Page 84 of Our Violent Ends
Juliette swallowed her huff of annoyance. “And does my own father suspect I would keep it from him?”
“Your father never suspected his niece, either, and yet here we are.”
Juliette stood up from her chair, her fists clenched. The Scarlet paused, eyeing her stance. It wasn’t as if Juliette’s trigger-happy fingers were unknown to the gang. They had all heard the stories, and they had all seen the results—what mattered now was whether he feared Juliette’s immediate threat more, or the eventual consequences of not following Lord Cai’s exact instructions.
“I will stand outside, with the door open a crack,” the Scarlet relented. He stepped out, and tugged at the door, the hinges squeaking.
Juliette flopped back into the plush chair. Rosalind had hardly blinked through the whole exchange. On any other day, she would have made some comment about Juliette being more bark than bite. Now she only stared, a glaze over her eyes.
Her cousin was in pain, Juliette knew. The wounds on Rosalind’s back were severe, and Kathleen had almost swooned at the sight when the doctor was dressing them last night. Juliette was torn between sympathy and frustration. Torn between absolute horror that this had happened and a complete lack of understanding overhowthis had happened. Perhaps it made her a bad person. A bad friend, a bad cousin. Even while Rosalind was like this, so pained and dazed that she was reduced to absolute silence, Juliette couldn’t help but feel betrayed that Rosalind had lied to her. And she didn’t know if it was because this city had hardened her or if her heart had always been like this—cold, brittle, turning away with the first sign of disloyalty. Juliette was a liar too. When it came to telling the truth, Juliette was perhaps the most corrupt of them all, but that didn’t stop her from flinching instinctively when she was dealt lies in response.
“I promised to protect you,” Juliette said quietly. “But not like this, Rosalind.”
No answer. She hadn’t expected one.
“It was copies of your correspondences that they dug up at the post office. That’s how you were found out. Not sightings, not rumors. Simple pen to paper and your handwriting.” Juliette blew out a frustrated breath. “Was the merchant business all false, then? Is there even a lover, or did you play spy for no reason?”
Suddenly, Rosalind’s eyes swiveled to Juliette, her gaze sharpening for the first time.
“You would have done the same,” Rosalind rasped.
Juliette sat up straighter. She looked to the door, to the slight gap left ajar. “What?”
“I love him,” Rosalind mumbled. A bead of sweat had broken out along her hairline. She was delirious, probably running a fever. “I love him, that is all.”
“Who?” Juliette demanded. “Rosalind, you must—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, almost slurring her words. “What does any of it matter? It is done. It is done.”
None of this was making any sense. Even if this lover was a White Flower, what was the point of protecting a regular member? What consequence would there be, short of having him on a Scarlet hit list? He couldn’t be high up. It certainly wasn’t Roma, and it wasn’t Benedikt. If not a Montagov, then why the torment? Why did Rosalind squeeze her eyes shut as if the world were bearing upon her?
A sudden knock on the door. Juliette jolted, her heart hammering in her chest as if she had gotten caught doing something bad. The Scarlet poked his head back in, scanning the scene. She expected him to remark on Rosalind’s mumblings, but instead:
“Telephone call for you, Miss Cai.”
Juliette nodded, then got to her feet, reaching out to pull Rosalind’s blankets a little higher. Rosalind hardly stirred. She only closed her eyes, shivering and shivering, even once Juliette left the room, shutting the door after herself.
“Don’t bother her,” she warned the Scarlet. “Let her sleep.”
“You’re going too easy on traitors,” he called after her.
Juliette thinned her lips, proceeding down the hallway. He was right. They were going too easy on her—Juliettewas going too easy on her. And because Juliette had been the one to interrupt the whipping, her father would give the task to her just to teach her a lesson: if Rosalind gave no information soon, then it would be on Juliette to uncover why her cousin had betrayed them, by whatever means necessary.
Juliette swallowed hard, approaching the telephone. She had no doubt she could do it. She had never hesitated to garrote and cut her way through the other Scarlets that her father had sent her after, whether for rent money or a quick answer on a trade receipt. The question now was whether she wanted to, whether she believed that this was a stain on her conscience too large to bear.
Juliette picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear. “Wéi?”
“Miss Cai?”
The voice was speaking English. And it sounded like—
“Roma?”
An uncomfortable cough. “Close, but no. It’s Benedikt.”
Juliette released a tight breath, pushing back her disappointment. She told herself it was because she had been expecting Roma to have found the Frenchman, not because she wanted to hear Roma’s voice.
“Did something happen?” she asked, lowering her volume. A quick glance over her shoulder showed her there was no one else in the hallway, but that didn’t mean no one was listening in on her conversation.
