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Rosalind jolted. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The cosmetic application was good, but Juliette spent a long time every morning fiddling around with her pots and jars too. Without looking very closely at all, she could tell where Rosalind had heaped on the creams and powder, could track the exact line where her real skin ended and a false layer began to cover up the shadows and dark circles.

“I worry that you’re not getting enough sleep,” Juliette replied.

A loud crash came from their left. The waitress who had been cleaning the table had knocked over a candleholder.

Rosalind shook her head—it could have been a motion both in disapproval over the waitress and in response to Juliette. “I’ve been sleeping, just not well. I keep having dreams about those insects.” She shuddered, then leaned forward. “Juliette, I feel helpless merely sitting around while the city falls apart. There must be something I can do—”

“Relax,” Juliette said gently. “It is not your job to take on.”

Rosalind placed both her hands flat on the table. Her jaw tightened. “I wish to help.”

“Help me by getting some sleep.” Juliette tried for a smile. “Help us by dancing with all your beautiful brilliance, just so we can forget—even for a few minutes—that people are looting stores and settings fires in the streets.”

Just so they could forget that madness was striking every little corner of this city, that this was not a force police officers or gangsters or colonialist powers could fight back against.

Rosalind did not respond for a long moment. Then, to Juliette’s shock, she asked, “Is that all I am good for?”

Juliette jerked back. “Pardon?”

“One would think that I don’t even need to be a Scarlet anymore,” Rosalind said bitterly. Her voice was almost unrecognizable, forged by a shard of broken glass. “All I am is a dancer.”

“Rosalind.” Juliette leaned forward too, then, her eyes narrowing. Where was this coming from? “You are a dancer, yes—but one in the Scarlet inner circle, privy to meetings and correspondences even your own father cannot stick his nose into. How can you doubt whether or not you are a Scarlet?”

But Rosalind’s eyes were haunted. The bitterness had given way to anguish, and the anguish ate away at her temper until she was only gazing forward in defeat. That monster sighting—it had affected her more than she had let on. It had sent her on long nights and spirals, and now she was questioning everything that her life was stacked atop of, which was dangerous for someone like Rosalind, whose mind was already an eternal, sepulchral place.

“It is only that it feels unfair sometimes,” Rosalind said quietly, “that you are allowed to be in this family and you shall have your place in the Scarlet Gang, but I am a dancer or I am nothing.”

Juliette blinked. There was nothing she could say to that. Nothing except:

“I’m… sorry.” Juliette reached out, placed a hand on her cousin’s. “Do you want me to talk to my father—”

Rosalind shook her head quickly. She laughed, the sound brittle.

“Please, never mind me,” Rosalind said. “I’m just… I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I need more sleep.” She stood then, squeezing Juliette’s hand once before letting go. “I have to get home now to rest if I want to be ready for my shift tonight. Are you coming?”

She wasn’t, but she also didn’t want to let Rosalind go while it seemed like there was still a conflict here—a conflict between them—that had been left unresolved. It was unnerving. The hairs at the back of Juliette’s neck were standing up as if she and her cousin had just had a fight, but she could not pinpoint where the friction lay. Perhaps it was her imagination. Rosalind’s eyes had cleared now, injecting more spirit into her spine. Perhaps it had only been a brief moment of internal calamity.

“You go on,” Juliette finally replied. “I have some more time to waste.”

Nodding, Rosalind smiled once more. She walked out the door and another cold draft blew in, this one shaking Juliette so viciously that she curled her entire neck into her coat, becoming a girl swallowed in fur. Now there was not even a show to keep her entertained. She had no choice but to people-watch her Scarlets.

“How long have you been wiping at that table for?” Juliette called.

The waitress looked over, sighing. “Xiaojie, the stains are persistent.”

Juliette shot to her feet and clacked over on her heels. She extended her hand for the cleaning cloth.

The waitress blinked. “Miss Cai, it’s not proper for you to get your hands dirty—”

“Pass it.”

She passed it. Juliette scrunched it up in her fist. In three quick, violent motions—her hand coming down on the table so hard that it made a sound—the surface was smooth and clear and shiny.

Juliette gave the cloth back. “Use your elbows. It’s not that hard.”

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