Six

Six

The second floor of the teahouse had been booked out tonight for the Scarlet inner circle meeting. All its square tables were pushed to the wall, making way for the large round one installed right in the center of the space.

Juliette thought it looked a little like a barricade. She took a sip of her tea, peering over the rim while she eyed the setup, wary that some poor waiter was going to trek up the stairs to check on the Scarlets only to ram right into the table that was blocking the end of the stairs. All the windows had been left untouched—though for teahouses like this, “window” was hardly the right word when they never installed glass. They were merely closed using wooden shutters, drawn when the teahouse went dark for the night and pulled open during its operating hours. The frigid cold blew in every so often, but alcohol was flowing at the table, and the oil lamps in the corner were buzzing with warmth.

Still, for whatever reason, Juliette’s eyes kept being pulled back to the barricade of tables pressed to the walls, and then up, where the walls gave way for the rectangular cutouts that let in the night. In here, there was the illusion of comfort and safety. But all that stood between them and the lurking unknown was a thin teahouse wall. All that stood between them and five monsters prowling the city was . . . well, nothing, really.

“Juliette.”

Lord Cai’s summons drew Juliette’s attention back to the Scarlet dinner, to the cigar smoke that wafted in gray plumes above them and the clinking of chopsticks upon porcelain bowls. Her father tipped his chin at her, indicating that he was finished with his agenda and she could speak now, as she had requested earlier today.

Juliette set her teacup down and stood. The tablecloth stirred, but before it could get caught on her dress, Rosalind reached over and yanked it down.

“Thanks,” Juliette whispered.

Rosalind responded by flicking a single grain of rice off the tablecloth, aiming it at the seats directly across from them. She almost hit Tyler, although he wouldn’t have noticed a puny piece of rice landing in his lap when he was eyeing Juliette so intently. Perhaps it was only his bruised nose causing the scrunch in his expression. Perhaps he was already preparing himself for a fight, and the distaste was showing through.

“Here.” From Rosalind’s other side, Kathleen passed the stack of papers she had been holding on to. Juliette received the papers, then set them carefully onto the spinning glass, on an empty spot right between the sauce-soaked crabs and smoked fish.

“I’m sure by now you have all heard about the attack on the White Flowers.” The table hushed at the mention of the White Flowers. “And I’m sure you’ve wondered if we are to be next, again at the mercy of another monster.”

Juliette spun the glass. The feast swirled under the lights: shimmering green qīngcài, deep brown hóngshāo ròu, and the plain black-and-white ink of what could save them.

“This is the last vestige of research that Paul Dexter left behind. You might also know him as the former Larkspur—now dead from my bullet.” Juliette drew herself taller, though her spine was already as straight as a blade. “It may be some time before we can stop whoever has resurrected his work. But in the meantime, I propose we use his work. We allocate our resources toward research, mass-produce a vaccine, and distribute it through the whole city. . . .” Now came the part where Juliette actually needed support, past merely making a case with her father. “For free.”

Eyebrows shot up immediately, teacups freezing halfway to mouths as Scarlets stalled and blinked, wondering if they had misheard her.

“It is a preemptive measure before the Scarlet Gang can be attacked,” Juliette hurried to explain. “Regardless of who you are—Scarlet or White Flower, Nationalist or Communist or nonaffiliated—if we all stand immune to the madness, then whichever fool is trying to play at the new Larkspur loses every shred of power. In one fell swoop, we protect the city and keep everything the way it is, at no threat from a destroyer.”

“I have an alternate proposal.” Tyler stood. He rested his knuckles on the table before him, his body relaxed, an utterly casual picture compared to Juliette’s stiff composure.

Rosalind leaned forward. “Why don’t you—”

“Rosalind, don’t,” Kathleen hissed, closing a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Lips thinning, Rosalind sat back again, and Tyler went on as if nothing had happened.

