Roma shook his head. He said gently, like a caress, “It was a Scarlet hit, dorogaya.”
Suddenly Juliette could not breathe. Her vision became invaded by terrible violet dots. Her head grew light. It took all her effort to remain still—remain outwardly unaffected.
“But the blood feud is the blood feud. Don’t think much on it. Don’t dwell. It’s not your fault.”
“I thought it was illness,” Juliette barely managed. “They said it was illness.”
Lady Montagova had died two weeks after Juliette left Shanghai. Two weeks after the attack on the Scarlet house that had killed all their servants.
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God—
“The White Flowers only maintained that not to lose face,” Roma said. “She was found with a red rose forced into her hand.”
“Wait!”
The sudden exclamation came from Benedikt, and Juliette startled to attention with a solid jerk forward, drawing a strange glance from Roma. He placed a reassuring hand on her back, all the gestures of their past remembered again with no need for formal reintroduction.
But Juliette barely registered it. Her mind was racing.
You have to tell him. He has to know.
He’ll never forgive me.
Juliette shook her head quickly, clearing her thoughts. This was a matter to address later. It did no good to think on it now.
“What did the Larkspur say to you?” Benedikt demanded now. “Give it to me word for word.”
“Benedikt, we already told you earlier—”
“Again,” he said sharply. “Something is very familiar about this.”
Roma and Juliette exchanged a curious glance.
“He said,” Roma replied, “?‘Zhang Gutai is turning himself into a monster. I am making the vaccine using information he is giving me.’?”
Benedikt’s hand rocketed out to grip Marshall’s shoulder. “Before that?”
“It is a little irrelevant,” Juliette replied, wrinkling her nose.
“If you told me before, tell me again.”
“He asked, ‘You wish to know my business with Zhang Gutai?’?” Roma replied. “Benedikt, what is it?”
Benedikt’s frown deepened and deepened. Kathleen crept forward, as if it wasn’t enough for the five of them to be dispersed across the small rooftop anymore—they had to draw tighter and tighter, making a circle to prevent the information between them from escaping.
“When we were staking out Zhang Gutai’s apartment,” Benedikt said slowly, “we saw foreigner after foreigner come in to speak with his personal assistant. They attempted to talk politics but left within minutes.”
A fat droplet of rain came down on his forehead.
“Is this about the Frenchman you chased after?” Marshall asked.
Benedikt nodded. “I tried to threaten him into telling me what he was doing there,” he said, “but he only insisted that his business with Zhang Gutai was none of mine. At the time I did not think it so strange, but…” Benedikt frowned. “Why would he speak on his business with Zhang Gutai so specifically if it was his assistant whom he was meeting with?”
The facts began to line up in Juliette’s head too, one by one. Perhaps the Larkspur was under a false impression.
“Zhang Gutai’s personal assistant,” Juliette said. “I don’t suppose he is also Zhang Gutai’s professional assistant at Labor Daily?”
“Yes, he is,” Kathleen answered confidently. “Qi Ren. He is his notetaker at Communist meetings. He must also be his transcriber at work.”