by Rachel Caine
I closed my eyes in sweet relief as Rosaline’s hands closed on my shoulders, and she leaned forward to whisper, “I would not betray you, Prince of Shadows. Not even today.”
I put up the sword, closed the balcony doors on the pounding silver curtain of rain, and braced them again with the wooden beam. When I turned back, she had sparked tinder to light the candle anew, and in its glow I saw there was high color in her cheeks, and a strange look in her eyes. She placed the light upon the table and sat, hands folded together. After a moment of hesitation, I did the same.
“Was he within?” I asked her, and saw the blush in her cheeks grow brighter.
“You might say it so,” she said, and avoided my gaze by fixing her own upon her hands. “Even if my uncle discovers this treachery and voids the vows they exchanged, Juliet will not go virgin to Paris’s marriage bed.”
I imagined her stumbling upon so intimate a scene, and silently removing herself without giving an alarm—because an alarm would do no good. The act of love brought the marriage vows to life, and Romeo’s sin was now made holy. It did not mean the Capulets would not see it undone, but Juliet would never marry highly, or marry at all, even if they cut Romeo down in the streets and hid the secret. The roles of the two girls had now been switched. Juliet was bound, at best, for the convent if they prevented her from escaping with Romeo; Rosaline, the untouched maiden, would be Capulet’s asset to spend now.
Perhaps Paris would take her. Or some other, richer man.
But not me.
Never me.
I felt a wild, furious urge to fling sense to the winds, to do what Romeo had done with his Juliet; my grandmother had ordered it. Ruin the girls, ruin the family; that had been her message, but it had been a hateful one, and one I could not believe had any place in Romeo’s heart.
“Benvolio,” she said, and her voice pulled me out of a dark contemplation—would she resist me if I took hold of her, kissed her, bore her back to that curtained mattress? Would she cry out for help, or would she sigh my name, rise to meet me, crave the same senseless release I did? “Benvolio, Juliet knows well that this is a fool’s course. Why has she done such a thing?”
“For love,” I said. My voice had dropped lower in my throat, and I could not stop gazing at her, not to save my soul.
She took in a deep breath and slowly let it out, but she did not meet my eyes. “Juliet is a child, but she is no fantastic. She has been raised knowing her duty to this house, and she has been at peace with it all her life. One chance meeting with a boy—the sworn enemy of her own family—would never overcome it. She might engage in flirtation, but this . . . Benvolio, this cannot simply be love. It borders on sorcery.”
She was right, I thought, and with a chill, I thought of the witch, of her talk of curses. Of Mercutio’s last words. “Madness or love, done is done, and this is very thoroughly done. Whatever passes now is beyond our ability to change.”
“Have you given thought to how it changes us?” Now, finally, she looked on me, and the color stayed high in her cheeks. Her fingers were restless, fretting at the wood of the table. “When this is known—and it must be known; she cannot be so foolish as to damn her soul with a bigamous marriage to Count Paris; nor would Friar Lawrence allow it—then Juliet will no longer be my uncle’s to give away.”
“You will be,” I said. “I know.” It impressed me how quickly she’d reasoned it out, even given the rapid shocks of the day. “I think you may no longer fear imprisonment in the convent, at least.”
“Perhaps not, but now I dread the other outcome. Unlike Juliet, I was never resigned to that duty, to marriage to a man I did not know, bearing children for the sake of family honor. I do not know . . . I do not know how I can manage it.” She was immediately ashamed of this confession, I saw, and turned the blade of it on me. “At least your station increases from this.”
“Ah, me, yes, I become the target of every Capulet assassin and ham-fisted fool seeking their favor,” I said. “Tell me again how great my good fortune might be, Rosaline. I fail to properly appreciate it.”
She laughed a little, and covered her mouth with one hand, as if afraid someone might hear her inappropriate merriment. She ought to be in mourning, I thought; she must feel guilt for that, too, for knowing relief that her brother would never torment her again. “I am sorry,” she said. “I should have guessed such a rose came with thorns.”
