In this part of Shanghai, the uprising pauses. Other places—other fringe districts and dirt roads—burn and become awash in blood, but here there is no movement from within the station, no slash of a broadsword nor heads atop pikes, so long as the monster remains.
It tilts its head up, looking at the moon.
Almost like the monster is smiling.
Eleven
February 1927
The sun was out today, burning above the city as if it were a large diamond studded into the sky. It seemed most suitable, Juliette thought as she stepped out of the car, breathing in the crisp air. There were parts of Shanghai that she could not look at directly because it glimmered too harshly, so overwrought with the strength of its own extravagance that it could not be appreciated for any of it.
Particularly here, at the heart of the city. This was technically International Settlement territory, but the French Concession was only some streets over, and the overlap in jurisdiction was messy enough that Juliette never cared much about the border that existed along Avenue Edward VII. Neither did its inhabitants, so this was where they were starting their work in the French Concession: outside of it.
Juliette ducked into the shadow of a building, slinking around its exterior. Here lay all the fanciest hotels, so close in succession, and Juliette didn’t want to get trapped into conversation with any overeager foreign ladies out to experience the local culture. Quick as she could, she stepped into the alley and stopped, steeling herself.
He was wearing white again. She had never seen so much goddamn white on him.
“Alors, quelle surprise te voir ici.”
Roma turned at the sound of her voice, unamused by her false astonishment. Both his hands were in his trouser pockets, and it may have been Juliette’s imagination, but she swore one hand twitched like it was clutching a weapon.
“Where else would I have been waiting, Juliette?”
Juliette merely shrugged, having no energy to continue being a nuisance. It didn’t make her feel any better; nor did it improve Roma’s default scowl. When his hand came out of his pocket, she was almost surprised to find that it was a golden pocket watch he retrieved, flipping its cover to check the time.
Juliette was late. They had agreed to meet at noon behind the Grand Theatre because their destination was across the road at the Recreation Ground, where the foreign race club was. The race club was always at high capacity, but especially at these hours, when socialites and ministers threw bets like it was their full-time job.
“I was running errands,” Juliette said as Roma put the watch away.
Roma started off in the direction of the racecourse. “I didn’t ask.”
Ouch. Juliette physically flinched, a throbbing hot sensation starting in her heart. But she could handle it. What was a small bout of meanness? At least he wasn’t trying to shoot her.
“You don’t want to know what errands I was running?” Juliette pressed, following his brisk walk. “I offer you information on a platter and you do not even take it. I was checking the postmarks on the letters, Roma Montagov. Did you think to do that?”
Roma glanced over his shoulder momentarily, then turned back around as soon as Juliette had caught up at his side. “Why would I need to?”
“They could have been fake if the blackmailer hadn’t truly sent them out of the French Concession.”
“And were they?”
Juliette blinked. Roma had stopped suddenly, and it took her a second to realize it wasn’t because he was enraptured with their conversation. He was simply waiting to cross the road.
Roma waved for them to cross.
“No,” she finally answered when they were on the sidewalk again. From here, she could already hear the thundering of hooves. “They indeed came from various post offices across the Concession.”
What Juliette didn’t understand was why someone would go through the labor. It was harder to make stamps talk than people . . . Juliette could accept that. No one would be foolish enough to hire help for delivering the messages, because then Juliette could catch the help and torture a name out of them. But to use the postage system? Could they not have left letters around the city for any old gangster to pick up and bring to Lord Cai? It was as if they wanted Juliette to storm into the French Concession, given how obvious the postmarks were.
She didn’t say any of this aloud. Roma didn’t look like he cared.
“You’re giving this blackmailer too much credit,” he said. “They come from the French Concession because, as expected, it is someone around these parts of the city who took on Paul’s legacy.” A sigh. “So here we are.”