Sixteen

Sixteen

The last train back to Shanghai had been canceled.

“What do you mean it’s been canceled?”

Roma and Juliette jolted and glanced at each other, disturbed by the unison in which they had spoken. The worker behind the ticket booth didn’t notice. She was more occupied by the book open on her lap.

“It has been canceled,” she repeated. “The train scheduled to arrive at nine o’clock was operating earlier and encountered some trouble. It has been rerouted for maintenance.”

Juliette pinched the bridge of her nose. That was the very same train that had brought them here then,the one with the last compartment soaked in blood from a monster attack. Maintenance. She hoped they had some heavy-duty bleach.

“Don’t tell me,” Juliette managed tightly, her breath fogging the air around her, “we just missed the previous one?”

The worker peered at the timetable board. Juliette could have sworn she was holding back an amused grin. Rural dwellers were without doubt sadistic when it came to the misfortunes of city folk.

“By ten minutes, xiǎojiě,” she confirmed. “Next one is tomorrow morning.”

Juliette made a noise at the back of her throat and paced away from the booth, stomping along the platform.

“All the local cars have stopped for the night,” Roma said, following after her, “but we can call one from Shanghai.”

“By car, the two cities are almost four hours apart . . . one-way,” Juliette replied. She stopped, observing the empty station. “It would be morning before we return if we call a chauffeur. We may as well remain here until the train comes. At least it is relatively warm.”

Roma stopped too, pensive as he turned to face her. His mouth hovered open to speak. Only then his eyes widened at something over her shoulder, his whole expression turning stricken.

“Get down!”

Juliette hardly had a moment to register his command before he had grabbed her arms and yanked her to the ground. Her breath snagged in her throat, her knees scraping hard against the platform. With his hands circling her wrists and her gloved fingers curled up against the edge of his sleeves, the thought that it would be so easy to draw him close whispered through her mind, but that was all: a whisper. Easily quieted, easily snuffed out. Before she could do or say anything preposterous, Juliette shook out of Roma’s grip and turned around, trying to catch whatever it was that had incited such a reaction.

“What gives?” she demanded.

Roma’s eyes remained narrowed, searching the dark. “A shooter,” he said simply. “A shooter who decided not to shoot, it appears.”

Juliette saw nothing, but Roma had no reason to lie. There had been a strange, watchful feeling following her all afternoon, and she had thought it to be discomfort—that prickle up and down her spine only natural in a place so quiet. But maybe it had not been in her head. Maybe as she had suspected earlier, someone had been on their tail since they disembarked the train.

“Come on,” Juliette said, getting to her feet. “We cannot stay, then. Not in the open.”

“Where else is there to go?” Roma hissed. After a delayed beat, he hurried up too, brushing the dust off his trousers before it could stain. “Do you know how early people go to sleep around these parts?”

Juliette shrugged, forging ahead. “We are charming people. We can charm some doors open, I am sure.”

But as it turned out, Roma was right. They trekked to the nearest residential block of Kunshan and started to knock on doors, making their way down the narrow streets. By the time they had twisted around and along each building, smacking their palms against every front gate, there was still no answer from anyone.

And it was miserably cold.

And Juliette was getting a prickly feeling again.

She palmed a knife, stopping at the end of the road. When Roma finally trudged over after giving up on the final building, she held out her hand, asking for him to stop too.

“It’s freezing, Juliette,” he managed, teeth chattering. “This was not a good idea.”

“It is still better than the station,” she whispered. They were surrounded by darkness, for streetlamps in a city like this were few and far between. Perhaps that was why nobody came out so late, because they had nothing to guide their way save the sliver of the moon peeking through the thick clouds. It was hard to see what was lurking out there.

“We’re being followed,” Juliette stated.

Roma pulled out one of his revolvers. It almost looked comical—him, aiming at nothing. “Shall I fire?” he asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, pushing his arms down. Her eyes snagged on a blip of light in the distance. “Look—someone is awake over there.”

