I feel like that's something we forget a lot (at least I know I do), because yes, Roma and Juliette and Rosalind and Celia and everyone else are all teenagers/very young adults, and they all have their own tragedies, but for one second, imagine being Alisa Montagova.
Imagine being thirteen and living in a world made of violence and vengeance and gunfire. Raised in the rafters of your father's stronghold, hiding in the shadows from men taller than you, older than you, stronger than you. Imagine knowing everything about the world around you and knowing you will never be able to fully join it.
Imagine being thirteen and relying on your brother, older than you and yet so young. Imagine watching silently as he throws himself into the madness and the murder of Shanghai, as he and the Scarlet heir are forever locked in their dance around each other, as the violence grows and grows around you and all you can do is grow smaller and stranger and hope it never sees you.
Imagine being thirteen and mad, thirteen and held hostage, thirteen and watching your brother become a stranger, thirteen and kidnapped, thirteen and suddenly you wake up one day and your world has crumbled around you, Cais and Montagovs becoming Nationalists and Communists, the lines dividing the city redrawn in the blood of gangsters and workers, but your brother is back and you're all leaving all of this behind.
Imagine being thirteen and your brother, your family, your best friend, is gone, gone as soon as you turned your back on him, devoured by fire and flame and his own courage, and he may be dead, but he still holds you firmly by the hand and begs you to stay.
Imagine being thirteen and staying to please your brother's ghost, even though everyone you have ever loved is either worlds away or six feet beneath your feet, and you can't tell which is worse. Imagine realizing that even though the world is different, you are the same, and you can sell your secrets and your shadows, and make a new life for yourself, and if your brother gave his life for the hope of a better future, you may not be able to bring him back, but you can damn well make sure his sacrifice meant something.
Imagine being thirteen and running down a riverbank, chasing a boat, tears blinding you, and you don't know if it's grief or happiness, so you just stop and cry. Imagine a tiny ember of hope, lit within you one spring day, brighter and hotter than the explosion that took your brother. Imagine being fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, holding that hope and coaxing it into a roaring flame, yet trying not to think about it, because if you think too hard, it will blow out, and you'll be nothing, not even shadows. Imagine throwing yourself into old allies and new mysteries, always running, always looking around corners and hiding on rooftops, doing everything you can to stay one step ahead of the past, and not thinking about your brother.
Until one day, you tear around a corner blindly, and there he is.
And you're thirteen again.
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