Thirty-Two

Thirty-Two

Blockades were already forming on the streets, an attempt to close the Concessions before the havoc traveled here, too. Roma and Juliette reached their intended destination in the nick of time, turning onto a thin street before British soldiers could rope it off. Every window they hurried past had its curtains drawn tight. The sounds of gunfire followed on their heels. Fighting would soon arrive in the vicinity.

“Quick,” Juliette whispered, opening the door to the safe house. After accepting that he was going to keep playing vigilante, she had warned Marshall to keep his temporary residence unlocked when he was not there—to ensure that it seemed unoccupied if any Scarlets were to come looking—and she was relieved to find that he had listened. This was the closest Scarlet location. She figured there was no harm in taking shelter here, especially when it was outside proper International Settlement territory, hovering at the edges of Zhabei.

Just as Roma hurried in and Juliette bolted the door, there came shouting from the British soldiers at their makeshift barricade. Their voices coursed down the street, bringing a hush upon the apartments as every resident inside waited for chaos to erupt.

“Are the windows boarded?” Roma demanded.

Juliette didn’t answer; she only waited for Roma to beeline for the windows and pull at the curtains, breathing out in relief when he found them to be nailed shut with wooden panels.

“The darkness didn’t give it away?” she muttered, bringing her lighter to a candle on the table.

The first echoes of shooting began outside. Perhaps Juliette should have tried to get home instead, tried to organize the Scarlets to fight back. Somehow, she had a feeling it would not make a difference. For the first time, the gangsters were not only outnumbered but vastly overpowered.

Roma pulled the curtains shut tightly. He waited there for a moment, then turned around, folding his arms and leaning up against the boards. There was nowhere really to sit: Marshall had made the place cozy, but it was still as small as a crawl space. One chair, propped near the stove, and a mattress on the floor, the blankets resembling a nest atop it.

Juliette opted to lean up against the door. They remained like that, on opposite ends of the room, unspeaking.

Until Roma said: “I’m sorry.”

Juliette’s eyes widened a fraction. For whatever reason, there was anger roiling in her belly. Not anger at Roma. Just anger—at the world.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked quietly.

Slowly Roma inched away from the window. She watched as he trailed his fingers across the surface of the table and found no dust, a hint of fascination flashing in his eyes before his gaze flickered to the coat hanging on the wall. It seemed Roma had come to the realization that this was where Marshall had been living.

Roma took another step across the room. In answer to her question, he gestured at the blood on her hands.

“He was still your cousin, Juliette. I’m sorry.”

Juliette closed her fists, then tucked them under her arms, folding her posture. Her head was a storm. She had fired on her cousin. Fired on his men—her own men—Scarlets, all of them. Still, she couldn’t quite regret it. She would live with this forever, live with her cousin’s blood on her hands, and in the dark of night when no one could hear her, she would cry her tears and mourn the boy he could have been. She would mourn the other Scarlets just as she mourned the White Flowers she had destroyed in the blood feud, and even more so, because their loyalty should have been their protection, and yet Juliette had turned on them.

She didn’t regret it. She hated it, and she hated herself. But standing there, in front of her, was the reason for everything she had done, and to look upon him alive and well was enough to push back the loathing she had for the blood on her hands, for the city that had made her into this monster of a person.

“This kindness is disconcerting,” she managed. “Whatever turmoil exists in my heart, I deserve it.”

Roma sighed. It was a vast sigh, one that might have formed smoke had he huffed just a tad harder.

“You are a liar, Juliette Cai,” he said. “You lied to me until I wanted you dead.”

Juliette couldn’t bear how soft his voice had grown. “Because I could not risk the consequences. I could not risk my own cousin taking your life because I was too weak to let you go.” She loosened her fists, feeling the dried blood itch in the lines of her palms. “And yet he pursued your death nonetheless.”

Roma inched forward once more. He was careful, careful even to look at her, afraid that she might bolt. “You think so intently of protecting me that you did not consider whether I wanted to be protected. I would have rather died knowing you are as you are than lived a long life thinking you cruel.”

“I am cruel.”

“You are not.”

Juliette swallowed hard. How quickly he forgot. How quickly he tried to convince himself otherwise. “Your mother, Roma.”

“Oh, please,” he said, “I already know.”

He . . . what? A tremor hastened through the room: Juliette staring at Roma and Roma staring right back. “What do you mean?”

“I know how these things work, Juliette.” Roma tore a hand through his hair, exasperated. His dark locks became so mussed that the longer strands fell loose over his forehead, and all Juliette could think was that this stone-cold, perfect image of a boy was at last giving way for the real one underneath. “I know we were a risk to each other from the very beginning. And I know you far better than you think I do.”

