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se 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 find 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 confidently. “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 fine. 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 firm click. Paul offered his arm.

“Indeed,” Juliette muttered. The rent wasn’t paying itself. So how much could a merchant be making to afford 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 flooring 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 flowers and gave way to an expansive backyard. They were pulled wide open, letting a strong breeze trail in with confidence, 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, fluttering 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.

“Magnificent, 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 off. “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?