Twenty-One

Twenty-One

March 1927

Juliette slammed down the telephone receiver, letting out the faintest scream. She sounded so much like a whistling teakettle that one of the maids at the end of the hallway peered over her shoulder, checking if the sound had come from the kitchen.

With a sigh, Juliette retreated from the telephone, her fingers red from the excessive cord twirling. At this point the switchboard operators probably recognized her by voice alone, given she was calling so many times a day. She had no choice. What else was she to do? Suffice it to say, after Tyler’s arson, their cooperation with the White Flowers had ended, and when Juliette asked her father if it would not be beneficial to meet at least once more, her father had thinned his lips and waved her off. She couldn’t comprehend why Lord Cai would be eager to work with the White Flowers one moment, and when Juliette was finally onto something—when she needed their resources to find the identity of the Frenchman who had transformed into a monster—suddenly it was no good working with the enemy.

Who was the one whispering into her father’s ear? There were too many people coming and going from his office to ever begin making a list. Had they been infiltrated by White Flowers? Was it the Nationalists?

“Hey.”

Juliette jumped, her elbow banging against the jamb of her bedroom door. “Jesus.”

“It’s Kathleen, actually, but I appreciate the holiness,” Kathleen said from upon Juliette’s bed. She flipped her magazine. “You look stressed.”

“Yes, I am stressed, biǎojiě. How perceptive of you.” Juliette pulled her pearl earrings out, setting them onto her vanity and massaging her lobes. It turned out that wearing earrings and pressing a receiver to her ear for hours at a time did not go well together. “Had I known you were home, I would have roped you into helping me.”

At this, Kathleen closed her magazine, sitting up quickly. “Do you need my help?”

Juliette shook her head. “I jest. I have it handled.”

For the past week, since the White Flower safe house burned to the ground and Roma hadn’t responded to any of her delivered messages, Juliette had been calling every French hotel in their directory, asking a series of the same questions. Was any guest acting peculiar? Was anyone making a mess in their rooms? Leaving behind what might look like animal tracks? Making too many noises at random hours of the night? Anything—anything—that might signal someone keeping control of monsters or turning into a monster themselves, but Juliette had gotten nothing but false leads and drunks.

She heaved a long exhale. At present, gravel was crunching from somewhere outside, beyond Juliette’s balcony doors. When Kathleen walked over, peering through the glass, she reported, “That looks like your father coming home.”

Seconds later, Juliette identified the sound of tires rolling down the driveway.

“You know what strikes me as strange?” she asked suddenly. The front door opened and closed. A burst of voices downstairs signaled the arrival of visitors accompanying her father’s return, interrupting an otherwise leisurely late morning. “There has only been one attack thus far, two if we count the train. And it is awful of me, but I cannot help but feel as though there should be more.”

“But there have been sightings,” Kathleen said. She leaned up against the balcony glass. “Numerous sightings.”

“Largely at the workers’ strikes,” Juliette countered.

The first time, she had brushed it off. Roma thought it to be a rumor; she had thought the same. Only now the rumors were coming from police officers and gangsters, more and more of them arguing that they were unable to defend their post—defend against the striking workers as they tore down their factories and stormed the streets—because they had spotted a monster in the crowd.

“I don’t know,” she went on. “I imagine releasing insects would spread fear much faster than mere sightings.”

Kathleen shrugged. “We have labeled this person a blackmailer for a reason,” she said. “It is not Paul Dexter. The purpose isn’t chaos. The purpose is money and resources.”

But still, Juliette bit down on the inside of her cheeks. Something did not sit right with her. It was like she was looking directly at a picture and seeing something else because someone had already told her what to look for. Just as she had charged into a wonton shop without thinking about how it didn’t make any sense for it to be a vaccine center. She had merely assumed from the beginning—from the moment she laid eyes on that flyer—because that had been the case once before.

So what wasn’t she seeingm now?

“Miss Cai?”

Juliette tucked a curl behind her ear, turning her attention to the messenger when he stuck his head into her room. “Yes?”

“Lord Cai summons you. His office.”