“Do you?” Juliette challenged.

But Roma wasn’t buying her pity party. He folded his arms. “In what world would you have sent men after my mother, no matter how upset you were? You didn’t know her. She had no personal gain to you, and if I never knew that you did it, then it wasn’t to spite me, either. No, you told someone. In a fit of recklessness, you gave her address, however you found it, and then the blood feud did the rest of the work.” Roma strode two, three steps more, stopping at arm’s length in front of her. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Juliette looked away, her eyes prickling with tears. Somehow, he had found the heart of the matter and told it so generously that it seemed undeserved.

“You’re not wrong,” she managed.

Roma nodded, his shoulders straight and assured. By flickering candlelight, he appeared all the more sturdy, like nothing could phase through his bravado. Only as Juliette tried to blink away the emotion threatening at her eyes, she peered at Roma and found that he was struggling to do exactly the same.

“We live,” he said, “with the consequences of our choices. I know that better than anyone, Juliette. I am the only one in this entire damn city who feels exactly as you do. You should have known that I would understand.”

He didn’t have to say it aloud. They both knew. Nurse. He was talking about Nurse, and the explosion at the Scarlet house.

“You’re right,” Juliette said tightly. “You do know. You know that all we do is take from each other, break each other’s hearts in turn and hope the next time won’t shatter us completely. When does it end, Roma? When will we realize that whatever sordid affair we have between us isn’t worth the death and the sacrifice and—”

“Do you remember what you said?” Roma interrupted. “That day in the alley, when I told you my father made me set the explosion.”

Of course she remembered. She was incapable of ever forgetting a single moment between them. Depending on how she looked at it, it was either a great talent or a mighty curse.

Juliette’s voice shrank to a whisper. “We could have fought him.”

Roma nodded. He swiped hard at his eye, getting rid of the moisture there. “Where has that attitude gone, Juliette? We keep bending to what the blood feud demands of us, letting go of what we want in fear that it will be taken first. Why must we wonder when this mutual destruction will end? Why don’t we fight it? Why don’t we just end it?”

A bitter laugh crept up from her lungs, echoing faintly into the room. “You pose questions that you know the answer to,” she said. “I am afraid.”

She was so damn afraid of being punished for her choices, and if it were easier to shut down, then why would she not? If there were an easier way to live, to choose ease over pain, how could she not?

But Juliette knew she was lying to herself. Once, she used to be braver than this.

Roma closed that final breath of space between them. His fingers grasped her chin, and he turned her gaze upon his. Juliette did not frighten, did not jolt out of the way. She knew his touch. Knew it to be gentle, even when it had tried being violent some few days or weeks or months ago.

“What are you afraid of?” Roma Montagov asked.

Juliette’s lips parted. She exhaled a short, abrupt breath. “The consequences,” she whispered, “of love in a city ruled by hate.”

Roma drew his hand away. He remained quiet. A terrified part of Juliette wondered if this was it; if they had reached the end of the line. Try as she might to tell herself they were better off if she and Roma were finished, that future flashed suddenly before her eyes—one without this love, one without this fight—and the sorrow almost cleaved her in two.

“Answer me something,” Roma said suddenly. His words sounded eerily familiar, and with delay, Juliette realized why. He was echoing her. He was echoing her that day behind the newspaper building, that day she had collapsed in the grass with hands just as bloody as the ones she held in front of her now. “Do you love me?”

Juliette felt her heart wrench. “Why are you asking?” she croaked. “Less than an hour ago, you wanted me dead.”

“I said I wanted you dead,” Roma confirmed. “I never said I didn’t love you.”

Juliette gave a weak splutter. “There’s a difference?”

“Yes.” His fingers twitched, like he was going to reach for her again. “Juliette—”

“I love you,” she whispered. And in echo of his words so many months ago, “I have always loved you. I’m sorry I lied.”

Roma was unmoving for one slow thud of a heartbeat. Their eyes locked, baring the truth their words left behind. And when Juliette’s lip started to tremble, Roma finally pulled her into a tight embrace—so tightly that Juliette squeaked, but she clutched him back just as fiercely. In the end, this was all that they were. Two hearts pressed as close as they dared, shadows melding into one by the flickering candlelight.

“I missed you, dorogaya,” he whispered against her ear. “I missed you so much.”



The city was in chaos, and yet Kathleen wandered the streets in some dreamlike trance, left alone by the workers with rifles, left alone by the gangsters with broadswords. It was as if they did not see her, but they did: she made eye contact with each and every one of them, and they merely looked onward, finding no reason to bother one lone girl walking like she had nowhere to be, hard shoes coming down on the rough pavement.