“If we can truly create a vaccine, it is in our best interest to charge anyone who is not a Scarlet. The Larkspur was a fool in many things, but in this, he was not. The people are scared. They will do anything for a solution.”

“Absolutely not,” Juliette snapped, before any of the Scarlets could decide that Tyler’s interruption meant their opinion should be heard by the whole table too. “This is not a show ticket. This is a vaccine that decides between life and death.”

“And what about it?” Tyler asked. “You wish for us to protect the White Flowers? Protect the foreigners who do not even see us as people? The last time the madness went around, Juliette, they did not care until it was them who were dying, because a Chinese collapsing on the streets may as well be an animal—”

“I know!”

Juliette inhaled sharply, regaining her poise. She had to get her points in quick. Her mother’s jaw was tight, watching the argument spiral, and if it deteriorated any further, Lady Cai was going to shut this down.

Juliette breathed out. Let the brief silence ebb around her, so that she was in control of the conversation and not desperately chasing the end of it.

“It is not about extending our kindness to those in the city who don’t deserve it,” she said. “It is about mass protection.”

Tyler pushed off from the table and plopped back onto his seat. He hung an arm along the back of his chair while Juliette remained standing.

“Why do we need mass protection?” Tyler asked, scoffing. “Let us make money. Let us rise so impenetrably to the top that we are untouchable, and then, as we have always done, we extend protection to our people. To the Scarlets. Everyone else falling away matters not. Everyone else dying out is to our advantage.”

“You would be risking Scarlet lives in the process. You cannot guarantee their safety like that.”

Despite her unflinching insistence, Juliette could feel her credibility slipping away. She was trying to stake her logic on the sanctity of one life saved as something worthy of all sacrifice, but this was the Scarlet Gang, and the Scarlet Gang did not care for such sentimental notions.

One of the Scarlets seated beside Lord Cai cleared his throat. Seeing that it was Mr. Ping, who Juliette usually liked, she looked to him and nodded, prompting him to go on.

“Where is the funding going to come from?” Mr. Ping asked. He winced. “Surely not us?”

Juliette threw her arms up. Why else would she bother to stand here, bleating the advantages of a free vaccine, if not for the funds of the Scarlet Gang’s inner circle? “We can afford it.”

Mr. Ping’s eyes darted about the table. He mopped his damp forehead. “We are not a charity for the weak and poor.”

“This is a city built on labor,” Juliette said coldly. “If madness tears through the streets once again, we are only as safe as the weakest and poorest. They fall, and we fall too. Do you forget who runs your factories? Do you forget how your shops open every morning?”

The table fell silent, but nobody jumped to put in their acknowledgment of her point. They merely shifted their gazes away and remained mum, until the silence extended for long enough that Lady Cai was forced to tap her fingers on the spinning glass and say, “Juliette, take a seat, would you? Perhaps this would be a better discussion once we actually make a vaccine.”

A beat later, Lord Cai nodded his agreement. “Yes. We shall decide if this research proves useful. Run it to the lab in Chenghuangmiao tomorrow and see what we can find.”

Begrudgingly, Juliette nodded her acceptance of the decision and eased back into her seat. Her mother was quick to change the topic and put the Scarlets at ease again. As Juliette reached for the teapot, her eyes met Tyler’s across the table, and he grinned.

“Allez, souris!” he said. His fast switch into French was to prevent the other Scarlets from understanding him, save for Rosalind and Kathleen, but even without knowing what he was saying, anyone could tell by his manner, his expression, his tone that he was goading Juliette and announcing his victory in a tug-of-war for favor. The simple fact that he had not been shot down on an idea that went starkly against Juliette’s, that her parents seemed to consider it on equal basis—indeed, Tyler had won.

“Je t’avertis . . . ,” Juliette snapped.

“What?” Tyler shot back, still in French. “You’re warning me of what, dearest cousin?”

