He didn’t have to say it aloud. They both knew. Nurse. He was talking about Nurse, and the explosion at the Scarlet house.
“You’re right,” Juliette said tightly. “You do know. You know that all we do is take from each other, break each other’s hearts in turn and hope the next time won’t shatter us completely. When does it end, Roma? When will we realize that whatever sordid affair we have between us isn’t worth the death and the sacrifice and—”
“Do you remember what you said?” Roma interrupted. “That day in the alley, when I told you my father made me set the explosion.”
Of course she remembered. She was incapable of ever forgetting a single moment between them. Depending on how she looked at it, it was either a great talent or a mighty curse.
Juliette’s voice shrank to a whisper. “We could have fought him.”
Roma nodded. He swiped hard at his eye, getting rid of the moisture there. “Where has that attitude gone, Juliette? We keep bending to what the blood feud demands of us, letting go of what we want in fear that it will be taken first. Why must we wonder when this mutual destruction will end? Why don’t we fight it? Why don’t we just end it?”
A bitter laugh crept up from her lungs, echoing faintly into the room. “You pose questions that you know the answer to,” she said. “I am afraid.”
She was so damn afraid of being punished for her choices, and if it were easier to shut down, then why would she not? If there were an easier way to live, to choose ease over pain, how could she not?
But Juliette knew she was lying to herself. Once, she used to be braver than this.
Roma closed that final breath of space between them. His fingers grasped her chin, and he turned her gaze upon his. Juliette did not frighten, did not jolt out of the way. She knew his touch. Knew it to be gentle, even when it had tried being violent some few days or weeks or months ago.
“What are you afraid of?” Roma Montagov asked.
Juliette’s lips parted. She exhaled a short, abrupt breath. “The consequences,” she whispered, “of love in a city ruled by hate.”
Roma drew his hand away. He remained quiet. A terrified part of Juliette wondered if this was it; if they had reached the end of the line. Try as she might to tell herself they were better off if she and Roma were finished, that future flashed suddenly before her eyes—one without this love, one without this fight—and the sorrow almost cleaved her in two.
“Answer me something,” Roma said suddenly. His words sounded eerily familiar, and with delay, Juliette realized why. He was echoing her. He was echoing her that day behind the newspaper building, that day she had collapsed in the grass with hands just as bloody as the ones she held in front of her now. “Do you love me?”
Juliette felt her heart wrench. “Why are you asking?” she croaked. “Less than an hour ago, you wanted me dead.”
“I said I wanted you dead,” Roma confirmed. “I never said I didn’t love you.”
Juliette gave a weak splutter. “There’s a difference?”
“Yes.” His fingers twitched, like he was going to reach for her again. “Juliette—”
“I love you,” she whispered. And in echo of his words so many months ago, “I have always loved you. I’m sorry I lied.”
Roma was unmoving for one slow thud of a heartbeat. Their eyes locked, baring the truth their words left behind. And when Juliette’s lip started to tremble, Roma finally pulled her into a tight embrace—so tightly that Juliette squeaked, but she clutched him back just as fiercely. In the end, this was all that they were. Two hearts pressed as close as they dared, shadows melding into one by the flickering candlelight.
“I missed you, dorogaya,” he whispered against her ear. “I missed you so much.”
The city was in chaos, and yet Kathleen wandered the streets in some dreamlike trance, left alone by the workers with rifles, left alone by the gangsters with broadswords. It was as if they did not see her, but they did: she made eye contact with each and every one of them, and they merely looked onward, finding no reason to bother one lone girl walking like she had nowhere to be, hard shoes coming down on the rough pavement.
She didn’t know where to begin looking for Rosalind. She had tried the usual places, but the burlesque club was locked down and the restaurants were all barred. Their favorite shops were ransacked, windows smashed and doors torn straight off the hinges. Where else could Rosalind even go? What else could Kathleen do except walk the city and hope that some invisible string was pulling her to her sister?
Kathleen put one foot in front of the other. She had always had the skill to look like she belonged somewhere. Act like she had been invited in, because if she did not, then she would be waiting forever for an invitation that was not coming.
Who could have known that it would work during a revolution too?
“Ow!”
Kathleen turned around, thinking she heard a voice nearby. It sounded like a child, but why would a child be out during this time?
She turned the corner and identified the source of the cry—indeed, there was a little girl, sprawled along the sidewalk. The girl dusted herself off, awkwardly brushing her palms together, then shaking the folds of her skirt. Something about her tugged at Kathleen’s memory, but Kathleen couldn’t immediately recall why.
“Are you okay?” Kathleen hurried over and crouched down, the edges of her qipao brushing the dirty ground. It didn’t matter; at least then she would match with the stains on the girl.
“Is okay,” the girl said shyly. She showed Kathleen the gauze in her hands. “I was sent to fetch supplies. Wanna come?”
“Supplies?” Kathleen echoed. Who was sending a little girl for supplies in the middle of revolution? When she took too long to answer, the girl took her silence for a yes and looped their hands together, dragging Kathleen along.
A round of gunfire sounded from afar. Kathleen grimaced, then hurried the girl along, hoping they weren’t far from wherever they were going. The little girl didn’t protest their hastening speed; she trotted along gallantly, and when Kathleen ducked down suddenly, moving them into an alley to avoid a group of Nationalists, the girl said, “I like your hair.”
It was then that Kathleen finally recognized the kid, because she had said the very same thing in one of the Communist meetings. Suddenly it made much more sense. She was the child of workers. She was out here because there was nowhere else to be.
“I like yours too,” she replied. “Are we almost there?”
“Right here.”
They turned into the next alley. Where the others remained empty, this one hosted a whole group of workers—judging by their state of dress—and active workers in the uprising too, if their injuries were any indication. This was some rest area, some makeshift space of recuperation—workers leaning on the walls and clutching large gashes in their torso, some sitting and cupping a palm around a bloody eye. It was hard to see: the sun was starting to set, and the city was awash in a hazy orange. Colors blended together like a rain-stained paint palette, broken bodies and fading shadows looking exactly alike.
The little girl ran off, tasked with getting the gauze to wherever it was needed. Left now to her own devices, Kathleen kneeled beside a man some few years older than her, examining his bleeding forehead without being asked. That was the trick. Pretend that she had been assigned everywhere she went; avoid letting a single second of hesitation slip through.