She didn’t know where to begin looking for Rosalind. She had tried the usual places, but the burlesque club was locked down and the restaurants were all barred. Their favorite shops were ransacked, windows smashed and doors torn straight off the hinges. Where else could Rosalind even go? What else could Kathleen do except walk the city and hope that some invisible string was pulling her to her sister?

Kathleen put one foot in front of the other. She had always had the skill to look like she belonged somewhere. Act like she had been invited in, because if she did not, then she would be waiting forever for an invitation that was not coming.

Who could have known that it would work during a revolution too?

“Ow!”

Kathleen turned around, thinking she heard a voice nearby. It sounded like a child, but why would a child be out during this time?

She turned the corner and identified the source of the cry—indeed, there was a little girl, sprawled along the sidewalk. The girl dusted herself off, awkwardly brushing her palms together, then shaking the folds of her skirt. Something about her tugged at Kathleen’s memory, but Kathleen couldn’t immediately recall why.

“Are you okay?” Kathleen hurried over and crouched down, the edges of her qipao brushing the dirty ground. It didn’t matter; at least then she would match with the stains on the girl.

“Is okay,” the girl said shyly. She showed Kathleen the gauze in her hands. “I was sent to fetch supplies. Wanna come?”

“Supplies?” Kathleen echoed. Who was sending a little girl for supplies in the middle of revolution? When she took too long to answer, the girl took her silence for a yes and looped their hands together, dragging Kathleen along.

A round of gunfire sounded from afar. Kathleen grimaced, then hurried the girl along, hoping they weren’t far from wherever they were going. The little girl didn’t protest their hastening speed; she trotted along gallantly, and when Kathleen ducked down suddenly, moving them into an alley to avoid a group of Nationalists, the girl said, “I like your hair.”

It was then that Kathleen finally recognized the kid, because she had said the very same thing in one of the Communist meetings. Suddenly it made much more sense. She was the child of workers. She was out here because there was nowhere else to be.

“I like yours too,” she replied. “Are we almost there?”

“Right here.”

They turned into the next alley. Where the others remained empty, this one hosted a whole group of workers—judging by their state of dress—and active workers in the uprising too, if their injuries were any indication. This was some rest area, some makeshift space of recuperation—workers leaning on the walls and clutching large gashes in their torso, some sitting and cupping a palm around a bloody eye. It was hard to see: the sun was starting to set, and the city was awash in a hazy orange. Colors blended together like a rain-stained paint palette, broken bodies and fading shadows looking exactly alike.

The little girl ran off, tasked with getting the gauze to wherever it was needed. Left now to her own devices, Kathleen kneeled beside a man some few years older than her, examining his bleeding forehead without being asked. That was the trick. Pretend that she had been assigned everywhere she went; avoid letting a single second of hesitation slip through.

“Who did this?” she asked. “Police or Scarlet?”

“What’s the difference?” the man retorted. “But neither. White Flower.” He pulled his knees closer to his chest and spat on the concrete beside him. “We’re close to taking almost all territories except Zhabei. The Russian bastards are putting up a hell of a fight there.”

Kathleen prodded his cheek. It was bruised too, but he would survive. Head wounds bled more seriously than they actually were.

“Are we really?” she remarked casually.

The man grew more wary then. He looked her up and down, a slower appraisal than the initial quick scan when Kathleen crouched beside him.

“You don’t look like you’re a part of the cause.”

Kathleen stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. She gave a thin smile. “And what do people of the cause look like?”

The man shrugged. “We don’t have clothes that nice, that’s for sure.”

When the sun went down on the city, the alley felt it immediately, felt the chill sweep in and set into the bones of those already hungry and tired. This was a place of final destinations. A place people were tossed when they could go on no longer, the fire dampened in their heart.

“And what do you have?” Kathleen asked. “Impatience? Exhaustion?”

The man jerked back, his head almost colliding with the rough brick of the wall. “How dare you—”

“Stand up,” Kathleen snapped. The night stirred around her, prickling to life by the bite of her voice. “You are sitting ducks here, waiting for slaughter.”

“But—”

“Stand up.”

Without her noticing, the rest of the alley had fallen quiet. The injured and tired were listening, watching Kathleen, watching this girl who had come out of nowhere but sounded just like one of them. She swiveled a slow turn on her heels, and though the moon was yet to grace the skies, her eyes could pick out each and every one of their expressions.

The man stood.

“Good,” Kathleen said. Her ears perked, hearing the sound of striking batons. Police—no matter under which jurisdiction, no matter under whose control. They were coming, and coming fast.

