Juliette took a deep, deep inhale, holding it in her throat.
“He has dictated that it will be a Russian duel, so they both only get one shot,” she said, her words coming out as a croak. “But this is Roma and Tyler. Someone is going to die.”
In the duels of stories, that one shot often went awry—striking the ground instead, piercing through a cap instead. But neither Roma nor Tyler was capable of such ineptitude.
“It’s worse,” Benedikt said. “If we’re really going by the old rules, the person who challenged the duel receives first shot. What are the chances that Tyler will miss?”
Juliette squeezed her eyes shut, bracing against the intense prickling that had started up in her head. The wind was not helping. The wind was luring out what terror she was trying to clamp in, asking for a dance.
“None,” she whispered. “Absolutely none.”
She didn’t want to see this unfold. Scarlet against White Flower. Family against her whole heart, beating red and bloody.
“You can talk him out of it, Juliette.”
Juliette startled, opening her eyes again and turning to look at Benedikt Montagov. He had switched to using her first name. Perhaps he didn’t mistrust her as much as it seemed.
“I have tried. Tyler won’t listen to me.”
“Not Tyler.”
Her stomach dived, wondering if Benedikt was implying what she thought he was. When the wind blew across her face this time, it was as frigid as ice. A tear had tracked down her cheek, running sharply and quickly, dropping to the concrete before it could be seen. They were silent for a few moments while the Bund rumbled around them, with Benedikt looking out into the river and Juliette looking at him, wondering exactly how much he knew.
She got her answer when Benedikt caught her gaze and asked, “Why don’t you tell him?”
“Tell him what?” she replied. She knew, of course. The truth. Tell him the truth. Benedikt had been at the hospital that day. He had seen Roma’s unwillingness to walk away from Juliette. It was not hard to put together what they were to each other.
Lovers. Liars.
“It is not like Roma cannot keep a secret,” Benedikt said. “He cares little for his own life because he cares so much about everyone else’s. He would throw himself in harm’s way for Alisa because she’s all he has left. But if he knows he still has you, he might be less eager to rush into death. Tell him you lied. Tell him Marshall is alive. He’ll have to find a different plan.”
Juliette shook her head. Pretty as it might be to think it all came back to this—to her, to love—that was one mere fracture on a whole web of shattered glass.
“It won’t do anything,” she replied quietly. “Besides, I am not afraid of him revealing to the world that Marshall is alive. I am afraid of him forgiving me.”
Benedikt swerved to face her. He looked aghast at her words. “Whatever is there to be afraid of?”
“You don’t understand.” Juliette hugged her arms to herself. “So long as he hates me, we are safe. If we love again . . . this city may just kill us both for daring to hope.”
She would be saving him from one strike of death just to push him right into another.
Indeed, Benedikt’s long silence seemed to say. I don’t understand. Juliette had watched Benedikt walk into the safe house in search of Marshall Seo. She had almost taken a bullet to the face in Benedikt’s vengeance for Marshall Seo. She knew that Benedikt understood fear. Fear of love and all the ways that it might not come back, all the ways that it could hurt. But he didn’t fear a blood feud, and Juliette was glad he had been spared from at least one terrible thing.
“Spit it out, Benedikt Montagov,” she whispered when the silence drew on.
Benedikt turned his back to the river.
“I think,” he said eventually, so faintly that it seemed like his mind was elsewhere, “you do yourself a disservice by refusing to hope.”
Before Juliette could think to respond, Benedikt had already given her a friendly pat on the shoulder and was walking away, leaving her standing at the Bund, one lone girl with her coat billowing in the wind.
Kathleen had leafed through the correspondences, read the information that had been passed on. There was no doubting it anymore, no matter which direction one looked at it from. All the times Lord Cai had made threats to the Scarlet Gang, warning of a spy in the inner circle. All the times he had gone around the house, making note of which relatives resided within earshot of his meetings, cutting down their numbers one by one in hopes that he had managed to purge the spy out. It had been Rosalind. It had always been Rosalind.