The ruckus of voices drifting down the hallway was growing louder. It sounded like her father had a whole assembly in his office.

Tired as she was, Juliette moved immediately, exchanging a meaningful glance with Kathleen and then hurrying out into the hall. Though she didn’t know exactly what she had been summoned for, she could take a guess as soon as she slipped into her father’s office and found it filled to the brim with Nationalists.

“Oh boy,” Juliette muttered beneath her breath. She had entered late, it appeared, because they were mid-debate, one Kuomintang man already speaking with his arms clasped behind his back. She recognized him—or rather, recognized the fact that his lapels were decorated to every square inch.

General Shu. She had looked into him since her father’s warning. Among the Kuomintang, he was powerful enough to be second to Chiang Kai-shek, their commander in chief. He wasn’t in Shanghai often—he had an army to lead, after all—but if the expedition finally reached the city, it would be his men who marched in first.

Juliette’s dress started to itch at her skin, too long and bright among so many dark suits. Her mother was nowhere in sight. Only her father, behind his desk.

“—it is best to protect those who matter first. What good is there aiding those we want gone?”

Suddenly, Juliette caught sight of another very familiar figure in the corner of the room. Tyler was seated with the slightest of smiles, legs propped wide and something that looked like a chunk of blue dough hanging from his fingers. She squinted closer. It was a familiar blue. Lapis lazuli blue.

Juliette understood now. Her dear cousin had been spending all his time at the Scarlet facility in Chenghuangmiao overseeing their efforts for this reason precisely. The vaccine was ready. And Tyler had brought in the news ahead of anyone else, giving him first access to a room full of Nationalists first, letting him set the stage before Juliette even had a chance to say a word.

“We do as Cai Tailei proposed,” General Shu said.

“No,” Juliette snapped. Heads turned fast in her direction, but she was ready, discomfort fading from her skin. “What kind of government are you going to be if you let your own people die?”

“Even once we are in power,” General Shu said, offering her the sort of placating smile that one would give a child, “there are certain people who will never be our own.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

The Nationalists in the room bristled, as did Tyler.

“Juliette,” Lord Cai said plainly. There was no reproach in his tone. That was more of Lady Cai’s trademark, and she wasn’t here to be offended at Juliette’s social decorum. Her father was merely reminding her to think carefully about every word coming out of her mouth.

General Shu turned to face Juliette, his eyes narrowing. As a powerful war general, he could surely read a room; Juliette was getting away with saying such things to his face, so Juliette was not a mere girl he could flick away.

Juliette was, perhaps, a threat.

“The Communists are growing out of control,” General Shu boomed. He was looking at Juliette, but he spoke to the whole room, capturing their attention like the esteemed guest of a rally. “They are overpowering the Kuomintang party. They are overpowering the city. The moment they rise”—he pointed a finger at Juliette—“you and I are both out of power, little girl. The moment the Communists take over, the Kuomintang and the gangsters die alongside one another.”

He might be right. He might be predicting their exact future. And still:

“You’ll regret it,” Juliette said evenly. “Shanghai is its people. And if you let its people die, it’ll come back to bite you.”

At last the Nationalist seemed to be reaching the end of his patience. He thinned his lips. “Perhaps you have not heard?” he said. “The Communists have allied with the White Flowers.”

The Communists have—what?

Before Juliette could say anything else, General Shu turned his address elsewhere, hands pressed cleanly to his sides. His mind was made. Perhaps everyone else’s in the room was too.

“It is the only option, Lord Cai,” another Nationalist said. “Our enemies grow in power, and if we protect them, we lose this opportunity. Revolution is coming any day. Before it does, let their numbers be culled. Let their chances of success die a pitiful death.”

Juliette took an involuntary step back, hitting the door with her shoulder blades.

“I suppose it is truly the only option,” her father said. “Very well. We keep the vaccine within our own circles.”

In the corner of the room, Tyler lifted the corner of his mouth in a smirk.

Juliette spat a curse and swung the door open, then pulled it shut after herself with a loud slam. Let the men jump. Let them be afraid of how she moved, like a hurricane intent on destruction. Her father might chide her for leaving so suddenly, but she doubted he had the time for discipline.

