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“Here is what we shall do,” Tyler started excitedly. Juliette cast a glance at her father, but he seemed content to merely consume his food. Since her return, Tyler had been finding every opportunity to upstage her, whether in conversation or through sidelong remarks. But each time, Lord Cai had stepped in to shut him down, to remind these aunts and uncles in as few words as possible to remember who the true heir was, to remember that this favoritism they were showing for Tyler would take them nowhere.
Only this time Lord Cai remained silent. Juliette didn’t know if he was abstaining because he found his nephew’s tactics to be laughable, or because he was actually taking Tyler seriously. Her stomach twisted, broiling with acid at the thought.
“—and it’s not as if the foreign powers can complain,” Tyler was saying. “If these deaths have been self-inflicted, it is a matter that could affect anyone. It is a matter of our people, who require our help to defend them. If we do not act now and take back the city for their sake, then what good are we? Are we to suffer another century of humiliation?”
The voices at the table sounded their approval. Grunts of praise; wrinkled, scarred thumbs stuck into the air; claps of esteem against Tyler’s shoulder. Only Mr. Li and her father were quiet, their faces held neutral, but that wasn’t enough. Juliette threw her utensils down, shattering her fine porcelain chopsticks into four pieces.
“You want to deliver yourself into White Flower territory?” She stood up, smoothed down her dress. “Be my guest. I’ll have a maid untangle your guts when they send them back in a box.”
With her relatives too shocked to protest, Juliette marched out of the kitchen. Her heart was thudding despite her calm demeanor, afraid that maybe this time she really had pushed it too far. As soon as she was in the hallway, she paused and glanced over her shoulder, watching the kitchen doors settle. The wood of those doors, imported from some distant nation, was carved with traditional Chinese calligraphy: poems that Juliette had memorized a long time ago. This house was a mirror of their city. It was a fusion of East and West, unable to let go of the old but desperate to mimic the new, and just like the city, the architecture of this house didn’t quite meld well with itself.
The beautiful but ill-fitted kitchen doors flew open again. Juliette barely flinched. She had expected this.
“Juliette. A word.”
It was only Tyler who had followed her out, a frown etched onto his face. He had the same pointed chin that Juliette had, the same single dimple at the lower-left corner of his lip that appeared in times of distress. How they looked so alike was beyond her. In every family portrait, Juliette and Tyler were always placed together, cooed at as if they were twins instead of cousins. But Juliette and Tyler had never gotten along. Not even in the cot, when they played with toy guns instead of real ones, and Tyler never missed a single wooden pellet aimed at Juliette’s head.
“What is it?”
Tyler stopped. He folded his arms. “What is your problem?”
Juliette rolled her eyes. “My problem?”
“Yes, your problem. It’s not amusing when you shut down my every idea—”
“You’re not stupid, Tyler, so stop acting like it,” Juliette interrupted. “I hate the Montagovs just as you do. We all hate them, so much that we bleed from it. But now is not the time to be waging a territory war. Not with our city already carved up by the foreigners.”
A beat passed.
“Stupid?”
Tyler had missed the point entirely, and yet he was offended. Her cousin was a boy with steel skin and a heart of glass. Ever since he lost both his parents too young, he had become this faux Scarlet anarchist, pretentious for the sake of it, wild within the gang for no reason, and because like called to like, his only friends were those who hung around hoping to shortcut a connection with the Cais. Everyone tiptoed around him, happy to throw choreographed punches and let him think himself powerful when each hit bounced off, but give him one sudden kick down his middle and he would shatter.
“I hardly think defending our livelihood is stupid,” Tyler went on. “I hardly think that reclaiming our country from those Russians—”
The problem was that Tyler thought his way was the only correct way. She wished she could find it in herself to not fault him. After all, Tyler was just like her; he wanted what was best for the Scarlet Gang. Only in his mind, he was what was best for the Scarlet Gang.
Juliette didn’t want to continue listening. She turned on her heel and started to leave.
Until her cousin snagged her by the wrist.
“What kind of an heir are you?”
Quick as a flash, Tyler slammed her into the wall. He kept one hand scrunched against her left sleeve and the rest of his arm splayed against her clavicle, pushing just enough to make a threat.
“Let me go,” Juliette hissed, jerking against his hold, “right now.”
Tyler did not. “The Scarlet Gang is supposed to be your first priority. Our people should be your first priority.”
“Watch yourself—”
“You know what I think it is?” Tyler breathed in, his nostrils flaring, deep wrinkles marring his face into absolute disgust. “I’ve heard the rumors. I don’t think you hate the Montagovs at all. I think you’re trying to protect Roma Montagov.”
Juliette became utterly still. It was not fear that overtook her, nor any sort
of intimidation that Tyler had sought to incite. It was indignation, and then hot, hot anger. She would tear Roma Montagov apart before she ever protected him again.
Her right hand jerked up—fist clenched, wrist hard, knuckles braced—and made centered, perfect contact with her cousin’s cheek. There was a moment when he could not react. A moment when Tyler was only blinking, the lines of his pale face trembling in shock. Then he stumbled, letting go of Juliette and whipping his head to look at her, hatred stamped into the hollows of his eyes. A red slash bruised the line of his cheekbone, the result of Juliette’s glittering ring scraping through skin.