It took everything in Juliette not to pick up her teacup and throw it right at him. “Stop playing god upon my plans. Stop intruding upon matters that have naught to do with you—”

“Your plans are always flawed. I am trying to help you out,” Tyler interrupted. His smile fell, and Juliette tensed, reading immediately what was coming next. “Look at how your last one turned out. In your whole time tricking the White Flower heir, what information did you gather from him?”

Under the table, Juliette dug her long nails hard into her palms, releasing all her tension through her hands so that her expression would not give her away. He suspected. He had always suspected, long before she told her lie in that hospital, but then Juliette had shot Marshall Seo, and Tyler had had to reevaluate his instincts, unable to align why she would have killed Marshall if she was truly Roma Montagov’s lover.

Except Marshall was alive. And all along, Tyler had been right. But if he knew this, then Juliette’s role as the heiress was over, and Tyler would not even have to lead a coup. He only had to tell the truth, and the Scarlets would fall in line behind him.

“You ruined my plan, Tyler,” Juliette said evenly. “You forced me to give myself away too early. I worked so hard to gain his trust, and I had to throw it away lest you misunderstood me. You’re lucky I haven’t tattled to my parents about your uselessness.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed. His gaze flickered to Lord and Lady Cai, realizing that her parents did not have the full picture of the hospital, just like the rest of the city. It would have been impossible to keep the rumors away from them, but as far as they knew, Juliette and Tyler had shown up to that White Flower confrontation as a united force.

The thought was almost laughable. But it didn’t raise questions.

“Lucky,” Tyler echoed. “Sure, Juliette.” With a brief shake of his head, he turned away, engaging with the aunt beside him in Shanghainese.

Juliette, however, couldn’t lapse back into the casual socializing at the table. Her ears were a roar of noise, head buzzing with the threat lining every word of that conversation. There were goose bumps all along her neck, and even as she pulled her dress tighter around herself, clutching at the fur around her throat, she could not fool herself into thinking that it was merely the cold blowing in.

It was fear. She was deathly afraid of the power Tyler held over her after what he had witnessed at that hospital. Because he was right: he really did have reason to uproot her. Tyler would do all in his power to ensure the survival of the Scarlet Gang, while Juliette no longer had a single desire to be fighting the blood feud, not when it was so damn pointless. Let them both voice their truths to Lord Cai, and who would he choose to be heir?

Juliette reached for the liquor bottle passing on the spinning glass and poured a splash into her teacup. Without caring who was watching her, she choked it down.

“You’re hitting too high.”

Roma jabbed Alisa in the armpit, and she yelped, darting back several steps. Her scowl was half-hearted, shoulders coming up to her ears as she hunched into herself. Roma resisted his sigh, only because he knew Alisa would be annoyed if he seemed irritated by her slow progress.

“You said you were teaching me self-defense,” she grumbled, smoothing down her hair.

“I am.”

“You’re just—” Alisa waved around her hands, trying to imitate Roma’s fast movements. “It’s not very helpful.”

A breeze floated in from Alisa’s window, and Roma walked toward it, pulling down the pane to keep the cold out. He didn’t say anything as he huffed a breath onto the glass. He only blew until there was considerable mist, and then with his finger, he drew a little face that was smiling.

“Is that supposed to be motivating?” Alisa asked, watching over his shoulder.

He reached over to pinch her cheeks. “It’s supposed to be you. Tiny and annoying.”

Alisa smacked his hands away. “Roma.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t like spending time with his sister, but he had a suspicion she was asking for these lessons only to distract him from his other tasks. And it wasn’t that he didn’t like hanging around with his sister instead of tending to his other tasks, but he was also sure the little scamp had schemed this up only to prevent him from guarding their territory lines, not because she actually wanted to learn how to punch an attacker.

“This is very important, you know,” Alisa said now, as if she could sense where his train of thought was going. “I was in a coma for so long. I cannot be weak! I must know how to punch bad men!”

