Twenty-Seven
Juliette was a hairsbreadth away from snapping.
The air was crisp that afternoon, a product of clear skies and the sea breeze.
As she strolled along the pavement under the delicate shade of the waving green trees, she was surrounded by the sounds of rushing fountain water and chirping birdsong—the sounds of the International Settlement when it was still a little dazed from its previous wild night, only awakening with the golden sunbeams caressing its edges.
It should have been peaceful, calm. Too bad she was strolling with Paul Dexter, who hadn’t yet given her any substantive information to work with, despite the hours they had spent together already.
“I have a surprise for you,” Paul was saying now, giddy with his enthusiasm.
“I was so delighted to receive your letter, Miss Cai. I’m thoroughly enjoying our
time in each other’s company.”
That makes one of us.
It was almost as if he knew what game she was playing at. Every time she mentioned his father’s job, he diverted it to talk about how hardworking Walter Dexter was. Every time she mentioned his work with the Larkspur, Paul steered into Shanghai’s climate and how terribly dicult it was to nd reputable work.
Briey, she wondered if Paul had perhaps heard about Juliette rushing into one of the vaccination houses and now suspected her of trying to take down the Larkspur, but it seemed improbable that the information would pass to someone as irrelevant as Paul Dexter. She also wondered if he had received the same instruction from the Larkspur as those other merchants—on killing
Juliette for a price—but she couldn’t imagine how he was planning to play his hand if that were the case. It was more likely that he was sitting on everything he had, simply so he could keep her around for longer.
“A surprise?” Juliette echoed absently. “You shouldn’t have.”
He had to know that she was digging around for something. That fact alone gave him the upper hand—gave him the right to tug Juliette around as he pleased. But there was no chance he knew specically what she was looking for, and Juliette held that close to her chest. There was no chance he realized she knew about his father’s role as the Larkspur’s supplier and that she was after every little thread of information the Dexters had on the Larkspur’s identity.
Somebody who was supplying the Larkspur with the very drug he needed for his vaccines had to have an address to work with. It was absurd to think otherwise. How else would Walter Dexter make deliveries? By leaving drugs in a designated hole within a brick wall?
“Oh, but I did.” Paul spun suddenly. Rather than walking at her side, he was now two paces ahead of her, strolling backward with his hand outstretched so he could look at her. Juliette forced herself to take his hand. “You will love it. It’s at my house.”
Juliette perked up. It was most improper for Paul Dexter to be showing her something at his house, but it was a brilliant opportunity to maximize her snooping. Let him dare try something unsavory. He would nd himself most
incapacitated.
“How exciting,” Juliette said.
Paul must have sensed her lift in mood, because he beamed at her. In fact, he did not stop beaming as they continued walking; nor did he stop jabbering, going on and on about his thoughts on the city, the nightlife, the casinos— “Have you heard about the strikes?”
Juliette’s heel came down hard on a crack in the sidewalk. Paul reached out fast, grabbing her elbow so she did not fall, but Juliette did not think to thank him as she glanced up to his kindly expression. She only blinked, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping.
“What do you know about the strikes?” she asked.
“Plenty, Miss Cai,” Paul replied condently. “There are two types of Communists now: those who are dying because they are too poor to deserve the Larkspur’s cure and those who are angry enough from this fact that they wish to rise up.”
Too poor to deserve… What kind of tomfoolery— “Those strikes are happening in the Scarlet-funded factories,” Juliette said.
Her voice came out too tightly, and she coughed, trying to lighten her tone so Paul would not think her acting aggressive. “It will be ne. We have it under control.”
“Certainly,” Paul agreed, but he sounded like he was merely humoring her, which was an insult in itself. “Ah, here we are.”
As Paul stopped outside a tall gate, pressing a button to alert somebody within the house to manage the lock, Juliette squinted through the bars. The house was tucked inward enough that she saw nothing save hills and hills of green grass lawns.
“Is your father not home?” Juliette asked.
“No. He is in a meeting,” Paul replied. “The rent will not pay itself, after all.”
The gate slid open, resounding with a rm click. Paul oered his arm.