Juliette started off immediately, the knife still clutched in her hand in case anyone was to jump out from the darkness. She didn’t understand how they could possibly have a pursuer, though her certainty was growing stronger and stronger. All around them, there was nowhere to hide: the residential street stretched on with another thin stream flowing on one side and a dense cloister of bamboo forestry on the other.

“Do you think,” Roma said, catching up with her, “that perhaps ghosts are real?”

Juliette shot him an incredulous look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Once, we didn’t think monsters were real either.”

He had her there, but still, Juliette rolled her eyes and slid her knife into her sleeve, at last coming in view of the illuminated building. She made a tense inventory of the nearby darkness, and when it seemed there was no movement, she hurried up the steps to knock.

Juliette’s hand came down once, then froze, hovering an inch away from the folding doors. Its frames were paneled with fabric—the style of buildings from the imperial dynasties. Above the doors, there was an engraving of three characters, usual for places of business to declare their function. Now, with the light beaming out from the doors, Juliette could read it.

“Juliette,” Roma said, coming to the same conclusion.

An unbidden snort escaped her. “It’s a whorehouse.”

She hadn’t said it with derision: it was truly the term most suitable. The door swept open, and a woman peered out, her robes flowing for what seemed like miles behind her. This was not like the brothels of Shanghai, not a little back area in someone’s fabric shop or the top half of a restaurant. This was a magnificent structure going up at least three floors, varnished wood banisters looping in circles around each level and a fountain pumping at the very center, wafting with the sweetest floral scents.

“Hello,” the woman said, tilting her head. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Oh,” Juliette said. “We’re, uh—” She cast a glance back at Roma. He pulled an anxious expression, beseeching Juliette to handle this. “We’re not customers. We’re stranded overnight and were hoping for a place to stay.”

At this, Roma finally cleared his throat. “We have cash to pay, of course.”

The woman observed them for a moment longer. Then she swept her arms up, the sleeves of her hanfu billowing with the wind. “Come in, come in! We welcome all wayward travelers, of course.”

Roma and Juliette didn’t have to be encouraged further; they darted out of the cold and entered, sparing the night a warning glance in case it was watching. Roma shut the door firmly, and Juliette nodded, signaling to him that they were safe now, out of the watchful eyes of whoever—whatever—had been on their tail.

“If you’ll follow me, children!” The woman was already walking off, her steps light. There was a dance to the way she moved, exchanging entertainment for attention, making every second captured upon her worthwhile.

“Thank you,” Juliette called after her. “How do you prefer to be called?”

There was a sudden burst of giggling from the far corner, and Juliette’s eyes landed on a kaleidoscope of colors: of flying silk and lace fans, held by delicate figures dressed in various shades of high-end qipao.

They almost sounded happy.

“Call me Miss Tang,” the woman said over her shoulder. She pointed at the staircase. “Shall I put you up high?”

Juliette lifted her head and examined the higher floors, eyeing the men leaning over the banisters, girls on every side of them. Their slouches were casual, looking down and watching the rest of the house as if there were no hurry to their night. She knew that appearances were deceiving. She knew that every place had its dark side, that perhaps these girls were merely better at hiding their bitterness. The girls of Shanghai did their jobs like their life had already been sucked out of them.

But the glamour here was seductive, and nothing was more surprising than making the find in a city not renowned at all for it, not like Shanghai was. Beauty here was an art—something to perfect, and wield, and make a performance out of. In Shanghai, beauty was a transaction for one end or another.

“Whatever you have free,” she sighed in reply. “We really don’t mind—”

“Ah!”

Juliette whirled around, hearing Roma’s yelp. She hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t beside her anymore. Nor had she noted when exactly he had fallen out of step. Her pulse ratcheted up, fingers immediately twitching for the blade still hidden by her wrist.

