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Roma and Juliette had reached a peculiar sort of peace. It felt almost as if they were no longer enemies, and yet they were colder with each other than they had been before Mantua—far more stiff, more reserved. Juliette snuck a glance at Roma while they pushed their way through Chenghuangmiao, eyeing the way his hands were curled, the way he kept his elbows close to his core.
She hadn’t realized that they had gotten comfortable around each other until they were uncomfortable again.
“I’m not remembering wrong, am I?” sh
e asked aloud, aching to break the tension. “The Long Fa Teahouse is what Archibald Welch said?”
Juliette paused to inspect the shops they were passing, and in those few seconds, three shoppers rammed into her, one after the other. She wrinkled her nose, almost hissing out an exclamation before she stopped herself. Being invisible was better than being recognized, she supposed. It didn’t mean she enjoyed it, even if blending in with the bustling crowd in her drab coat and drabber hairstyle was doing her a huge favor.
“I cannot imagine why you would ask me for confirmation,” Roma replied. “I was on the floor.”
“Nothing wrong with scrubbing the floor once in a while. It shows your humility.”
Roma did not laugh. She hadn’t expected him to. Silently she gestured for them to proceed before the shoppers here could bowl them over and recognize their faces.
“Come on, floor-scrubber.”
Juliette set off, her stride purposeful. They passed the cream sellers and the puppet shows, then walked by the whole row of xiaolóngbao stores without once pausing to inhale the steam that smelled like delicious meats. They wound their way around the yelling performers and ducked beneath the archway leading into the central hustle and bustle of Chenghuangmiao, and there, Roma stopped suddenly, squinting ahead.
“Juliette,” Roma said. “It’s that one.”
She nodded, gesturing for them to hurry that way. The Long Fa Teahouse sat near the ponds and to the left of the zigzag Jiuqu Bridge, a five-floor construction with an extravagant roof curving at its gold-lined edges. The building had probably been standing since China was first ruled by emperors in the Forbidden City.
Roma and Juliette stepped through the open doors of the teahouse, lifting their feet over the raised section framing the doorway. They paused.
“Up?” Roma asked, peering around the ground level, empty save for one stool tucked in the corner.
“Top floor,” Juliette reminded.
They climbed the stairs. Floor after floor, they passed customers and servers, activity spilling over the edges as orders were shouted and bills were thrown forward. But when Juliette stomped her way up the last staircase, arriving at the top floor with Roma close on her heels, they found only one tall wooden door blocking them from anything on the other side.
“Is this it?”
“It must be,” Roma replied. Hesitantly, he reached out with the back of his hand and knocked.
“Come in.”
A British accent. Low, rumbly, like they had a bit of a cold or a nasal infection.
Roma and Juliette exchanged a glance. Roma shrugged and mouthed, May as well.
Juliette cracked open the door. Her brow immediately furrowed with what she found: a tiny space—no more than ten paces across. In the center of the room, a desk was laid out, though half of it was covered by an enormous white curtain that stretched to the ceiling. By the light filtering through the window, Juliette could make out a silhouette behind the curtain, his feet placed upon his desk and his arms tucked behind his head.
“Welcome to my office, Miss Cai and Mr. Montagov,” the Larkspur said. He spoke like he had gravel lodged in his throat. Juliette wondered if it was his true voice, or if it was feigned. And if it was feigned… why? “I can’t say I was expecting you, and I usually take meetings by appointment only, but come in, come in.”
Juliette slowly strode toward the desk. On closer examination, as she peered at the wall behind the Larkspur, she realized that it was not a wall—it was merely a temporary divider. This “room” was as large as all the floors below. Behind the divider, the rest was surely the lab Archibald Welch had mentioned.
The Larkspur thinks he’s being so sneaky, Juliette thought, eyeing the line where the divider met the ceiling. He should learn to do a better paint job.
“Come, sit,” the Larkspur bellowed. Through the curtain, the outline of his arm showed him gesturing at the seats before him. However, his arm’s silhouette would split the moment it came close to the curtain.
Juliette narrowed her eyes. She searched for a second source of refracted light behind the curtain that would create such an effect and found her answer upon the wall, where a mirror half faced the ceiling instead of the onlooker. It offered the illusion of decoration, but all it took was a glance up to where the mirror pointed and the discovery of another mirror to reveal the truth.
They couldn’t see the Larkspur, but he could certainly see them.
“We won’t take up much of your time,” Roma assured. He sat down first. Juliette followed his lead, though she only perched on the edge of her seat, ready for a quick getaway.
“It’s about your vaccine,” Juliette said tightly. She did not have time to play around. “How are you making it?”