“Poisoned thorns, and poisoned wine and poisoned meat. I shall have no peace from my great fortune, I promise you.” I hesitated, then said, “And it is the last time the Prince of Shadows may walk the night. From now on, I will be only Benvolio Montague.”
“Only?” Her voice was unexpectedly warm now. “That is a great deal, you know.”
“A half-breed heir is hardly what my uncle dreamed of,” I said. “It is not so much as you think. The color of my eyes never lets them forget what I am.”
That startled her, as if she had never considered such a thing, and I liked her for it. “Your eyes are beautiful,” she said, and it was an honest and unconsidered thought, one she immediately regretted, from the way she looked away. “I mean to say, they do you credit, and—”
I stood up. She did, too, in reflexive defense, and her gaze darted to the dagger discarded near the bed.
“No,” I said. “I will not hurt you.”
“Will you not?” She licked her lips. I wished she had not; I wished I could stop admiring the shine of them in the flickering light. “It is what men do, hurt women.”
“Not all is pain,” I said. This was not how I had meant to bend the conversation, but it seemed to travel so on its own. “Did you see pain when you peeked in the curtains of your cousin’s bed?”
She looked away, color rising in her cheeks. “I do not think so.”
“Then what is it you fear?”
“Drowning. Losing myself. Being . . . being controlled.”
“Both may surrender in this battle,” I said, and somehow I had moved closer to her, fatally close. “And both may win. I know this.”
“From experience.”
I smiled a little. “I’m no child,” I said. “And men are expected to know a few things.”
Her lips parted, and her eyes widened, and I wanted . . . I wanted so badly just then to kiss her, to taste the sweet darkness of her, but to do it would be to drown, as Romeo drowned. I was not quite ready to trade my soul for it.
But oh, so very nearly.
I pulled away from it, and her, and I saw a flash of guilty relief in her eyes as she likewise stepped back. “I will trust your word,” she said, and she meant more than seemed obvious by it. “How do you mean to leave here?”
“Perhaps like Cleopatra, wrapped in a carpet?”
“I regret I have no carpet large enough to wrap your thick head.” We were back on even footing now, and she even summoned a smile for it. “The garden is too wet; you will leave tracks to betray your presence.”
“I will go out the servants’ door, as I came in,” I said, and reached beneath her bed to fetch the covered blue-glazed pot. She gasped, this time in dismayed amusement. “I was ordered to empty chamber pots, after all. Fear not. I’ll leave it there for your attendant to find for you.”
“You can’t—” I held up the chamber pot, and she bit her lip on a laugh. “You are mad, you know.”
“Though it is madness, there is method in it,” I said, and bowed a little. “Your servant, my lady.”
“I would give you a blow, were you not holding that thing.”
I put it aside on the floor. “Come, then. Give me the blow. I deserve it.”
She came forward and raised her hand, but when it fell, the slap was nothing but a gentle contact, and she leaned in, and then . . .
And then I was lost.
I had kissed her before, but lightly, gently, and this was no gentle thing; it was all the pent-up grief and loss and compromise we knew would be our lives from this moment onward; it was all that we would have b
een, could have been, and never would. It was madness, and magic, and in that moment I understood with fatal clarity how my cousin could have thrown away his life, and all our lives, for love. If this was sorcery, then I had learned to love it.
Rosaline Capulet tasted like all I had ever wanted in my life, and now I knew that for truth.
I do not know how she found the strength, but she stepped away from me. I saw how pale she was, how unsteady, how flushed and oddly awkward; I saw her hands curl into shaking fists, as if she would pummel herself for her sins.
I could not speak at all.
“You must go,” she whispered. “Dear God, what is happening to us? How is this possible? We are not fools; we understand the world. . . . This cannot be us. It cannot be.”