“Indeed,” Juliette muttered. The rent wasn’t paying itself. So how much could a merchant be making to aord this, and how could he have made so much so fast? Other houses along this road were occupied by bankers and lieutenants and well-to-do diplomats. Walter Dexter had marched into Shanghai desperate enough to beg the Scarlet Gang for an audience. He had slunk into the burlesque club with a suit that bore a small rip at the sleeve. He certainly had not started out in this house. He certainly had not swept into this city already brimming with money.
And yet the evidence before her said otherwise.
They passed the statues installed on the lawns, depictions of goddesses and sprites piled over one another, faces forlorn and marble skin glistening. The front door, which Paul pulled open for her, was etched with gold, bold against its other entranceways and against the swooping exterior staircases that framed the house.
“It’s beautiful,” Juliette said quietly.
She meant it.
Juliette came through the foyer and entered a circular living room, her shoes echoing loudly on the hard ooring and drawing the attention of the servants who were folding linens. Upon sighting Paul, they gathered their things and hurried out, exchanging knowing glances. None of the servants bothered closing the quaint doors at the side of the living room—doors that were framed by pots of owers and gave way to an expansive backyard. They were pulled wide open, letting a strong breeze trail in with condence, billowing at the gossamer white curtains in a way that reminded Juliette of dancing showgirls.
Paul hurried to the doors and pulled them closed. The curtains settled still, uttering to a sad stop. He remained there for a second longer than necessary, staring out into his yard, his eyes gleaming with the bright light outside. Juliette came to stand beside him, breathing in deeply. Standing here, if she tried hard enough, she could almost forget what the streets of Shanghai looked like. She could be anywhere else. Rural England or the American South, perhaps. The air smelled sweet enough. The sights were pleasant enough.
“Magnicent, isn’t it?” Paul asked softly. “A September sun, losing some of its heat if not its brilliance…”
“We are far from the Colorado range, Mr. Dexter,” Juliette replied, catching his quote.
Paul jumped, unable to hide his surprise. Then he grinned and said, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. For a Chinese woman, your English is extraordinary. There is not a trace of an accent to be found.”
Juliette placed her hand on the doors. When she pressed down, she felt the cold of the delicate glass seep into her bones.
“I have an American accent,” she replied dully.
Paul waved her o. “You know what I mean.”
Do I? she wanted to say. Would I be less if I sounded like my mother, my father, and all those in this city who were forced to learn more than one language, unlike you?
She said nothing. Paul took the opportunity to touch her elbow and lead her into the rest of the house, speaking excitedly about his surprise. They wound through the long halls, passing surrealistic paintings that hung from the pearl-
white walls. Juliette craned her neck every which way, trying to inspect the rooms she could glimpse into, but they were walking too speedily for her to get a good look.
It turned out that Juliette needn’t have worried about searching for Walter Dexter’s locus of business. Paul led her right into it. They came into a large oce space—likely the biggest room in the entire house—with smooth wooden ooring and high bookshelves lining the walls. Here the air felt dierent: murkier, more humid, a result of the sealed windows and thick curtains.
Juliette’s eyes went to the giant desk rst, taking in the menagerie of les and
stacks upon stacks of papers.
“Hobson,” Paul called. “Hobson!”
A butler appeared behind them: Chinese, dressed in a Western getup. There was no way his name was truly Hobson. Juliette would not have been surprised if Paul had merely assigned him this name because he did not wish to pronounce
his Chinese one.
“Sir?”
Paul gestured into the room, to the spacious area in front of the desk where there was an oval gray rug and, atop it, four easels with four large canvases,
covered by a coarse cloth.
“Would you do the honors?”
Hobson bowed. He strode into the room, his spine straight and his white- gloved hands held in front of him. When he pulled o the cloth, the fabric
blended with his gloves.
Juliette looked at the four canvases.
“Oh… my…”
“Do you like them?”
Each canvas was a painting of her: two as a study of her facial features and the other two involving scenery, placing her in a garden or what might have been the world’s loneliest tea party. Juliette didn’t know what was more horrifying, that Paul thought this was a gift she would be pleased to receive, or that he actually spent his hard-earned dirty money from the Larkspur on this. She didn’t even know what to say, perhaps except: “My nose isn’t that high.”
