Now they were here in abundance, greeting Lord Cai briefly and hurriedly, eyes darting back and forth like there was something urgently pressing on their heels. The moment her father came up the stairs, Juliette lunged for his sleeve, holding on tightly.
“What’s going on?” she tried again when he continued walking forward. “Why would the blackmailer strike now—”
“It was never one blackmailer,” Lord Cai replied evenly. Pausing before his office, already humming with noise inside, he eased her grip off his sleeve, then smoothed the fabric of his shirt down until it was free of wrinkles. “It was the Communists. It has always been the Communists.”
Juliette felt her face furrow, all her muscles pinching together. “No, I told you, they’re working with the Communists, but those were Paul’s insects. One of the monsters is a Frenchman.”
Lord Cai opened his office door, then gestured for Juliette to stay put. He wasn’t allowing her to follow him in.
“Not now, Juliette,” he said. “Not now.”
The door closed in Juliette’s face. For a minute Juliette could only stand there, blinking in disbelief. It had been laughable of her to think that she would be accepted into this gang once Tyler was gone, that Tyler was the only thing standing between her and complete recognition. They let her feel powerful, running about the city like she could solve all its problems, but as soon as true trouble came . . .
They closed the damn door in her face.
Juliette took a step back, practically seething through her teeth.
“Miss Cai?”
A pitter-patter of footsteps came up behind her. Juliette turned and found a young messenger holding a note out for her.
“For you,” he said.
Juliette scrubbed a hand over her face, then took the note. “How come you weren’t sent out into the city with everyone else?”
The messenger grimaced. “I—er—if you don’t need me, I’ll be off now!”
He fled before Juliette could get another word in. She almost called out again to summon the messenger back, but then she unfolded her note and stopped short. It was written in Russian. The messenger had not been a Scarlet at all, but a White Flower.
Come quickly. The safe house. We have Rosalind.
—♥
“Kathleen!” Juliette bellowed. She was already sprinting down the hallway, coming to a sharp stop outside her cousin’s bedroom, her heels practically making skid marks in the flooring.
Kathleen scrambled up from her bed. “Do we know what’s happening?”
“We have something better,” Juliette said. “Get your coat. Roma found Rosalind.”
When Roma opened the door to the safe house, it was so dark inside that Juliette could hardly see anything past his shoulder. As soon as she and Kathleen stepped in, Roma closed the door again and the apartment fell into utter black.
“What is this, an ambush?” Juliette remarked, flipping her lighter on. The first sight that flickered to life was Benedikt and Marshall, both standing by the stove and grimacing like they were bracing for something.
The second was Rosalind, gagged and tied to a chair.
“Oh my God,” Kathleen cried, starting forward immediately. “What—”
“Make her promise not to yell before you take that out,” Roma cut in quickly. He finally flicked on the overhead light, then sighed when Kathleen didn’t listen, yanking at Rosalind’s gag. It was only a small wad of fabric that once bundled vegetables; if Rosalind had really tried, she might have been able to spit it out.
“No yelling,” Marshall emphasized. “One shout and the Nationalists will come knocking.”
“Don’t you tell me not to yell,” Rosalind grumbled. “I’ll—”
“Rosalind,” Juliette cut in.
Her cousin fell quiet. There was no running this time. There was nowhere to go. The streets outside were crawling with soldiers, their numbers gathered thickly after the panic that had erupted near the railway station. The attack had happened too close to the International Settlement. One wrong move, and the British would start firing along the borders.
Juliette walked to the window, unwilling to face Rosalind quite yet. She pulled at the boards, peering through the slivers.
“How did they stop the attacks?” she asked.
“They didn’t,” Benedikt answered. “The monsters retreated of their own volition.”
Juliette sucked in a tight breath. Thinned her lips. Crossed her arms—maybe crossed them a bit too tightly and looked as if she was reaching for a weapon, gauging by the way Benedikt made a noise of alarm.
Roma rolled his eyes at his cousin, gesturing for him to step back and get out of the way as Juliette wound around the table, coming to a stop beside Kathleen, in front of Rosalind.
“Was it because of you?” Juliette asked quietly. “Did they retreat because of you?”
“No,” Rosalind replied.
Across the room, Benedikt and Marshall exchanged a nervous glance. Roma leaned into the table, his body inclining in Juliette’s direction. Kathleen bit her lip and shifted to her left until she was against the wall.
“Rosalind,” Juliette said. Her voice cracked. “I can’t help you unless you tell me what you did.”
“Who said I needed help?” Rosalind replied. There was no malice in her tone. Only a faint, faint sense of dread. “I am a lost cause, Junli.”
If the table hadn’t been behind her, Juliette would have staggered back, guts twisting at the sound of her name. The last time Rosalind might have used it was when they were children. When they were barely taller than the rosebushes in the gardens, jumping over each other in a game of leapfrog, diving into the piles of leaves the household staff were trying to sweep and giggling when they messed it all up.
“Oh, don’t try that with me.”
“Juliette!” Kathleen hissed.
Juliette didn’t relent. She plunged her hand into her pocket and dug out the list they had retrieved, unfolding the paper with a brisk snap. “This was on your desk, Rosalind,” she said. “Pierre Moreau, Alfred Delaunay, Edmond Lefeuvre, Gervais Carrell, Simon Clair—five names, and if my guess is correct, five monsters. It is a simple question: Are you the blackmailer?”
Rosalind looked down in lieu of answering. Juliette threw the paper to the floor with a loud curse, her foot stamping on the list.
“Wait, Juliette.” Roma bent over to pick up the piece of paper. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have made much of the curiosity in his voice. Only then Benedikt and Marshall surged forward too, the three of them pale under the hazy bulb light, leaning in to read the list like it was something incomprehensible.
“What is it?” Juliette demanded.
“Simon Clair?” Benedikt muttered.
“Alfred Delaunay,” Marshall added, rocking back on his heels. “Those are . . .”
“Dimitri’s men,” Roma finished. He passed the list back to Juliette, but Kathleen reached over and intercepted it. “Those are all Dimitri Voronin’s men.”
For all Juliette knew, the ground underneath her feet had crumbled to pieces. She was in free fall, her stomach suspended in motion. Rosalind did not deny it, did not offer another explanation. Nor did she do anything to resist when Juliette reached forward and pulled out the chain around her neck. It glimmered under the light, but Juliette paid no attention to hidden jewels. Instead, she flipped over the flat strip of metal at the necklace’s end, running her finger across the engraving on the other side.