Why the hell would the White Flowers ally with the Communists? There is no benefit at all.

Juliette stormed back into her bedroom, almost short of breath.

“The Communists and the White Flowers are working together,” she said to Kathleen, who startled, not expecting to see her back so soon.

Kathleen’s magazine slid right out of her hands. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “Since when?”

Juliette twisted her arms around her middle and sat primly on her bed. Their two enemies had just merged like the head of a reverse hydra. “I don’t know. I—” She stopped, blinking at her cousin, who was now sliding off the blankets and getting her shoes on. “Where are you going?”

“Making a phone call,” Kathleen answered, already walking out the door. “Give me a minute.”

Juliette dove backward, splaying her arms and legs like a five-point star atop her sheets. Roma was supposed to have found the Frenchman by now. They were supposed to have threatened or tortured a name out of him and eradicated the threat of a blackmailer. But in all honesty, it didn’t even seem to matter. Who cared about a few dead bodies if revolution was sweeping into Shanghai? What was one blood-soaked nightclub up against a blood-soaked city? This blackmailer was not Paul Dexter. They didn’t want the city flooded with monsters and madness; they only wanted . . . well, Juliette didn’t know.

“See, this is why we always check our sources.”

Juliette bolted upright, her hair crackling with her movements. The pomade in her curls would start to loosen if she kept disturbing it like this. “Is it false?”

“Not false exactly,” Kathleen replied. She closed Juliette’s bedroom door, leaning up against it like her body was an additional barrier against eavesdroppers. “But it is not Lord Montagov who has allied with them. It is a sect within the White Flowers that the Communists are bragging about having secured. Honestly, with the way Da Nao was talking . . .” Kathleen trailed off, her thin, arched brows furrowing together in thought. “I wonder if the Montagovs even know about it.”

The intrigue only seemed to thicken. Juliette shuffled back on her bed, drawing her leg up and pressing her chin to her knee. For three long seconds, she stared into space, trying to make sense of what Kathleen was saying.

If he is a White Flower, Juliette had asked on that train platform, then why does he look rather murderous toward you, too?

“What do you mean by a sect?”

Kathleen shrugged. “I mean exactly what I think Da Nao meant. A group within the White Flowers seems to have enough power and influence to be making agreements with the Communists on their own. They may have been working together for quite some time now—it is only that the information has recently slipped to the Nationalists.”

And just like that, the connection snapped in place.

“Huh.”

Kathleen blinked. “Huh?” she echoed, mimicking Juliette’s casual tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Juliette drew her other leg onto the bed too. If any of her relatives saw her right at this moment, they would surely chastise her for sitting in such an appalling manner.

“The blackmailer was asking for money and money and more money, and then suddenly weapons? Why weapons?” She inspected her fingers, the varnish on her nails and the barely visible chip on her pinkie. “What if it’s the Communists? They need weapons for revolution. They need money and weapons to break from the Nationalists and take the city.”

The Communists working with a sect of the White Flowers who did not heel to Lord Montagov’s nor Roma’s word. It made perfect sense. It was why, for months, the monetary demands had only come to the Scarlet Gang before ever approaching the White Flowers. Because they were already siphoning resources out of the White Flowers.

“Slow down,” Kathleen said, though Juliette was speaking plenty slow. “Remember what happened the last time you accused a Communist of the madness.”

She remembered. She had accused Zhang Gutai and killed the wrong man. She had been led astray by Paul Dexter.

But this time . . .

“It makes sense, does it not?” Juliette asked. “Even if the Communists have their revolution, even if they get rid of us gangsters, they cannot overthrow their Nationalist allies. The only way they can win this revolution without the Nationalists swooping in afterward and claiming that Shanghai has been taken for the entire Kuomintang to enjoy”—Juliette splayed her hands out—“is by preparing to fight a war.”

Silence swept into the room. All that could be heard were the sprinklers outside watering the gardens.

Then Kathleen sighed. “You better pray it is not. You may be able to kill a monster, Juliette. You may purge all the insects that a foreign man has brought in. But you cannot put yourself in the middle of a war.”

