“Impossible,” Roma insisted. “I may not have known the man by name, but he is prominent enough to be recognized in your clubs. He would have been identified immediately as a White Flower.”
“Then . . . ?” Juliette physically felt her gut twist, her fingers pressing to her stomach. “Then he was never a patron at the club. Rosalind just happened to have a list of names, the first of which happened to be a monster.”
Juliette needed to find the list again. There were four other names on it.
Four other names, four other monsters.
“Could it be?” she whispered.
She met Roma’s eyes, a reflection of her own horror, having reached the same conclusion. Rosalind was raised in Paris, as passably French as anyone in the Concession could be.
“Is Rosalind the blackmailer?”
Thirty-Four
Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
Juliette slammed the drawers of Rosalind’s desk shut, striking her hands so hard against the surface of the table that her palms stung. Rosalind playing spy was one matter. People were lured into betrayal across blood feud lines all the time—it was why their numbers were always shifting; it was why there were always eyes trying to penetrate the inner circle. But setting a monster on the city was another matter altogether. Using monsters to aid politics was something so absurd coming from Rosalind that Juliette couldn’t even comprehend a reason for it. Unless the only motive was destruction. Unless the only motive was to burn the whole city down.
“Is that why?” Juliette asked aloud. She lifted her head, peering into the mirror opposite her, acting as if her reflection was a sullen Rosalind staring from some faraway place.
Sooner or later, Juliette would have to reckon with her own guilt. She could keep thinking of herself as mighty because she knew her way around a blade. But it was not the blade nor her ruthless tendencies that pushed her to the top. Perhaps they kept her there.
What had gotten her there was her birth.
“It hardly makes sense,” Juliette whispered. She reached out with her fingers. The cold press of the mirror sank into her skin. “Be angry at me for how we were born. Be angry that you were born a Lang. But you never wanted Scarlet heirdom. You never wanted the city. You wanted to be important. You wanted adoration.”
So why would she be the blackmailer? How did gathering guns and money help? How did lurking in the shadows with monsters and madness bring her anything that she might desire?
“Lái rén!” Juliette called.
A maid popped her head in immediately at the summons. She must have been waiting nearby, hearing the ruckus Juliette was making. “How may I help, Miss Cai?”
“Can you make a call to Kathleen?” Juliette waved her arm, trying to think. The Communist strongholds kept moving. The gangsters were still trying to dissolve them at the Nationalists’ command, but otherwise it had been relatively quiet. The Communists, too, were waiting to see how this would turn out. “She should be at the . . . Mai Teahouse? Or maybe—”
“Can’t, xiǎojiě,” the maid interrupted politely before Juliette could waste more time guessing Kathleen’s location. “Since the takeover, the telephone control centers have not been restaffed yet. Some lines near the railway station are down too as they fix the tracks.”
Juliette cursed under her breath. So communication across the city was piss-poor. Without workers at the control centers, there was no one to direct and connect calls.
“Fine,” Juliette grumbled. “I will send a messenger the old-fashioned way, then.”
Rosalind’s room had been cold, but Juliette didn’t realize she was shivering until she returned to the warm hallway again, hurrying down the steps and into the living room. As soon as she started to scribble a note by the tables, the front door opened, and Kathleen stepped in.
“Kathleen!”
Kathleen didn’t hear her. She continued walking, her eyes glazed. She looked deep in thought.
Juliette set the pen down, hurrying into the first-floor hallway in pursuit. “Kathleen!”
Still no response. Juliette finally got close enough to set her hand on her cousin’s shoulder.
“Biǎojiě!”
At last Kathleen turned around, registering Juliette’s presence with a start. She put a hand to her heart, her black gloves fading into her deep blue qipao.
“You scared me,” Kathleen said breathlessly.
“I called your name at least three times!”
Kathleen blinked. “Did you?”
“Well—” Juliette looked around. There was no one else in the hallway, so she joked, “Technically not?”