A thump came through the floor. It was either a sitting room in the house growing too raucous, or someone on the level below throwing knives at the wall. Roma heaved an exhale, then positioned Alisa, making her hold her arms out.

“Okay. Try again then. Keep your fist tight.”

Alisa tried again. And again. And again. No matter what she did, her blocks were flimsy and her efforts at striking Roma when he pretended to grab her were soft and wobbly.

“Why don’t we stop here?” Roma said eventually.

“No!” Alisa exclaimed. She stamped her foot down. “You haven’t taught me how to hit. Or shoot! Or catch a knife!”

“Catch a . . .” Roma trailed off, flabbergasted. “Why do you want to—you know what, never mind.” He shook his head. “Alisochka, no one learns how to fight in one day.”

Alisa folded her arms, storming over to her bed and collapsing in a flurry of movement. Her sheets flew up and settled down around her like a white aura.

“I bet Juliette learned to fight in one day,” she grumbled.

Roma froze. He felt his blood flash hot, then cold, then somehow both at once—a simultaneous broiling fury paired with a frozen fear just at the mere sound of her name.

“You shouldn’t want to be anything like Juliette,” he snapped. He wanted to believe it. If he said it enough times, maybe he would. Maybe he could look past the illusions she glimmered with, look underneath the wide eyes she blinked at him even as she spilled blood at his feet. No matter how brightly she shone, Juliette’s heart had turned as charred as coal.

“I know,” Alisa muttered, matching Roma’s tone. She was grumpy now because it sounded like Roma was grumpy at her, and Roma swallowed his anger, knowing it was misdirected. It prickled at him that he had become so easily irritable, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. The red-hot urge to be terrible was always pulling at his skin, easier to slip into than ignore.

Roma rolled up his sleeves, checking the clock on her mantel. Alisa seemed content to have a little brooding moment, so he walked over and poked her belly. “I’m needed elsewhere. We can pick up another time.”

“Okay.” Another low grumble, her arms folded tightly. “Don’t die.”

His brow lifted. He’d expected Alisa to protest, to ask again why he needed to be on the streets and watching their territory lines. But all these months singing the same tune had tired her out.

“I won’t.” He prodded her again. “Practice your stances.”

Roma left her room, closing the door behind himself. The fourth floor was quieter than usual, void of the thumping that had been heard earlier. Perhaps they too had tired of trying to learn to throw a knife.

I bet Juliette learned to fight in one day.

Damn Juliette. It wasn’t enough that she had to occupy his thoughts, sunken into his very bones. It wasn’t enough that she had to appear in the city everywhere he needed to go, trailing him like a shadow. She had to come into his home as well, graced across White Flower lips like the final frontier of her invasion.

“Where are you off to?”

Roma’s stride didn’t stop as he came off the stairs. “That would be none of your business.”

“Wait,” Dimitri demanded.

Roma didn’t need to. Nothing was preventing him from treating Dimitri Voronin however he wished, turning the tables until the whole house was dizzy, because Dimitri Voronin had gotten comfortable as the favorite, and now Roma had decided he wanted the whole Scarlet Gang dead after all. So many years spent trying to balance being the heir and being good, and with one snap of his fingers, the goodness gave way for violence, and Lord Montagov had liked the look of it. Being a White Flower was about playing the game. And Roma was finally playing.

“What is it?” Roma asked dully, making an exaggerated show of slowing down and turning around.

Dimitri, who was sitting on one of the plush green couches, stared forward curiously, his fingers tapping on the back of the couch, one foot resting against his other knee.

“Your father wants your audience,” Dimitri reported. He flashed an easy smile. A lock of black hair fell forward into his face. “Whenever you’re ready. He has some matters to discuss.”

Roma’s eyes darted up, following another outburst of sound from within the house, the ceiling shifting and trembling from some second-floor commotion. It might even be coming from his father’s office.

“He can be patient,” Roma said.

With Dimitri’s gaze still pinned on him, Roma pulled the front door open and swept outside.