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But perhaps Juliette would never learn. Perhaps her memories of Roma would pull her toward ruin, unless she reached into her own chest and ripped out all remains of softness.

“For Alisa,” Juliette managed roughly, finally turning her gaze back, “and for all the little girls in this city falling victim to a game they never asked to play, I will help you. But do your part, Roma. I help you and you help me find the solution to this madness as quickly as possible.”

Roma exhaled, breathing relief and gratitude onto the glass. She watched him carefully, watched the tension drain from his shoulders and the terror in his eyes meld into hope. She wondered how much of it was true and how much of it was for her benefit, so she would think she was making the right decision.

“Deal.”

This could ruin her. It could ruin everything. But what mattered now was not Juliette, nor her feelings—it was finding a solution. If the possibility of saving her people meant risking her reputation with them, then it was a sacrifice she had to make.

Who else would make it? Who else but Juliette?

“Okay,” Juliette conceded quietly. She supposed there was no going back. “I have Zhang Gutai’s home address. My next move was breaking in and rummaging around, but”—she shrugged, the gesture so forcefully casual on her part that she almost believed it—“we can go there together to begin, if you wish.”

“Yes,” Roma said. If he nodded any harder, his head might roll right off. “Yes.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Juliette decided. Suddenly the memories of their past together—the ones she had spent four years trying so hard to forget—came barreling into her mind with full force. She had no choice but to invoke them, ignoring the clenching tightness in her lungs. “Meet me at the statue.”

The statue—a small stone rendering of a crying woman—was a forgotten artifact hidden in an unnamed park in the International Settlement. Four years ago, Roma and Juliette had stumbled upon it by chance and spent an afternoon trying to work out its intentions and origins. Juliette had insisted it was Niobe, the woman in Greek mythology who had cried so much after her children were slain that the gods turned her to stone. Roma had maintained it was La Llorona, the Weeping Woman in Latin American folklore who cried for the child she had killed. They had never decided on an answer.

If Roma was surprised or taken aback by her reference to the statue, he didn’t show it. He only asked, “When?”

“Sunrise.”

It was only at that which Roma appeared mildly concerned. “Sunrise? That’s ambitious.”

“The earlier the better,” Juliette insisted. She winced. “It reduces our chances of being seen together. This goes without saying, but no one can know we’re collaborating. We would—”

“—both be dead if they knew,” Roma finished. “I know. Until sunrise, then.”

Juliette watched him swing his legs back over the railing of the balcony, hanging along the elaborate metal designs like another piece of the sculpting. Under the low-hanging light of the moon, Roma was a black-and-white study of sorrow.

Roma paused. “Good night, Juliette.”

Then he was gone, his lithe shadow working quickly down the exterior wall and darting through the gardens. One jump and he was over the gate, off the Scarlet Gang’s grounds and on his way back to his own world.

Juliette drew her curtains tightly, adjusting the fabric until not a sliver of silver was shining through. Only then did she allow herself to emit a long exhale, pushing the moonlight out of her room and its changing faces out of her heart.

Twenty

At sunrise, it was early enough that the ports were quiet, the waves rocking against the floating boardwalk. It was early enough that the smell of the wind was still sweet, untainted by the smog of morning factories, absent of the aromas that rose from the fried food and sloppy soups cooked in the stalls pushed upon the streets.

Unfortunately, it still wasn’t early enough to avoid a Nationalist rally.

Juliette halted in her step, freezing on the pavement underneath a swaying green tree. “Ta ma de,” she cursed under her breath. “What are—”

“Kuomintang,” Roma answered before Juliette could finish the question.

Juliette shot him a dirty look when he stopped beside her. Did he think her incapable of spotting the little suns on their hats? It wasn’t exactly an obscure logo. The Kuomintang party—and their Nationalists—was growing incredibly popular.

“I know,” Juliette said, rolling her eyes. “I was going to ask what they’re doing. This is my city. I don’t need you educating me.”

Roma cast her a glance askew. “Is it though?”

He hadn’t even put any venom behind his tone, and yet those few words sent a dagger hurtling right through Juliette’s heart. Is it though? How many times had she asked herself that question in Manhattan? How many times had she climbed up to her building’s rooftop and gazed out on New York’s skyline, refusing to let herself love it, because loving one meant losing another, and losing Shanghai meant losing everything?

“Now, what is that supposed to mean?” she asked tightly.

Roma looked almost amused by the question. He made a vague gesturing motion toward her, indicating her dress, her shoes. “Come on, Juliette. I’ve been here a lot longer than you have. You’re an American girl at heart.”