Juliette was already scrambling up, opening her wardrobe. “If the Communists are using these monsters to start the war, then I sure can.”

“I fear you will kill yourself trying.”

“Kathleen, please.” Juliette poked her head into her hangers, searching the floor of the wardrobe. She caught sight of a few revolvers, discarded necklaces, and a shoebox—which contained a grenade, if she was remembering correctly. At the back of the mess, her lightest coat had fallen into a bundle. She retrieved it and shook it out, then held the garment in the crook of her elbow. “I’m not that easy to kill.”

Kathleen was trying her best to pull an angry face. It wasn’t as effective when she was smoothing a hand along her softly curled hair, twisting a strand along her finger.

“A secret White Flower working with the Communists still doesn’t add up,” she argued. “This all began with Paul Dexter’s note. In the event of my death, release them all. He wrote to someone he knew. He wrote into the French Concession.”

“A French White Flower,” Juliette replied in answer. “It still tracks.”

“But—”

“I have someone who might know something. I’ve got to go now so I can get back before our trip with Māma this afternoon.”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on.”

Juliette halted, the door half-open under her hand. Quickly, Kathleen hurried over and pressed the door closed again, waiting a second after the soft click to ensure no one was outside.

“It’s about Rosalind.”

Oh. Juliette wasn’t expecting that.

“She’s coming later, isn’t she? To the temple?”

Lady Cai had insisted upon it. She needed an entourage, and her usual crowd couldn’t offer accompaniment when the temple only allowed women. Juliette and her cousins had been gifted the honor of playing bodyguards. It was unlikely that there was any need for protection at a women-only temple, but such was life as a figurehead of a criminal empire. At the thought, Juliette walked back to her vanity and slotted an extra knife into her sleeve.

“Yes, I expect so, but that’s not what I’m talking about,” Kathleen said, waving the question away. “Were you aware she has some secret lover in the city?”

Juliette whirled around, her mouth parting. A hint of glee slipped out as she exclaimed, “You’re joking.”

Kathleen propped her hands on her hips. “Can you sound a little less excited about this?”

“I’m not!”

“Your eyes are glowing!”

Juliette tried her best to school her expression, feigning earnestness. She pushed her coat farther up her arm before it slipped from her elbow. “I didn’t know about this, but it’s not so bad. You were worried about Rosalind falling into trouble with merchants. Isn’t a lover better in comparison? Now, I really have to go—”

Kathleen held her arm out, physically preventing Juliette from leaving. With the way that her cousin was eyeing the coat on her arm, she wouldn’t be surprised if Kathleen stole it next, just so Juliette couldn’t walk out.

“Allegedly, the lover is a merchant,” Kathleen said. “You’re not the least bit concerned why Rosalind hasn’t told us?”

“Biǎojiě”—gently, Juliette eased Kathleen’s arm away from the door—“we can ask her about it when we see her. I have to go. I’ll meet you later?”

With a grumble, Kathleen stepped aside. Juliette thought she had finally gotten through, but as she stepped into the hallway, unfolding her coat, her cousin said, “Don’t you get tired of all this?”

Juliette paused in her step, pulling her coat on. “Tired of what?”

Kathleen’s lips curved up. She squinted into the doorknob, its golden gleam bouncing her reflection back at her in miniature.

“Chasing answers,” her cousin replied, dabbing a finger at the corner of her mouth. The line of her lipstick was already a perfect bow. “Eternally running around trying to save a city that does not want to be saved, that is hardly goodenough to be saved.”

Juliette hadn’t expected such a question; nor had she expected to reel from trying to answer it. Down the hallway, the voices were still communing in their meeting, leaving her out of whatever plan would soon beset the city. The men who governed this place did not want her help. But she was not doing it for them; she was doing it for everyone else.

“I’m not saving this city because it is good,” she said carefully. “Nor am I saving this city because I am good. I want it safe because I wish to be safe. I want it safe because safety is always what is deserved, goodness or wickedness alike.”

And if Juliette didn’t do it, then who would? She sat up here on a throne encrusted in silver and dusted with opium powder. If she didn’t use her birthright to offer protection where she could, what was the point?

