieving the box. Benedikt leaned back against the cabinets, his breath coming short.
“Stay here,” Marshall whispered when he walked by again, holding the box. “I’ll come back.”
He turned off the lights and closed the door firmly.
Benedikt resisted the urge to kick one of the cabinets. He wanted to hear the thud of its metal echo, have it ring so loud and forcefully that the whole house was brought here to him. Of course, that would be incredibly, incredibly ill advised. So he stayed unmoving. All that he allowed was his rapidly tapping fingers. How much time did Roma and Juliette have at the Bund? How close was it now to noon?
After what seemed like eons, the door opened again. Benedikt tensed, prepared to pull his weapon, but it was Marshall, his expression stricken.
“You can come out,” he said. “They’ve all departed for the Scarlet house.”
“And left you behind?”
“I feigned a headache.”
Benedikt walked out, almost suspicious. His ankle stung, slowing his movements, but the hesitation was intentional too. He didn’t know what had gotten into him; he had come here resolute to rescue Marshall and leave as quickly as they could, yet now he looked at Marshall and felt utter bewilderment. There was a hot stone in his stomach. He had imagined Marshall getting tortured, abused, or otherwise at the mercy of people he could not stand up against. Instead, Benedikt had found him moving around this house as if he belonged here, as if this were his home.