It had been four years, but Rosalind was still unaccustomed to her alias. Sooner or later she was going to get in trouble for that split-second delay, that blank look in her eyes before she remembered her name was supposed to be Janie Mead, that pause before she lengthened out her French accent when she was speaking English, pretending to be American-raised and one among the many new returnees in the city registered in the Kuomintang’s ranks.
“That’s correct,” Rosalind said evenly. Perhaps she should have made a joke, kicked her feet back and declared that it would be wise to remember her name. The train rumbled over a bump in the tracks and the whole room rocked, but Rosalind said nothing more. She only folded her hands over each other, crinkling the cold press of leather.
Mr. Kuznetsov frowned. The wrinkles in his forehead deepened, as did the crow’s feet marking his eyes.
“And you are here for… my properties?”
“Correct,” Rosalind said again. That was always the easiest way to buy time. Letting them assume what she was there for and going with it rather than spitballing some strange lie and getting caught in it too soon. “I’m sure you have heard that the Scarlets don’t deal much in land anymore since we merged with the Nationalists, but this is a special occasion. Manchuria holds vast opportunity.”
“It seems rather far from Shanghai for the Scarlets to care.” Mr. Kuznetsov leaned forward, peering into the teacups on the table. He noted that one was still half-filled, and so he brought it to his lips, clearing his throat for dryness. “And you seem a little young to be running Scarlet errands.”
Rosalind watched him drink. His throat bobbed. Open for attack. Vulnerable. But she did not reach for a weapon. She was not carrying any.
“I am nineteen,” Rosalind replied, peeling off her gloves.
“Tell the truth, Miss Mead. That’s not your real name, is it?”
Rosalind smiled, setting the gloves down on the table. He was suspicious, of course. Mr. Kuznetsov was no simple Russian mogul with business in Manchuria, but one of the last White Flowers in the country. That fact alone was enough to land on Kuomintang lists, but he was also siphoning money to Communist cells, supporting their war effort in the south. And because the Nationalists needed to snuff out the Communists, needed to break their every source of funding as smoothly as possible, Rosalind had been sent here with orders to… put a stop to it.
“Of course it’s not my real name,” she said lightly. “My real name is Chinese.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Mr. Kuznetsov had his hands resting at his sides now. She wondered if he would try to retrieve a concealed weapon. “I looked into you after your previous requests to meet. And you look an awful lot like Rosalind Lang.”
Rosalind did not flinch. “I shall take that as a compliment. I know you must be tuned out of Shanghai’s happenings, but Rosalind Lang has not been seen in years.”
If anyone claimed they sighted her, they were surely sighting phantoms—catching remnants of a faded dream, a memory of the vision that Shanghai used to be. Rosalind Lang: raised in Paris before returning to the city and rising in infamy among the best of the nightlife cabaret dancers. Rosalind Lang: a girl whose whereabouts were presently unknown, presumed dead.
“I did hear about that,” Mr. Kuznetsov said, leaning in to examine his teacup again. She wondered why he didn’t drink out of the second one if he was so thirsty. She wondered why there was a second cup poured to begin with.
Well, she knew.
Mr. Kuznetsov looked up suddenly. “Though”—he continued—“there were rumors from the White Flowers that Rosalind Lang disappeared because of Dimitri Voronin’s death.”
Rosalind froze. Surprise dropped a pit into her stomach, and a small whoosh of breath escaped her lungs. It was already too late to pretend like she had not been caught unaware, so she let the silence draw out, let the anger roil to life in her bones.
Smug, Mr. Kuznetsov picked up a miniature spoon and tapped it to the edge of the teacup. It sounded far too loud for the room, like a gunshot, like an explosion. Like the explosion that had rocked the city four years ago, which her own cousin Juliette had set, giving her life just to stop Dimitri’s reign of terror.
If it weren’t for Rosalind, Juliette Cai and Roma Montagov would still be alive. If it weren’t for Rosalind’s treachery against the Scarlet Gang, Dimitri never would have gained the power he did, and perhaps the White Flowers never would have fallen apart. Perhaps the Scarlet Gang wouldn’t have merged with the Kuomintang and become one with the Nationalists’ political party. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps—this was a game that haunted Rosalind late into her eternal nights, a useless exercise of cataloging everything she’d done wrong to end up where she was today.
“You would know all about the White Flowers, wouldn’t you?”
The curtain had come down. When Rosalind spoke, her real voice came out, French-accented and sharp.
Mr. Kuznetsov set his spoon down with a grimace. “The funny thing is, the surviving White Flowers also have enduring connections that feed us warnings. And I was long prepared, Miss Lang.”
The door to her left swung open. Another man emerged, dressed in a Western suit, a simple dagger in his right hand. Before Rosalind could move, he was in position behind her, a firm grip on her shoulder keeping her in the chair and the dagger positioned against her throat.
“Do you think I would travel without bodyguards?” Mr. Kuznetsov demanded. “Who sent you?”
“I told you already,” Rosalind answered. She tested whether she could crane her neck away. There was no chance. The blade was already piercing into her skin. “The Scarlet Gang.”
“The blood feud between the Scarlet Gang and the White Flowers ended, Miss Lang. Why would they be sending you?”
“To make nice. Didn’t you like my gift?”
Mr. Kuznetsov stood up. He put his hands behind his back, lips thinning in annoyance. “I will give you one last chance. Which party sent you?”
He was trying to feel out the two sides of the civil war currently moving through the country. Gauging whether he had landed on the Nationalist lists or if the Communists were betraying him.
“You’re going to kill me anyway,” Rosalind said. She felt a bead of blood trickle down her throat. It ran along her collar, then stained the fabric of her qipao. “Why should I waste time on your questions?”
“Fine.” Mr. Kuznetsov nodded to his bodyguard. There was no hesitation before he switched to Russian and said: “Kill her, then. Bystreye, pozhaluysta.”
Rosalind braced. She took a breath in, felt the blade whisper a benediction to her skin.
And the bodyguard slashed her throat.
The initial shock was always the worst—that first split second when she could hardly think through the pain. Her hands flew unbidden to her neck to clamp down on the wound. Hot, gushing red spilled through the lines of her fingers and ran down her arms, dripping onto the floor of the train compartment. When she lurched off the chair and fell to her knees, there was a moment of uncertainty, a whisper in her mind telling her that she had cheated death enough and there would be no recovery this time.
Then Rosalind bowed her head and felt the bleeding slow. She felt her skin knitting itself back together, inch by inch by inch. Mr. Kuznetsov was waiting for her to keel over and collapse, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.