Then she caught sight of him and realized there was no need to reveal the weapons under her coat. Roma had merely been snagged off by three of the girls. He was struggling to get freed, by the looks of it, because both his arms were caught and the girls were not going to release their catch so easily, already pleading for an audience. Juliette bit down on her cheeks.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Roma insisted. “We’re only here for lodgings, really—”

Unable to suppress it any longer, Juliette snickered a laugh. Roma’s head whipped up, as if the sound had reminded him that Juliette stood three feet away. Only instead of calling for help, he exclaimed, “Lǎopó!”

The girls startled, releasing him for a short moment. Juliette wasn’t laughing anymore. Her eyebrows shot straight up. Who the hell is he calling his wife?

Roma quickly pulled free, hurrying to Juliette’s side. “I’m so sorry!” he called back. His arm came around Juliette’s waist, and when Juliette jumped, immediately trying to dart away, he preempted the direction she tried to pivot in and tightened his grip. “My marriage vows forbid such mischief. Maybe in another lifetime!”

“Please forgive me,” Juliette muttered under her breath. She could feel the press of his fingers through her coat. She could feel the tension in his arms, the way he was trying to stop himself from settling into the usual hold they had perfected five years ago. Don’t lean in. Whatever you do, don’t lean in. “I don’t even remember when we exchanged our vows.”

“Play along,” Roma said through gritted teeth. “I fear they would kill me in my sleep without a better excuse.”

“This isn’t Shanghai, qīn’ài de. They will kill you with their kindness, not their blades.”

“Speak less, dorogaya.”

Juliette shot a sharp look at him, then wondered if she could get away with holding a blade in her hand and tripping toslice his beautiful face—just a little, a red nick here and there. She had used a term of endearment sarcastically, but she still bristled to have him do the same. Before she could grab her knife, however, Miss Tang was gesturing ahead to follow her up a winding staircase, onto the second floor.

“Ah, young love,” Miss Tang said when they caught up with her at the top of the staircase. She sighed, splaying her arms against the banister theatrically. “I have almost forgotten what it is like.”

Torture, Juliette replied silently. They started to walk along the second floor. Everything hurts, and I’m certain that I am soon to collapse into agony and dust—

“Same room or separate?” Miss Tang asked, interrupting Juliette’s reverie.

“Separate,” Juliette snapped, so fast that Miss Tang jumped, peering over her shoulder with wide eyes. Juliette offered an appeasing smile. “My”—she turned to Roma, just daring him to refute her—“husband snores extremely loudly.”

Miss Tang clucked under her breath. When she came to a stop near the rooms, it was hard to tell where exactly the doors were, given they opened and closed by a folding mechanism, hinges blending into the wall like merely another part of its elaborate decoration. But Miss Tang, all the while lecturing Juliette on putting up with a husband’s flaws, pushed easily, and doors opened in on two rooms, side by side. Juliette hardly heard a word: her eyes were quick at work, searching the interior of the rooms. They looked safe enough. No chance of a waiting attacker inside ready for ambush.

“You are absolutely correct, Miss Tang,” Juliette said, lying so easily she hardly registered her own words. “I’ll start working on my behavior once we’re back in the city.”

That seemed to appease the madame. She nodded, appraising Juliette up and down. “Washroom is over there, on the far side of the building. Rest well!”

The moment Miss Tang sashayed off, Roma released Juliette like he had been prodded with an electric shock, down to the sudden flex and clench of his fists.

“Well,” Juliette said. “Good night?”

Roma stomped into his room without a word, pulling his door shut. There was another low giggle nearby, and though Juliette knew they were too far away to be giggling at her, her hackles still rose, never fond of any chance of mockery.

“What are you getting mad at me for?” she muttered, stepping into her room too. “You are the one who married us off.”

The burlesque club was quieter than usual tonight, so when Kathleen pulled an apron on, she figured it would be a way to kill time rather than any real work. She hadn’t shown up to waitress in so long that she didn’t even know who was managing the club anymore, given how quickly they were switched out depending on Scarlet inner circle ongoings.

“Table at the back is free!” one of the other girls, Aimee, shouted from the bar. “Someone go wipe—” She blinked, sighting Kathleen. “Miss Lang, what are you doing here?”