I shook my head. The wood of the door was at my back, and I used it for bracing until my legs had found their strength again. Then Rosaline backed away and took up the dagger from the carpet. She wedged herself into a corner as if terrified of her own passions.
“We cannot do this,” she said, and tears sparkled like stars in her eyes. “Please go away from me. Please.”
I picked up the chamber pot, opened the door, and escaped into the hall. I had the presence of mind to scrape loose the bread dough, and heard the lock click shut between us.
I was as hot as if poison coursed through my veins. Pick the lock, something in me cried. Pick the lock; forget all this; lose yourself in her. Let the future fall. Let houses burn, as long as you are together. Nothing else matters but love.
I thanked God for the sobering weight of the blue pot in my hands, and escaped down the back steps to the servants’ door; a bored guard gave me a glance and opened it. I walked to the jakes and dumped the thing, carried it back to the steps of the house, and left it there for someone else to discover.
Escaping into the rain cooled my hot blood, at least, and I spent an hour walking in it, staring up at the clouds, letting the water wash away thought and impulse and desire until I could, finally, get the strength to journey home.
I would have to tell them the truth about Romeo’s marriage to Juliet, but not yet.
Not until morning.
FROM THE HAND OF ROSALINE CAPULET TO FRIAR LAWRENCE
My faithful brother in Christ,
Today my lady aunt, the most kind Lady Capulet, has announced to me that as hasty as my brother’s burial might be, so must be her daughter Juliet’s marriage to Count Paris, who has most eagerly sought her hand. She believes that only thus will the tragedy of our family be healed.
We know why this must not happen.
Good friar, I beg you to come with all haste, as she is much distraught, and I am sure you know that her heart will admit no new love whatever comes.
I know that you are attending to the needs of House Montague, with the exile of the murderer Romeo, but I beg you come to our aid quickly, before terrible events overtake us all. You, good friar, must find a way to ensure Juliet’s happiness.
Your sister in Christ,
most faithfully,
Rosaline Capulet
FROM THE DIARY OF FRIAR LAWRENCE
I pray God will forgive me all the grievous sins that mount almost hourly before me. I thought that I abetted only a little sin, that of disobedience, for the sake of love, but now I find I am party to so much more, and so much worse.
First did I, against the laws of Verona and the express wishes of our prince, give aid and comfort to young Romeo, whom I hid against his exile from the city, though he was guilty of shedding Tybalt’s blood; and then, fearing Juliet’s despair would lead her to a greater sin of self-murder, God forgive me but I sent the boy to her bed. I meant only to sanctify the marriage they so greatly desired. I had no thought of the other consequences.
Now, with Romeo safely on his way to Mantua, Juliet is forced to marry Paris and forswear her lawful marriage. She speaks of daggers, and the great and terrible sin of self-murder lest her bridal bed be also her bed of adultery. I know not what to do. I will pray upon it, and let God lead me to His will.
Ah, the bells begin their sad tolling—for a wedding for Veronica Montague, and after, for the twin funerals of Mercutio and Tybalt. I must to the Lord’s duties, though my heart is ashes.
God forgive all I have done.
God forgive what I must do next.
QUARTO
4
The next morning was the solemn mockery of a marriage for my sister, Veronica.
I had slept not at all; my body ached dully, my eyes felt rubbed in sand, and I was of short temper as Balthasar dressed me in my finest clothes for the wedding. Well, at least someone would be happy today, I thought, even if it was Veronica’s aged bridegroom; Veronica would be happy after the night’s work of pleasing him, because she would have shed House Montague and become mistress of her own estate, with her own funds to begin her social conquest of Verona. After today, I’d have little to do with the girl, and of that, I too could be glad.
“Balthasar,” I said, as he straightened the hang of my sleeves, “I would have you take a journey for me.”
“A journey, sir?” He brushed dust from my shoulder. I could not tell from his expression what he felt.
“To Mantua,” I said. “My cousin will have need of a servant, even in exile. Would you go, to watch after him? He is still in danger. Capulet’s reach is long, and it carries a dagger.”
