The Quiet Algorithm of Us

3 Moving Into the Fortress

Fortresses come in varieties. Some insist on moats and sarcasm. Some prefer glass and quarterly reports. The Ren compound did not brag. It simply persisted, a geometry of cedar and stone that had learned to stand up straight through several regimes and most kinds of weather. The walls did not glare; they set boundaries. The courtyards did not preen; they breathed. If old money has a spine, this place had kept its Pilates appointments.

The gate swung inward the way a sentence accepts its clause. The car coasted along a drive bordered by low pines that whispered in what could only be described as committee voice. Ahead, the main house lifted its eaves like a calm gesture. Off to the right, a smaller residence angled itself toward morning sun, reasonable and introverted. Pools lay about as if punctuation had taken on aquatic form. Koi scribbled in the largest pool with the sort of confidence only fish and old bankers permit themselves. The water carried their bright gossip without judgment.

"Welcome home, Madam," said the head housekeeper at the door, and then blushed at the word Madam as if it had stepped on her foot. She was a small, precise woman with a ledger's clarity in her gaze and a ring of keys that could probably open every drawer in the country and yet chose not to. Her badge said Zhou but her whole posture said keep this place upright.

"Zhou-jie," Miran said, automatically respectful. "You can call me Miran."

"Of course," Zhou lied in the pleasing way long houses teach their staff to lie. She gestured. "We've aired the rooms, and the kitchen has your preferences. No coriander. Tea shelf arranged by region. Cutlery drawer divided by temperament."

"Temperament?"

"Forks that won't cooperate are in time-out," Zhou said. "You'll see the label."

They crossed a cool anteroom where afternoon slid across wood like a blessing. The ceiling beams were cedar so old they smelled like decisions. A narrow console held a bowl of mandarins arranged in the kind of arc that would make a geometry teacher exhale in relief. Down the main corridor, doors punctuated the wall at dignified intervals. No ostentatious art. A trio of black-and-white photographs of hands: a baker's, a calligrapher's, a mason's. The house was not pretending it had never been loud; it was promising not to waste your attention.

A shadow separated from the wall by the staircase and became Kai, Jinchao's second, a man with a face that cupboard doors would trust with their secrets. His suit had an MFA in blending in. "Madam An," he said with a small bow, gravely relieved to say a name and not detonate anything. His gaze slid across the corridor like a scanner checking for disruptive nouns. "We've placed your boxes in the east study."

"Thank you," she said. "And Mr. Ren?"

"In the west building," Kai said. "Being photographed by an accountant."

"Tragic."

"Soul-consuming," Kai agreed, deadpan, and vanished with the grace of a good comma.

Staff drifted in an orbit that made space. Miran tracked them with the respectful interest a new planet gives moons. They had the un-showy competence of people who have chosen usefulness over theater. A young maid with lamb-soft steps. A gardener with hands like weather. A cook with the expression of a surgeon and the weaponry to match. Somewhere, a discreet engineer pretending to be a broom.

The smaller house was hers, mostly. A good paper screen door, smooth on its track, yielded to Zhou's hand and admitted them to a study with a long table that could carry both a banquet and a plan. The window opened to a slice of garden, maple leaf cutouts flickering the light across the floor. Bookshelves lined the far wall and contained actual books rather than interior design aspirations. The bottom shelf had a run of botanical volumes so dense and lovely she could feel her heart ask to borrow them.