Paul jerked back, ever so slightly. “What?”
“My nose”—Juliette pulled her elbow from his grasp and turned to face the paneled windows, so he could see her side prole—“is rather at. I am beautiful from the front, I know, but my side prole is rather lackluster. You’ve given me too much credit.”
Hobson started to fold up the cloth sheet. The sound was too loud in the abrupt quiet that had settled into the room. Paul’s lips were slowly turning down, faltering—nally, nally, for the rst time all day, picking up on Juliette’s attitude. This was not ideal. She was supposed to be winning his trust, not trashing it, no matter how creepy he was. She quickly turned to face Paul again, beaming.
“But I’m so incredibly attered. How very kind of you. How could I thank you for such a gift?”
Paul grasped her oer of recovery. He inclined his head, pleased once more, and said, “Oh, it is my pleasure. Hobson, pack up the paintings and send someone to take them to Miss Cai’s house, would you?”
Juliette was looking forward to tossing the canvases in the attic and never looking at them again. Or maybe she should burn the horric things instead. If Rosalind saw them, she would never let Juliette live it down.
“Shall we continue our walk, then?”
Juliette startled. If they left Walter’s oce now, could she nd the time to come back without being spotted? The house was full of servants, and she doubted anyone would hesitate to tell on her if they caught her lurking about.
Hobson cleared his throat, meaning to inch past Juliette with one of the canvases in his arms. Absently, still contemplating her options, Juliette took a step away and cleared a path, her back pressing to the cool wooden column behind her. It was mightily warm in this part of the Dexters’ house. Unnaturally
warm.
As Hobson exited, inspiration struck.
“All this excitement,” Juliette said suddenly, placing a hand to her forehead.
“I—” She feigned a swoon. Paul rushed forward to catch her. He was quick enough to stop her from hitting the ground, but by then she had settled herself solidly into a crumpled position, her knees curled up beneath her.
“Miss Cai, are you—”
“It is merely the heat. It rushes right to my head,” Juliette assured him breathlessly, waving o his concern. “Do you have tiger balm? Of course not— you British have no clue about our medicines. I’m sure one of your house servants must know what I’m talking about. Can you fetch me some?”
“Of course, of course,” Paul stammered quickly. Harried, he let go of her
gently and hurried o.
Juliette immediately scrabbled up.
“I’m really making a habit out of snooping around other people’s desks,” she muttered to herself. With the countdown ticking, she shued through the les, her eyes scanning for any mention of the Larkspur. She found dozens of calling cards, dozens of letters containing contact information, but there was no invoice with the Larkspur—not even anything to do with lernicrom. He was certainly still trying to sell the drug, so where was the evidence?
There was no time to mull further. Footsteps were coming back down the hallway.
Cursing under her breath, Juliette tidied the ordered stacks of les, then returned to the spot where she had collapsed, leaning onto her elbows. She didn’t look up when Paul appeared before her, pretending to be too dizzy to lift her head higher than a few inches from the ground.
“Apologies for my delay,” Paul pued. “I accosted Hobson and demanded this elusive tiger balm of him, but he was unreceptive to my hurry. He said he had already placed some in my briefcase last week when I complained of my headache. I had to hunt down my briefcase.”
Two clicks rang through the room. Juliette peered through her darkened lashes and saw Paul shuing around the mess in his briefcase. As he stuck his hand into one of the pockets on the lid, muttering when his ngers got stuck in the tight space, Juliette caught sight of business logs lying in the case, delivery invoices marked with such tiny font that it was a miracle her eyes caught ATTN: LARKSPUR.
Juliette barely held back her gasp. Paul perhaps interpreted the sound she emitted as one of gratitude, because he twisted open the jar and gingerly touched the balm, slathering enough on his nger to bring it to her temple.
At least he knew enough about this balm to know where it was supposed to be applied. His ngers were awfully cold.
“Thank you,” Juliette said. She forced her eyes to wander, so that Paul wouldn’t note where her attention had snagged. “I feel much better. I don’t suppose I could have a drink of water? I’ll feel much better once hydrated.”
Paul nodded eagerly and rushed o once again, this time leaving behind his
open briefcase.