“I would be most pleased to be of service, but I would hate to leave you,” he said.
I opened up the chest kept locked by my bed, and took out a bag of gold coin. “This is the last of the Prince of Shadow’s profits,” I said. “There’ll be no more of it. Take it, with my thanks. I shall see you once the clouds have lifted, and Romeo is back in the prince’s favor.”
“Do you think such will happen, sir?”
“I pray it will. The alternative is that I remain Montague’s heir for life, and how do I deserve such a punishment?”
“I cannot think of a reason, sir,” he said, and the gold disappeared, tucked within his doublet. “Shall I take a message?”
“Only that he should keep himself out of trouble,” I said, and allowed myself a frustrated smile. “Though history proves that seems impossible. I should tell you that he’s newly wedded, before he blurts it out in drunken sorrow.”
“Wedded, sir?”
“To Juliet Capulet.”
It was the sign of what an excellent servant he was that Balthasar hesitated only a little before saying, without any surprise, “I see, sir; that is a complicated matter indeed. I take it your grandmother does not know?”
“She knows,” I said. “I told her.”
“That must have been . . . eventful.”
“In truth.”
He asked no questions, and I offered no details; the ferocious old harpy had all but accused me of collusion in Romeo’s folly, and I bore the mark of her cane in forming bruises on my back. Only the fact that she was so ancient had spared me from far worse. But she’d not tell my uncle; I knew that; my defeat was also hers. She had no cause to spread the word of our humiliation.
Only to dole such misery out to me.
Balthasar pinned a Montague badge to my chest and said, “You look very well, sir. I trust you will take care in the confines of the church, and along the way? I worry that I won’t be there to watch after you.”
“I will have to look out for myself.” I clapped my hand to his shoulder, and he looked away. “You’ve been a good servant and a better friend.”
He nodded without speaking, and slipped a jeweled dagger in its sheath at my side. Though decorative, it had a keen edge, and so did my rapier, which he belted on as well. It might give offense to the bridegroom, but I cared little what the greedy old man thought of me.
I cared about living through the morning.
Balthasar took his leave, and I joined my mother in the hall; my aunt and uncle descended the stairs a moment later, dressed in heavy velvets. Montague, too, was armed, but only with a dagg
er. I did not doubt the ladies were likewise encumbered, but those blades were concealed in sleeves, boots, or bodices. My mother seemed cool and distant, and she held a rosary that she had brought with her from England; I recognized the well-worn beads.
Veronica came last, and in a cloud of cooing attendants. My sister wore her wealth stitched densely on the gold-chased fabric of her bridal gown—pearls and sapphires, with the flash of rubies and diamonds at her throat and ears. She seemed much satisfied with herself, I thought, and I fell in at the front of the party with Montague swords before my uncle dragged me back by his side, to a safer position. Of course. I was now his heir, though he liked that fact as little as I.
The procession to the cathedral was made under the hot sun, and two days’ rain had become a miserably humid morning; the cobbles steamed, and so did I, inside my fine clothes. Veronica’s face turned pink from the heat, a fact that displeased her enough to demand fans and shade from her attendants as we walked in a block down the narrow streets. Gawkers had turned out, of course. Some wished us well, and tossed flowers; some only stared, and some spit and made curse signs when they thought they could do it unobserved. Near the piazza—busy as always—I spotted Capulet bullies massed in a clot of red, and they broke loose and pushed through toward us.
“Beware,” I said to my uncle, and pointed at the oncoming men.
“Walk on,” he ordered. “We are bound for the church. Let nothing stop us, certainly not some weak-bellied Capulets!”
And so we went on, and the guard tightened around us until I had to watch close to not tread heels upon those nearest . . . and just as we came close to the shadow of the cathedral, the Capulets, allied with others, sprang their trap. More poured from the street adjoining, and still more closed in behind, and then with a roar they sprang on us, knives and cudgels and swords, and the melee was on.