Kathleen’s frown only deepened, but there was too much to unpack, especially while Juliette was hovering on her toes, rushing to leave. All that her cousin managed was a soft sigh and then: “I beg you to be careful.”

Juliette smiled. “Aren’t I always?”



“You look a mess.”

Juliette rolled her eyes, pushing past Marshall to get inside. She could smell the city on her skin: that mix between the windblown salt coming in from the sea and the unidentifiable jumble of fried foodstuffs permeating the streets. There was no avoiding it whenever she rode through on a rickshaw.

“I have a question,” Juliette said immediately, pulling the locks on the safe house door.

Marshall wandered deeper into the room—not that there was anywhere to go in such a small space—and collapsed on his mattress. “Is that why you have arrived without gifts to bear?”

Juliette palmed a knife into her hand and pretended to throw.

“Ah!” Marshall yelped immediately, throwing his arms over his face. “I jest!”

“You’d better be. You certainly pick up enough things to eat and drink whenever you go outside.”

Juliette put her knife away. With a stride that could be described more as stomping than walking, she made her way over to the mattress too and dropped down beside him, her dress clinking with noise.

“You’re my only White Flower source right now,” she said. “What do you know about your communication with the Communists?”

“The Communists?” Marshall echoed. He had been lying back, elbows propped on the sheets, but now he sat up straight, brows knitting together. “Most of the Russians in this city are Bolshevik Revolution refugees. When have the White Flowers ever liked the Communists?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Juliette grumbled. She blew a piece of hair out of her eyes, and when that did nothing to get the lock away from her face, she huffed extra loudly and pushed it back, smooshing it with the rest of the tangle.

“Given, it is not as if I am very up to date with the latest White Flower goings-on.” Marshall reached for something tucked near the wall, his whole arm straining to make contact without moving from position. When he finally retrieved it, he returned to Juliette with a flourish. “May I? It’s hurting my eyes to look at you.”

Juliette squinted at what he was holding, trying to pick out the label in the dim light of the safe house. She snorted when it registered. Hair pomade.

She inclined her head toward him. “Please. Make me pretty again.”

In silence, Marshall scooped a clump of pomade and started to brush through her hair with his fingers. He made fast work of re-forming her curls, though his tongue was sticking out in concentration, as if he had never tried shaping longer hair but he would be damned before Juliette told him he was doing it wrong.

“You should ask Roma,” Marshall said, finishing a curl near her ear. “It’s his job, is it not?”

“That’s a little difficult right now,” Juliette replied. The blood feud pushed away her answers about the blackmailer. Politics pushed away her chances at protecting the city so they wouldn’t need answers about the blackmailer. Why did everybody in this city insist on making life so difficult for themselves? “None of this would even be happening if General Shu would just let us distribute the vaccine.”

Marshall froze. He tried to hide it, tried to resume with the curl as if nothing happened, but Juliette sensed the delay, and her head swiveled to him, interrupting his work.

“What?”

“No, nothing—let me—”

“Marshall.”

“Can I just—”

“Marshall.”

The edge in Juliette’s voice got through. With the slightest shake of his head, Marshall continued to feign casual, but he said: “I had some ties to the Kuomintang before joining the White Flowers, that’s all. General Shu is bad news. Once he latches on to something, he won’t let go. If he doesn’t want a Scarlet vaccine distributed across the city, it’s never going to go out.”

Juliette supposed she wasn’t surprised at that, given what she already knew about the man. But:

“Weren’t you a child when you joined the White Flowers?”

Marshall shook his head again, more firmly this time. “It was a youth group. Now . . .” He shifted one last curl in place. “You no longer look like a rickshaw driver dragged you through the mud. Happy?”

“Overjoyed,” Juliette replied, getting to her feet. Something still sounded a little off, but she hardly had the time to prod at it. “I’ll take my leave now, but—”

“Stay inside, I know.” Marshall waved her off. “Don’t you worry about me.”

Juliette shot him a warning glare as she walked to the door, but Marshall only grinned.

“Goodbye, you menace.”