“She’s not in her room. I already checked.” Benedikt’s voice traveled up the staircase before he did, emerging with his hands buried in his hair.
“It’s hardly unusual,” Roma said.
“Yes.” Benedikt bit down on his cheeks, turning his face gaunt. “Yet I heard her yell.”
“Dimitri is right on one thing at least—there is plentiful yelling outside. The streets are rioting. I can hear yelling right now.”
But Benedikt only gave Roma an even look. “I know what Alisa’s voice sounds like.”
The certainty was what had Roma on edge. Acting on a sudden instinct, he made a sharp pivot for his room. He didn’t know why that was the first place he thought to check, but he did, easing his door open gently. Benedikt was close on his heels, peering in curiously too.
Three things became immediately apparent, one after the other. First: Roma’s room was freezing. Second: it was because his window had been pulled open. Third: there was a letter fluttering on the window ledge, pinned down by a thin blade.
A wave of goose bumps broke out all down Roma’s arms. Benedikt hissed in a breath, and when Roma didn’t make a move to go fetch it, he did the honors instead, tearing the blade out and unfolding the letter.
When he looked up, his face was void of blood.
“Moy dyadya samykh chestnykh pravil,” Benedikt read. “Kogda ne v shutku zanemog—”
He didn’t have to finish it. Roma knew the next two lines that were coming.
“On uvazhat’ sebya zastavil,” he intoned. “I luchshe vydumat’ ne mog.”
The opening verse to Eugene Onegin. Roma marched forward and took the letter, immediately crinkling the edges with his grip. Past the famous lines of poetry, the letter proceeded.
I hear dueling is the most noble way to kill someone. It’s about time this blood feud earned some nobility, don’t you think?
Meet me in a week’s time. And I’ll give her back.
And beneath the text, there was a flourish of a signature, leaving no doubt who had devised this masterful scheme.
“They have taken Alisa,” Roma rasped aloud to Benedikt, though Benedikt already knew. “Tyler Cai has taken Alisa.”
Twenty-Eight
Rosalind was awake, but she was unresponsive. At this point, Juliette was almost getting worried, wondering if the injuries had extended to her mind, too.
“Could you give us a moment?” Juliette called to the Scarlet standing by Rosalind’s bedroom door. He had his hands folded in front of him, rigid and on guard.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Cai,” he said. “Your father said to keep watch.”
“I’m already here keeping watch, so can’t we have some privacy?”
The Scarlet only shook his head. “Whatever information you extract has to go straight to Lord Cai.”
Juliette swallowed her huff of annoyance. “And does my own father suspect I would keep it from him?”
“Your father never suspected his niece, either, and yet here we are.”
Juliette stood up from her chair, her fists clenched. The Scarlet paused, eyeing her stance. It wasn’t as if Juliette’s trigger-happy fingers were unknown to the gang. They had all heard the stories, and they had all seen the results—what mattered now was whether he feared Juliette’s immediate threat more, or the eventual consequences of not following Lord Cai’s exact instructions.
“I will stand outside, with the door open a crack,” the Scarlet relented. He stepped out, and tugged at the door, the hinges squeaking.
Juliette flopped back into the plush chair. Rosalind had hardly blinked through the whole exchange. On any other day, she would have made some comment about Juliette being more bark than bite. Now she only stared, a glaze over her eyes.
Her cousin was in pain, Juliette knew. The wounds on Rosalind’s back were severe, and Kathleen had almost swooned at the sight when the doctor was dressing them last night. Juliette was torn between sympathy and frustration. Torn between absolute horror that this had happened and a complete lack of understanding over how this had happened. Perhaps it made her a bad person. A bad friend, a bad cousin. Even while Rosalind was like this, so pained and dazed that she was reduced to absolute silence, Juliette couldn’t help but feel betrayed that Rosalind had lied to her. And she didn’t know if it was because this city had hardened her or if her heart had always been like this—cold, brittle, turning away with the first sign of disloyalty. Juliette was a liar too. When it came to telling the truth, Juliette was perhaps the most corrupt of them all, but that didn’t stop her from flinching instinctively when she was dealt lies in response.
“I promised to protect you,” Juliette said quietly. “But not like this, Rosalind.”
No answer. She hadn’t expected one.
“It was copies of your correspondences that they dug up at the post office. That’s how you were found out. Not sightings, not rumors. Simple pen to paper and your handwriting.” Juliette blew out a frustrated breath. “Was the merchant business all false, then? Is there even a lover, or did you play spy for no reason?”
Suddenly, Rosalind’s eyes swiveled to Juliette, her gaze sharpening for the first time.
“You would have done the same,” Rosalind rasped.
Juliette sat up straighter. She looked to the door, to the slight gap left ajar. “What?”
“I love him,” Rosalind mumbled. A bead of sweat had broken out along her hairline. She was delirious, probably running a fever. “I love him, that is all.”
“Who?” Juliette demanded. “Rosalind, you must—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, almost slurring her words. “What does any of it matter? It is done. It is done.”
None of this was making any sense. Even if this lover was a White Flower, what was the point of protecting a regular member? What consequence would there be, short of having him on a Scarlet hit list? He couldn’t be high up. It certainly wasn’t Roma, and it wasn’t Benedikt. If not a Montagov, then why the torment? Why did Rosalind squeeze her eyes shut as if the world were bearing upon her?
A sudden knock on the door. Juliette jolted, her heart hammering in her chest as if she had gotten caught doing something bad. The Scarlet poked his head back in, scanning the scene. She expected him to remark on Rosalind’s mumblings, but instead:
“Telephone call for you, Miss Cai.”
Juliette nodded, then got to her feet, reaching out to pull Rosalind’s blankets a little higher. Rosalind hardly stirred. She only closed her eyes, shivering and shivering, even once Juliette left the room, shutting the door after herself.
“Don’t bother her,” she warned the Scarlet. “Let her sleep.”
“You’re going too easy on traitors,” he called after her.
Juliette thinned her lips, proceeding down the hallway. He was right. They were going too easy on her—Juliette was going too easy on her. And because Juliette had been the one to interrupt the whipping, her father would give the task to her just to teach her a lesson: if Rosalind gave no information soon, then it would be on Juliette to uncover why her cousin had betrayed them, by whatever means necessary.