“Now.” She looked at the alley full of workers. “Are we going to lie down and die, or are we fighting to live?”

The gunfire continued into the night. Juliette had figured it would surely come to an end by twilight, but the sounds did not stop even when the candle burned out and the room fell into darkness, matching the dusk outside.

“It’s likely your White Flowers who are holding the fort here,” Juliette whispered, blowing at her hands. Her fingers were ice cold, but at least they were clean now, the blood scrubbed away.

“It’s a lost cause,” Roma said quietly. The thick of the fighting echoed from the north, which was White Flower territory. “The workers are armed. They outnumber the gangsters, and judging by the sounds outside . . . there could be hundreds of thousands throughout the whole city.”

Juliette leaned her head against the wall behind her. She and Roma were seated on the mattress, huddling among the blankets to brace against the cold. Through the boarded-up window, there was only a sliver of glass uncovered, letting in a beam of light that cut a line between the two of them.

She hoped her father and mother were safe. She hoped that the house was far enough in the outskirts of the city that it went unharmed, that the workers wouldn’t think to target the Scarlet Gang there and cut down the head of the dragon. It seemed unlikely, even if the workers hated gangsters. The Scarlet Gang had their alliance with the Nationalists, and the Nationalists and Communists were still allied on paper. If the Communists had a say in it, they would instruct the workers to stay far, far away from harming the Cais.

At least that was what Juliette was telling herself so she didn’t lose her mind from worry.

Juliette blew another hot breath onto her hands. Noting her discomfort, Roma shifted onto her side of the light beam and grasped her fingers. Juliette’s first instinct was to hold on to him. When Roma gave her a wry look, biting back his amusement, she loosened her grip, letting him rub her hands to get some warmth into them.

“Roma,” she said. “The chaos outside . . . It won’t just end tonight as it always does. It won’t go back to the way it was.”

Roma smoothed his thumb across her wrist. “I know,” he replied. “While we weren’t watching, we have lost power.”

While the Scarlet Gang and White Flowers were busy chasing a blackmailer, busy maintaining their business to stay atop each other, a third threat had risen quietly among the noise.

The gangsters still had weapons. People. Connections. But they would not have land to operate on. If the revolt outside was victorious, come morning, Shanghai would be a workers’ city. No longer under a false government, lawless for the gangsters to run amok. No longer a self-contained paradise for trade and violence.

“It seems so fruitless,” Juliette grumbled. “The Communists are armed, the workers are taking the city. There has been no monster attack, no madness. Perhaps it will come once the Communists clash with the Nationalists, but for all we know, this blackmailer was never even a threat upon our people. We kept chasing after monsters, and politics was what swept the rug from right under our feet.”

Roma’s hands stilled. By now Juliette’s fingers were plenty warm. Still, Roma didn’t let go. He held on.

“It’s not our fault,” he said. “We are heirs of a criminal underworld, not politicians. We can fight monsters, not the turning tide of a revolution.”

Juliette huffed, but she hardly had anything worthy of argument. She leaned toward Roma, and he let her settle against his chest.

“What are we to do, Roma?” she asked, her voice careful. “What are we to do when we get out of here?”

Roma made an inquisitive noise. She felt the vibration against her ear. “We survive. What else is there?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Juliette lifted her head, blinking into the hazy darkness. Roma smiled the moment he peered down and met her gaze, like it was an instinct. “What are we to do? On two sides of a feud, in a city that might crumble before our families stop killing each other.”

Roma was silent for a moment. Then he wrapped his arms around her and collapsed the both of them backward—him with a firm plop and Juliette with an ungainly noise, taken by surprise.

“This is warmer,” Roma explained, yanking the blankets over them.

Juliette lifted a brow. “Trying to get me into bed already?”

When Roma let out a soft laugh, it almost felt like the world would be okay. Juliette could fool herself into thinking the rounds of gunfire outside were fireworks, the same sort of celebration that had hurtled through the city during the New Year. They could pretend it was January again, revert back to a time when the city was still.

But even when it was still, it had been teetering toward something, on the brink of metamorphosis. Nothing was going to remain idle and unchanging when there was so much anger lurking just beneath the floating surface. The gangsters would no longer be the power in charge when the city outside fell quiet again, but the Scarlet Gang and the White Flowers would still be at war.

Juliette felt her heart sink right down to her stomach. She retrieved her hand from inside the blankets and brought it to Roma’s cheek.

“I wish we had been born as other people,” she whispered. “Born into ordinary lives, untouched by a blood feud.”

