“Same concept, really—” Roma stopped, blinking rapidly. He had sighted the man. “He’s a White Flower.”
Surprised, Juliette shifted her eyes again, straining to get another look. The man had turned his attention to his novel now, so he did not notice.
“Are you . . . certain?” Juliette asked, deflating from her confidence. She had hoped that maybe it was the blackmailer, finally showing up in the open now that Juliette and Roma were on their way toward the possible truth. It was too much to hope that someone would materialize like this just to stop them, but it certainly would have sped the investigation along. “I thought he was French.”
“Yes, he is French,” Roma said. “But loyal to us. I have seen him in the house before. I am certain of it.”
The man suddenly looked up again. Juliette swiveled her gaze away, pretending to be inspecting something else, but Roma did not do the same. He stared right back.
“If he is a White Flower,” Juliette said without moving her mouth, “then why does he look rather murderous toward you, too?”
Roma pursed his lips and turned back around, facing the tracks just as their train pulled in. Fellow passengers hurried forward, scrambling to the front and pushing right to the edge of the platform so they could secure a good seat.
“Perhaps he thinks I am prettier,” he replied easily. “Do you wish to speak to him? With enough effort, the two of us could probably pin him down.”
Juliette considered it, then shook her head. Why waste their time with White Flowers?
They boarded, finding seats by the window. With a sigh, Juliette plopped into the hardback chair and undid her coat, dropping it onto the table between her seat and Roma’s. By virtue of the train’s setup, they were facing each other, and stacking more items onto the table was like she was building a makeshift wall. Sitting face-to-face felt too intimate, even while twenty-odd other passengers occupied the compartment.
“To Kunshan,” the compartment loudspeaker emitted in English. “Welcome aboard.”
Roma dropped into his seat. He didn’t shed the gray coat over his suit. “What’s the next language coming?”
“French,” Juliette replied immediately, a second before grainy Shanghainese blared over the loudspeaker. Her eyebrows lifted. “Huh. Interesting.”
Roma leaned back, the smallest smile playing on his face. “Ye of little faith.”
That barest glimpse of humor came and went in a flash, but it was enough to make Juliette go stock-still, her stomach clenching. For the smallest moment, Roma had likely forgotten. And when the train started to move, when Roma turned his gaze to the scene outside and the glass reflected back the sudden hardening of his expression, Juliette knew that he remembered again—who she was, who they were, what she had done, what they were now.
The train rumbled on.
Shanghai to Kunshan was not a long journey, and the window view quickly turned rural, passing dilapidated houses on dirt roads. Swaths of grass stretched on beside the train tracks, flat and even and eternal—more natural green than Juliette had ever seen inside city limits, discounting what the foreigners cultivated in their parks.
Juliette released a soft breath, leaning her cheek upon the window. Roma was doing the same, but she resolved not to look at him any longer than necessary, lest he catch her staring. Her head turned, finding entertainment in the compartment instead, eyeing the dozing passengers as the train continued chugging, chugging, chugging.
When Roma broke the silence, enough time had passed that Juliette startled, doing so well at ignoring him that his voice was a shock.
“Assuming we do find the blackmailer”—no prelude, no overture, merely jumping directly to the point—“I gather we need a plan of attack.”
Juliette drummed her fingers on the table. “Shoot to kill?”
Roma rolled his eyes. She was rather aggravated that he looked so beautiful in the midst of the action, the dark shadows of his eyelashes flickering up like a dusting of kohl.
“And after?” he asked. “It is no different from when we thought we were chasing the Larkspur. If we kill the blackmailer, how do we get to the monsters?”
“It is different this time,” Juliette countered. She felt a chill brush through the train car, running goose bumps up her arm. When she shivered, Roma’s frown deepened, his gaze tracing along the dip of her neckline. It was hardly appropriate for winter, she knew. She didn’t need his judgment.
“How so?”
Juliette reached for her coat. “There was nothing that linked Paul Dexter to the Communists because he met with Qi Ren once and then chanced the chaos on random transformations. This blackmailer, however”—she stood up so she could swing her coat back on, the long fabric brushing the backs of her knees—“I doubt is many steps removed from their monsters. Not when the monsters are being sent out like little servants doing the blackmailer’s bidding. That requires personal instructions. Constant meetings.”