Rosalind nodded gingerly. “It’s what the insects were first found floating in, so it’s what brings them out. Alcohol was what the Frenchmen used the most. A few drops was enough—it didn’t have to be concentrated.”
Benedikt spun around, seeking Juliette’s gaze. “How are we supposed to find enough alcohol? How are we supposed to find alcohol at all?”
Restaurants were closed. Cabarets were closed. The places that weren’t locked by iron and chain were already ransacked and robbed.
“We don’t need to,” Juliette said. She looked out the window, to that one section she had freed, letting in the street outside. “A car’s gasoline has the same effect.”
A sudden shriek came from afar, and Juliette jumped, her hand coming to her heart. Rosalind, too, leaped to her feet, but then the sound faded just as quickly as it came, and Rosalind looked unsure what to do, hovering by the chair. She was too proud to give voice to the pain in her eyes. She was not quite cold enough to avoid Juliette’s eyes completely and let her believe otherwise.
“Go, Rosalind,” Juliette said quietly. “There will be more chaos on the streets in a few hours.”
Rosalind thinned her lips. Slowly, she reached around her neck and unclasped the necklace she had been wearing, setting it upon the table. It looked dull in the weak light. Nothing more than a slab of metal.
“Did you tell the Scarlets?” Rosalind asked. Her voice was feather-soft. “Did you tell them that I am responsible for the new monsters?”
Juliette should have. She had had the time and the opportunity. If she had offered Dimitri’s name as Rosalind’s lover, then revealed Dimitri as the blackmailer, Rosalind’s crimes against the Scarlet Gang would be far more severe than mere blood-feud spying.
“No.”
Rosalind’s face was unreadable. “Why not?”
Because she didn’t want to. Because she didn’t want to accept it. Because she had made such a habit out of lying and withholding, what was one more?
Out of the corner of her eye, Juliette knew that Benedikt was watching her. “Go, Rosalind,” she said again.
At last, Rosalind took the cue and walked to the door. Her hand was already upon it when she faltered, when she looked over her shoulder and swallowed hard.
“Is this the last time I’ll see you?”
There was too much in that one, quiet question. Would Rosalind go home? After everything she had done, after everything they had done to her, could she return?
And if she did, would Juliette ever return home?
“I don’t know,” Juliette replied honestly.
Rosalind watched her for a moment longer. Her eyes might have filled up. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking on Juliette’s part. Perhaps it was just Juliette’s own eyes that had grown slick with moisture.
Rosalind walked out without another word.
The rain slowed, then stopped, its last few droplets coming down on the bodies with a dull finality. Hands with the pallor of death were collapsed atop one another, the rot and stink of their shriveling skin shrouding the air.
Celia wasn’t sure if she was dead or alive. She was buried beneath so much suffering, cloistered under unmoving corpses. Pain throbbed down her torso, but her thoughts were so fragmented that she almost wasn’t sure if it was from a bullet wound or merely a physical manifestation of her internal agony; deep down, she had foolishly thought she was safe from slaughter, that violence only came for the masses. At last, it seemed she had succeeded in becoming one of them. A Scarlet would never be suffering like this. A Scarlet would have made it quick, like Mr. Ping taking one of the first bullets, or stayed far away from such tumult.
What is there now? Celia wondered.
Then someone was grabbing at her. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Celia turned her head, opening her eyes from the darkness of her burial to a sudden flash of light: a streetlamp, burning above her. Before her vision cleared, she guessed the silhouette pulling at her to be an angel, some hazy being come to ease the horrors of war. Then a fresh wave of pain erupted down her side, and her mind snapped back in place, her chin jerking up. It was no angel come to save her.
It was her sister.
“How are you here?” Celia gasped.
Rosalind already had wet streaks down her cheeks, glinting under the light, but when she paused, having freed Celia from the bodies, she burst into fresh tears, hands tapping around Celia’s shoulders, checking for immediate wounds. There was only one: the growing stain at her side.
“How can you ask that?” she said, sniffling. “I ran for the street that everyone said had suffered a massacre. I came looking for you.”
Celia bit down on her gasp of pain, complying when Rosalind tried to pull her to her feet. She swayed, unable to set any weight down, but Rosalind’s arms were accommodating, taking the brunt of her balance. Though Celia’s head spun, she still sighted red marks along Rosalind’s wrists, vivid and angry.
“Can you walk?” Rosalind asked. “Come on. Any longer and you’ll bleed out.”
Celia put one foot in front of the other. It was a staggering, exhausting effort, but it was an effort, nonetheless.
“Thank you, jiějiě.” When the breeze blew into her face, Celia wasn’t sure if she felt coldness because there was blood smeared on her cheeks or if she had started crying too. “Thank you for coming back for me.”
Rosalind tightened her grip. She kept pushing them forward even while Celia swayed, phasing in and out of consciousness.
“I want you to think of Paris,” Rosalind ordered. It was an attempt to keep Celia awake, to keep her focused even as her senses grew weak. “Think of the speakeasies, the lights in the distance. Think about seeing them once more, when the world is no longer so dark.”
“Will there ever come a day?” Celia whispered. Her vision blurred. Her surroundings tunneled, colors bleeding into monochrome.
A stifled noise came from Rosalind. Up ahead, the silver of a building flashed, and Rosalind stumbled them forward, step by step by step. This was Rosalind’s silent promise into the world. She would have her sister see another day. She would have her sister see all the days and more, each and every one of them rising from the horizon.
“I ruined us all for a love not true,” Rosalind whispered. “At the very least, I can still save you.”
Forty-Seven
The sun was setting.
In Zhabei, the streets were starting to fill with people again, so Juliette and Benedikt found no trouble hurrying through, passing soldiers without a second glance. The Nationalists could try as they wanted to keep this city under lock and key, but it was always too full, brimming with activity, and at the slightest whisper of a commotion, the people came out to seek it. Whispers were flying about the public execution. Word traveled fast among the workers, among the civilians who wanted a show, never mind where the political tide in this city turned. The only question was whether the Kuomintang had caught wind too. As nice as it would be if Dimitri Voronin was arrested and hauled in, Juliette had to hope that the Nationalists didn’t show up. Because then the Montagovs would be arrested alongside Dimitri, or simply shot.
“He gave you just one?” Benedikt asked now, his breath coming fast.