Roma’s hand came up too, curled loosely around hers to keep her touch remaining upon him. For a long while, he looked at her, taking in her eyes, her mouth, gaze roaming like he had once been starving and this now was a feast.

“No,” Roma finally said. “Then we would not have met. Then I would have lived an ordinary life, pining for some great love I would never find, because ordinary things happen to ordinary people, and ordinary people settle for something that satisfies them, never knowing if there would have been greater happiness in another life.” His voice was rough, but it was certain. “I will fight this war to love you, Juliette Cai. I will fight this feud to have you, because it was this feud that gave you to me, twisted as it is, and now I will take you away from it.”

Juliette searched his face, searched for any hint of hesitance. Roma didn’t waver.

“What pretty words,” she whispered. She tried to play it cool, but she knew Roma could hear her breathlessness.

“I mean them all,” Roma replied. “I would engrave them onto stone if that would have you believe me more.”

“I believe you.” Juliette finally let herself smile. “But you shall not engrave it onto stone, because I don’t need you to take me away from the feud. I’ll be running by your side.”

Roma rose onto his elbows. In a blink, he was hovering above her, their noses already brushing, lips so close that the proximity was itself a tangible sensation. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “Not of us. Not ever.”

His hand brushed her neck; his thumb smoothed across her jaw. Time seemed to crawl to a stop, creating a little pocket for just the two of them.

“I will stare fear in the face,” Juliette promised quietly. “I will dare to love you, Roma Montagov, and if the city cuts me down for it, then so be it.”

A beat passed. Another. Then Roma pressed his lips to hers with such ferocity that Juliette gasped, the sound immediately muffled when she pushed herself up and drew closer. Despite his burning energy, Juliette felt Roma’s mouth move with sincerity, felt his adoration while he trailed kisses all down her neck.

“Juliette,” he whispered. Both of their coats came off. Roma had the zip of her dress pulled in seconds too, and Juliette lifted her arms to accommodate. “My darling, darling Juliette.”

The dress fell to the floor. With some disbelief, Roma suddenly blinked, his eyes clearing for the briefest moment while she worked at his shirt buttons.

“Are you trying to impale me?” he asked, pulling the knife from the sheath around her thigh and setting it aside.

His shirt joined her dress on the floor. Juliette ripped the sheath off too, tossing it onto the pile.

“What’s a little light stabbing between lovers?”

Juliette had intended it as a joke, but Roma turned serious, gazing at her with his dark eyes. His hand had been curled around her elbow, but now he trailed his touch up her arm, drawing goose bumps in his wake. Juliette didn’t quite understand the hesitation until his fingers settled gingerly at her shoulder, tracing the newly healed wound there. The one he had made.

“Is it going to scar?” he whispered.

“Let it,” Juliette replied. “It’ll remind you that you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

A smile quirked at his lips, but still he didn’t let Juliette brush the matter away. What Juliette tried to shake off, to tamp down and forget, Roma hauled out into the light and forced them both to face. What Roma refused to combat, Juliette fought head-on, dragging them both into the scuffle. That was why they worked so well together. They balanced the other depending on what the other needed.

Roma leaned down. He brushed his face against hers, then pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, dorogaya.”

“Qīn’ài de,” Juliette whispered back, tucking an errant piece of his hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry too.”

She pulled Roma close once more, meeting his lips. It was hard to voice the extent of their penance, hard to put into words exactly how much they needed to apologize for the bloodshed between them. Instead, they begged for a lifetime of pardon from each other through touch, through tender caresses and pounding hearts raging in tandem.

With effort, Juliette finally managed to get Roma’s belt off. It hit the floor beside the mattress and clanked against her knife, striking a discordant sound that made Roma jump. Juliette let out a small laugh, cupping his face. “Well, don’t be nervous.”

In the dim moonlight, Roma arched a brow. “Nervous? Me?” He kissed her again, intent on proving it. And again, and again.

“Juliette,” he whispered eventually.

“Mhmm?”

“Is this okay?”

“It’s perfect.”

Outside, the night raged on, awash with warfare and terror. There was no telling when it would stop, when the shelling would cease and the picket lines would fall back. There was no telling if this city would ever be whole again. With each passing moment, the world could fall to pieces; with each passing moment, a total collapse approached, some inevitable finality that had been looming since the first lines of division were drawn in this city.

Juliette breathed out, sinking her hands into the sheets.

But that was not here yet. That was not the present; that was not this moment, this heartbeat of time locked in by heady breaths and gentle worship. It was distant to Juliette, and she would let it remain at a distance, so long as she could have this—here, now, perfect: her soul as boundless as the sea, her love as deep.