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“Good morning. We’re from the university,” she exclaimed, dropping into another dialect—Wenzhounese—so promptly that Roma jolted back the smallest inch, unable to conceal his astonishment at her quick switch. “Are you well on this fine morning?”

The man leaned his ear forward, grimacing. In Shanghainese, he replied, “Speak bendì huà, would you, girl? I don’t understand.”

Wenzhou was a city only days of travel to the south of Shanghai, but its local dialect was so incomprehensible to outsiders that Juliette would never have learned it had Nurse not taught her. Nurse used to say that the closest sound resembling Wenzhounese was not a neighboring tongue like Shanghainese, but the chirping of songbirds. In a city not only bustling with foreigners but also native Chinese from every corner of the country, most civilians shared a language, but they did not share the same way of speaking it. Two Chinese merchants could carry on an entire conversation with each one speaking his own dialect. They didn’t need to meet in the middle. They only needed to understand.

Juliette, however, hadn’t expected the old man to understand her at all; she had only one goal. Before he could squint closely at her face and recognize her for the heir of the Scarlet Gang, she had to make him think she was a careless immigrant girl from elsewhere.

“My apologies.” Juliette switched to Shanghainese, task accomplished. “As I was saying, we’re from Shanghai University and terribly excited to see you today. We’re hoping to found the first student union club and need some advice. Is Mr. Zhang home to speak?”

The old man straightened, brushing his hands over his knitted cardigan. Juliette expected him to turn them away, to tell them to come back some other time, so they could skitter out of sight and mark this off as a temporary failure. As long as they didn’t raise suspicion, they could come back. As long as this man didn’t pay too much attention to their faces and thought them regular university students who weren’t worth remembering.

She didn’t expect the man to clear his throat imperiously and say, “I am Mr. Zhang.”

Roma and Juliette exchanged a perplexed glance.

“Er… no, you’re not.”

The man’s posture sagged. He blew out a breath and abandoned his assuming air. “Fine. I am Qi Ren, Mr. Zhang’s personal assistant. You may come in.”

Juliette blinked—first in confusion over this man’s peculiarity, then in surprise, that he was inviting them in instead of turning them away. As she stood there, she felt a nudge from Roma, asking why she wasn’t moving when Mr. Qi turned on his heel and shuffled away on his hard slippers.

This wasn’t her original plan, but Juliette was nothing if not adaptable.

“Come on,” she muttered to Roma. They hurried in after Mr. Qi.

“How shall I address you?” Mr. Qi called over his shoulder.

Juliette didn’t miss a beat. “Zhu Liye. And this is Mr. Montague. Lovely couches you have.” She sat down before he could invite her to.

Mr. Qi, frowning, moved aside a variety of folders on the nearby table, turning them over so his two-character name and Labor Daily’s watermark were facedown. “Will this take some time?”

“If that works for you,” Juliette replied brightly.

Mr. Qi sighed. “I will go make some tea.”

As soon as Mr. Qi had moved far enough into the adjoining kitchen, busy with his task of boiling water, Roma turned to Juliette and hissed, “Montague? Really?”

“Shut up,” Juliette hissed back. “I couldn’t think of anything else and I didn’t want to pause suspiciously.”

“You’re fluent in Russian and that’s the best you could come up with?” Roma asked, flabbergasted. “What is a Montague? It sounds Italian.”

“There are Italian Communists!”

“Not in Shanghai!”

Juliette was prevented from responding when Mr. Qi stuck his head back in and asked what sort of tea they wanted. Once he returned deeper into the kitchen, satisfied with their polite answers that anything would do, Juliette ducked her head and said, “Okay, we can still do what we came here to do. You must distract him.”

“Say again?” Roma demanded. “You’re going to leave me here to entertain?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes, it’s a problem.” Roma leaned back in the couch, his hands placed in his lap. “How do I know you’re going to share whatever information you find if it doesn’t benefit you?”

He was perfectly valid to suspect her, but that didn’t mean Juliette liked the insinuation she would sabotage this operation.

“Stop arguing with me,” she replied. “Our usual job description is intimidation and gunfire. If we can even pull this off, we should count ourselves lucky.”

“Frankly, that’s—”