Kathleen rolled her eyes, adjusting her sleeves. She had changed from a qipao into a buttoned shirt. She was attending another Party meeting immediately after this and she needed to look the part, and if she picked up a few stains from waitressing away the few hours beforehand, then so much the better.

“I know everyone forgot,” Kathleen answered, “but I do work here.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant.” Aimee wrung her rag cloth, then pushed a tray of freshly washed cups down the bar where Eileen was drying. “Miss Rosalind said she was off to eat dinner with you. She left almost an hour ago.”

Kathleen froze. A serving boy brushed by, almost colliding with the elbow she had jutting out. Had she forgotten her plans? Had Rosalind asked to meet? Almost frantically, Kathleen searched through her memory, but all she could conclude was that Rosalind certainly had not made plans to eat with Kathleen, and it was unlikely that the barkeeping girls had misheard for someone else instead, because the only other possible contender was Juliette, and Juliette was out of the city.

“I . . . think she might have misremembered,” Kathleen said.

Eileen didn’t pick up on Kathleen’s confusion. She grinned, making fast work of wiping the glass in her hands. “Or maybe she’s off to see her foreigner.”

Her . . . what? Kathleen felt like she had stepped into a film without watching the first half. Aimee hushed Eileen immediately, but her mouth had a quirk to it, as if the thought itself was amusing.

“Chen Ailing, don’t spread rumors.”

“About a foreigner?” Kathleen asked, finally recovering from her shock. “What are you talking about?”

Eileen and Aimee exchanged a glance. One of their expressions said Now look what you did. The other said How does she not already know?

“Lang Shalin has been sighted with a man who might be a lover,” Aimee reported, entirely matter-of-fact. “Only rumors, of course. No one’s gotten a good look at his face. They can’t even decide if he is a merchant or the son of a governor. If you listen to the messengers running it, the same ones would say that Miss Cai was seen embracing Roma Montagov.”

Which was . . . true.

Kathleen didn’t let her expression show her continued bewilderment; she merely quirked an eyebrow and turned away, making for the table at the back to begin clearing it. She hardly paid attention to the plates as she stacked them onto her arm, laying them one atop the other until she was balancing them all upon her wrist. Of late, this would be fully in line with Rosalind’s peculiar behavior. And Kathleen could not fathom it, could not pinpoint when her sister had changed.

For the longest time, it had been Kathleen and Rosalind against the world. Their antics together constituted some of Kathleen’s earliest memories: as toddlers climbing the mansion gates when Juliette’s Nurse was not watching; as children trying to hide the bump on Rosalind’s head after they failed to slide down the staircase railing; as just the two of them, playing pretend with dried leaves because there was nothing better to use. The Langs had been triplets, but hardly anyone would have known by watching the three of them interact. Even after they were sent to Paris, the dynamic remained the same. Their third sister was an empty seat at the dining table because she was in bed again fighting a cold while Rosalind and Kathleen whispered secrets beneath their napkins, giggling if the tutors asked them to eat properly. Their third sister was the empty middle seat, absent at all the events Rosalind and Kathleen crashed, leaning on each other in the back of the car and laughing louder if the chauffeur glanced back in concern.

And now . . . now Kathleen had known nothing of these rumors, though they had once shared their every secret. Of course, it was possible that there was no lover at all, merely another merchant Rosalind was accommodating for their father. Yet Kathleen still felt a suspicious chill sweep up her spine as she entered the kitchen, dumping the plates in the sink for the kitchen hands to deal with. Had they grown apart? Had Kathleen become too much of a stranger for her sister?

“What are you up to, Rosalind?” she muttered. “What aren’t you telling me?”

The kitchen door slammed. Serving boys moved in and out, bustling around her as they got to work. Kathleen stayed near the tables, wiping her hands on a washcloth.

Rosalind had always trusted Celia. Maybe that was the problem here. Maybe Celia was fading, forgotten under the layers of Kathleen that she had taken on.

Kathleen shook her head, picking up a clean stack of trays and hurrying back into the club.