Juliette snatched the business logs.
Invoice #10092A
September 23rd, 1926
ATTN: Larkspur 10 boxes—lernicrom
The signature below certifies responsibility on behalf of signee that he will assure the remaining passage of the product to the intended recipient.
Deliverer: Archibald Welch
“Archibald Welch,” Juliette muttered in echo. She had never before heard the name. But the invoice in her hands made it as clear as day that this man had personal contact with the Larkspur, running between Walter Dexter as the middleman. Quickly, she ipped through each sheet in the pile, nding them all to be dierent dates with various amounts of boxes, but identically signed. It wasn’t the same as directly nding the Larkspur’s address, but it was one step closer.
Juliette placed the logs back neatly. Paul returned, a glass of water in hand.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. He gave her the glass and watched her take a sip. “Does your head feel clearer?”
Smiling, Juliette set the glass down. “Oh,” she said demurely. “Everything is clearing up now.”
“You’re home late.”
Juliette tossed her jacket onto her bed, then tossed herself on too, rocking the entire frame with her weight. Kathleen was almost thrown out of the comfortable position she had made herself at the foot of the bed. She shot her cousin an evil glance as the bed stilled, but no glare from Kathleen ever looked sincere.
“I’m heading out again in half an hour.” Juliette groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes. Merely a second later, she quickly removed her arm, rubbing the stray cosmetics from her skin and wincing, knowing that she had smeared the product on her lashes. “Where’s Rosalind?”
Kathleen rested her chin in her hand.
“She was needed at the club again.”
Juliette frowned. “More foreigners?”
“The French are getting antsy with this madness,” Kathleen replied, “and if they cannot do anything about it, they will pretend they are being useful by asking for continuous meetings to discuss their next course of action.”
“There is no next course of action,” Juliette said dryly. “At least not from them. Unless they wish to mobilize their armies against one monster lurking in the shadows of Shanghai.”
Kathleen sighed in response. She ipped to the next page of her fashion magazine.
“By the way, your father came around earlier looking for you.”
“Oh?” Juliette said. “Did Bàba want something?”
“Said he was merely doing a head count.” Kathleen grimaced. “He’s on edge about the White Flower spy. It seems he’s contemplating evicting some distant
relatives from the house.”
“Good,” Juliette muttered.
Kathleen rolled her eyes, then extended her hand. Juliette threaded her ngers through her cousin’s, immediately less burdened, the tension in her body softening.
“Are you still following the Communists?” Kathleen asked.
“No, we—” Juliette paused, her pulse jumping. Quickly, she corrected, “I’m waiting on more conrmation before I make any accusations.”
Kathleen nodded. “Fair.” She ipped another page in her magazine with her other hand. When she had ipped three and Juliette had not said anything more, opting to stare at her ceiling instead, Kathleen wrinkled her nose.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Trying to mentally organize my time,” Juliette replied wryly. She pulled her hand away and rolled over, squinting at the little clock ticking on her vanity. “I
need a favor.”
Kathleen closed her magazine. “Go on.”
“I need all the information there is on a man named Archibald Welch. I need to know how to nd him.”
“And is there a reason?” Kathleen asked. Though she questioned, she was already getting o the bed, grabbing her nearby coat and shrugging it on.
“He may have the Larkspur’s true identity.”
Kathleen pulled at her coat collar, then tugged out the hair that had gotten caught inside. “I’ll send a messenger over with whatever I nd. Do you need it
before your meeting?”
“That would be optimal, yes.”
Kathleen mocked a salute. She moved fast, her objective square in her head, but just as she came to the doorway, Juliette called, “Wait.”
Kathleen paused.
A beat passed. Juliette sat up straighter, drawing her knees to her chest.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice suddenly shaky. “For sticking by me. Even when you disapprove.” Even when my hands are dripping with blood.
Kathleen almost seemed amused. Slowly, she came back into the room and settled into a delicate crouch before her cousin.
“I get the feeling you think I’m a little judgmental of all you do.”
Juliette shrugged. Earnestly, she asked, “Aren’t you?”
