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Cursing under her breath, Juliette tidied the ordered stacks of files, 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 puffed. “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 shuffling around the mess in his briefcase. As he stuck his hand into one of the pockets on the lid, muttering when his fingers 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 finger to bring it to her temple.

At least he knew enough about this balm to know where it was supposed to be applied. His fingers 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 off 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 flipped through each sheet in the pile, finding them all to be different dates with various amounts of boxes, but identically signed. It wasn’t the same as directly finding 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 flipped 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?”