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“Do you wish to save Alisa, or not?”
Roma fell quiet. He clenched his fists, and Juliette couldn’t tell if it was in reaction over her reminder about Alisa, or if it was to resist reaching out and strangling her. Mr. Qi returned right on cue, with a teapot and three round teacups balanced in his frail arms. Wasting no time, Juliette shot to her feet and asked for the washroom. Mr. Qi absently pointed down the hallway while he placed the cups onto the table, and Juliette flounced off, leaving Roma to glare daggers after her as he started making up a story on the spot about the founding of Shanghai University’s Communist union club, which neither of them were actually sure existed. It was his problem now. Juliette had bigger fish to fry.
With her ears perked to ensure Roma was still rambling on about socialist solidarity, Juliette paused at the end of the dilapidated hallway. There were four doors: one wide open into the washroom, two propped ajar and leading into bedrooms, and the fourth shut tight, unyielding when Juliette jiggled the knob lightly. If Zhang Gutai had anything to hide, it would be behind this door.
Juliette braced, then smacked the flat of her palm so hard upon the knob that the simple lock clicked out of commission. Freezing for a brief second, Juliette waited to see if Mr. Qi would come running. When there w
as no interruption in Roma’s spiel, she turned the knob and slipped through the door.
Juliette looked around.
There was a red flag with a yellow hammer-and-sickle stretched across one of the walls. Beneath it, a large desk was overflowing with folders and textbooks, but Juliette didn’t waste time scanning it when she approached. She dropped to her knees and pulled at the bottom drawer along the side of the desk. Immediately, the first thing she saw was her own face, and though the paper was flimsy and thin, the press of ink crooked, the rendering of her features completely awry and miscalculated, it was undoubtedly still her under a heading proclaiming RESIST THE SCARLET GANG.
“Interesting,” Juliette muttered, “but not what I’m looking for.”
She pushed the posters aside and dug deeper. All she found were papers upon papers of propaganda that had no relevance to her, smeared ink written with inciting terror in mind.
In the second drawer, however, she discovered envelopes, all embellished with the scrawls of thick ink nibs that spoke of power and wealth. Juliette thumbed through them quickly, throwing aside invitations from Kuomintang politicians and thinly veiled threats from bankers and businessmen, throwing aside anything that looked vaguely like it could waste her time. Her attention was snagged only when she came upon a little white square, an envelope far smaller than the others. Unlike the rest, it did not have a return address.
Instead, it had one little purple flower in the corner, pressed in by a custom-made rubber stamp.
“A larkspur,” Juliette whispered, recognizing the image of the flower. She scrambled to retrieve the paper inside the envelope. It was merely a small slip of script, typewritten and snipped to fit.
It was a pleasure to meet and discuss business.
Let me know if you change your mind.
—Larkspur
For a long moment Juliette could only stare at the note, her pulse pounding. What did it mean? What were all these pieces, part of a bigger puzzle, floating separate to each other but so clearly made to be joined?
Juliette shoved the envelope back in and slammed the drawer shut. She smoothed down her dress and, before any more time could pass to incite suspicion over her absence, she strode out of the office, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
She took two very deep breaths. Her heartbeat leveled down to its usual rate.
“—and really, our goals extend much further beyond revolution,” Roma was saying when she casually wandered back into the sitting room. “There’s planning to be done, opponents to eliminate.”
“All of which require resources much bigger than ourselves, of course,” Juliette interjected, settling back onto the couch. She smiled wide enough that her canines slid over her bottom lip. “Now, where were we?”
* * *
“Zhu Liye.”
Juliette jerked to attention, eyes narrowing as she looked upon Roma. She had to squint because the sun was glaring brightly behind his head, flaring rays that illuminated him into overt clarity while they walked down the pavement.
“Are you still on about the names?”
“No, I—” Roma made a sound that could have been a chuckle, if not for the hostility. “I just understood. You translated Juliette into Chinese. Ju-li-ette. Zhu Liye.”
Roma had clearly been musing over that specific conundrum since the moment they left Zhang Gutai’s apartment. After quickly telling him what she found in the office, Juliette had been content to walk without conversation as they picked their way back down to the streets. Roma had seemed compliant to the example Juliette set, until now.
“Nice detective work,” Juliette intoned. She hopped down from the sidewalk to avoid a puddle, her heels clicking onto the road. Roma followed closely.
“I actually—” Roma tilted his head to the side. It was almost birdlike in the way he did it—quick and curious and void of ulterior motive. “I don’t know your Chinese name.”
Juliette’s eyes narrowed. “Does it matter?”
“I’m only being civil.”