“Juliette, come on.” Kathleen got out of her crouch, opting to sit beside her cousin instead. “Do you remember Rosalind’s friend? The annoying one?”
Juliette wasn’t sure where this was going, but she searched her memory anyway, sifting through the few friends she remembered Rosalind to have had.
She came up blank.
“Was this before we all left for the West or the rst time I came back?”
“The rst time you came back. Rosalind was working at the burlesque club already.”
By the look of Juliette’s constipated expression, Kathleen gured she wasn’t remembering.
“Her name was some gemstone,” Kathleen kept trying. “I can’t remember exactly what, but… Ruby? Sapphire? Emerald?”
It clicked suddenly. A suppressed laugh escaped from Juliette, and then Kathleen—even as she tried to clamp her lips together—was laughing too, though the memory was hardly something to be humored over.
“Amethyst,” Juliette said. “It was Amethyst.”
Amethyst had been at least ve years older than all of them, and Rosalind had worshipped the ground she walked on. She was the long-legged star of the stage, the one training Rosalind to become the next dazzling meteor.
Amethyst also drove Kathleen up the wall. She was always telling her to buy those whitening creams, to get a new qipao tted, edging closer and closer
toward the most oensive insinuations— Until the day Kathleen nally snapped.
“Juliette!” she remembered her cousin yelling from the back of the burlesque club. “Juliette!”
“What is going on?” Juliette had muttered, leaving her table and moving toward the sound of Kathleen’s call. Eventually, she found herself slipping into Rosalind’s dressing room, and though Rosalind was nowhere to be found, Kathleen was pacing the length of it, guarding a slumped gure sprawled on the oor.
“I think she’s dead,” Kathleen cried. “She tried to grab me, so I pushed her and she hit her head and—”
Juliette waved a hand for her cousin to stop speaking. She knelt on the ground and put a hand on Amethyst’s neck. There was a small smattering of blood coming from the girl’s temple, but her pulse was thudding just ne.
“What is she even doing in here?” Juliette asked. “Did she follow you?”
Kathleen nodded. “I got so angry. I was only defending myself! I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, hush, she’s ne,” Juliette said, standing. “I’m more concerned about how loudly you yelled for me to come—”
Rosalind’s dressing room door ew open then. Two other dancers barged in, with Rosalind in tow. Immediately, the dancers rushed for Amethyst on the oor, crying out in concern.
“What happened?” Rosalind asked, horried. The two dancers immediately looked to Kathleen. Kathleen looked to Juliette. And in that moment, as Juliette and Kathleen exchanged a glance, an understanding had clicked into place. One of them was always safe. The other was not.
“Maybe Amethyst should mind her own business,” Juliette said. “Next time I’ll hit harder.”
One of the dancers blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Do I need to repeat myself?” Juliette said. “Get her out of my sight. In fact, get her out of this club. I don’t want to see her face ever again.”
Rosalind’s jaw had dropped. “Juliette—”
It didn’t matter how much Rosalind tried to make a case for Amethyst. With a wave of Juliette’s hand, Amethyst was escorted out in seconds, still unconscious.
“To this day,” Juliette said now, “Rosalind still thinks I attacked Amethyst for no reason. We never did nd the heart to tell her that her friend was awful, even after she sent word that she wasn’t coming back to dance.”
“I don’t think anybody is brave enough to come back to their place of employment after the Scarlet heiress drives them out.”
“Oh, psh. I’ve threatened plenty of people in this city. You don’t see everyone running home crying.”
Kathleen rolled her eyes, but it felt kindly. She reached out, placed a hand on Juliette’s arm.
“Listen to me, biǎomèi,” she said quietly. “You and Rosalind are my only family. The only family that matters. So please, stop thanking me every second like a damn Westerner just for helping you. I will never judge you. I could never.
I’ll always be on your side, no matter what.” Kathleen checked the time again,
then stood, smiling. “Understand?”
Juliette could only nod.
“I’ll get a note to you as soon as possible.”
With that, Kathleen got up and made her exit, hurrying to her destination before the sun could fully set. The room fell quiet, hosting only the sound of the clock’s ticking hands and Juliette’s soft, grateful exhale.
“Thank you,” Juliette whispered anyway, to the empty room.
