Dragon Day by Lisa Brackmann

labels you’re wearing. Don’t tell me you don’t like nice things.”
    I stare back. Lock my gaze on his hooded, bloodshot eyes, and I don’t look away.
    â€œYeah, well, it’s a recent development.” I toss my head in the direction of the main hall. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to find the head.”
    Motherfucker.
    Okay, I’m pretty sure this guy is bad news, and I’m not just saying that because he’s right about my recently liking nice things.
    What do I tell Sidney?
    First do no harm. That’s been my mantra since I got any leftover gung-ho bullshit blown out of me in the Sandbox.
    If I tell Sidney what I think about Marsh, what kinds of consequences am I willing to shoulder?
    On the other hand, there’s my ass to think about. I have to tell Sidney something.
    I head toward the hall on my left. Not the main hall, if I remember how places like this are laid out—that would be the one perpendicular, the northern house, and the grounds here look big enough to have additional buildings behind that.
    This one’s shutter-style wooden doors are flung open, welcoming you inside. Even with the open doors, they’re running some kind of air conditioner that feels more like a cool breeze blowing from inside.
    A few guests have drifted in here. A big rectangular room with high ceilings, framed in wood and a lot of black and red and lacquer. Worn stone floors dotted with old, expensive-looking woven rugs. Chinese brush paintings and scrolls hang on the walls. Expensive ones, from what I know, not that I’m an expert. Sometimes you can just tell. One of those green-and-yellow Tang-dynasty horse statuettes, which I’m guessing is a real one, sits on a fancy inlaid cabinet. Some classic Chinese furniture and some modern interpretations of it, because you know those Chinese chairs and benches look cool, but they aren’t all that comfortable. Hardwood chairs grouped around small square tables and this giant carved wooden bed thing with a little table on top of it. A couple of hipster types lounge on the bed thing, smoking something in long-stemmed pipes, their drinks on the little table. They’re not wearing shoes, and I wonder if I should take mine off, too.
    I approach one of the servers, who’s rearranging the glasses on her tray.
    â€œXiaojie.”
    She starts a bit, rattling the little crystal glasses. Turns toward me, the friendly smile mask already in place. Another pretty one. Big brown eyes and plump painted lips.
    â€œNimende xishoujian zai nar?” I continue. Like I told Marsh, I’m looking for a bathroom.
    â€œThat way, miss.” She points toward the north end of the hall. “Go out.”
    At the back corner of the room, there’s a screen, this carved, lacquered thing with white birds painted on it—cranes? I spent some time at a bird sanctuary not very long ago, but I still suck at identifying them.
    Behind that a hallway.
    I go out.
    I’m guessing it was added on, even with the aged grey on the outside wall. Plenty of places that got knocked down in these neighborhoods to salvage it from. Little lights in the ceiling cast yellowish circles on the worn stones. There’s a door made of wood and frosted glass at the end.
    Just as I get there, the door’s flung open. I jump. Out comes a woman, one of the thirty-, forty-somethings, in a black sheath dress and fancy heels. Louboutins, which I know only because of Lucy Wu. Polished more than pretty, with a designer bobbed haircut. Her face is redder than the soles of her shoes. I can’t tell if she’s been crying, is furious, or has been slapped.
    â€œDuibuqi,” I say. Excuse me.
    She looks at me like, What the fuck are you doing here?
    Good question.
    With barely a nod, she storms down the hall, her heels clicking on the stone like taps from a hammer.
    I go into the bathroom—fancy, of course, more stone and rustic wood, with a