Juliet held up a hand. No, she said silently.
To Vai, she replied, “Yes. But little though I knew him, Paris is the only one of my kin who never betrayed me.”
“You won’t be party to his death,” said Vai. “You just won’t be flinging yourself in front of my sword, as I’m sure Romeo would have tried to do. Because you never knew him, did you? So you can’t be that desperate to save him.”
“No,” said Juliet. “He was nothing to me. But he is my kin, and he never betrayed me. And I do not want to destroy anything that is dear to Romeo.”
Her face was calm, her voice serene. But Runajo could feel the rage and grief beneath the surface, leaking through the wall between their minds, and she felt rage herself. Because Juliet had already been forced too often to accept death and murder, at her own hands or someone else’s, and it was Runajo’s fault. It was the fault of all Viyara. And yet there was no one to punish, no one to give recompense, and she wanted to change it.
“But you’re right,” said Juliet. “I know what it means, to be under orders. So I will not stop you.”
And in a heartbeat, Runajo remembered the ancient record she had read: the Juliet whose Guardian had betrayed the clan, and whom they had tried to save by giving another Guardian—
“I have an idea,” she said.
Juliet and Vai both turned to her.
“I’ve spent a lot of time reading records stolen from the Catresou,” she said. “There was one record—a Juliet whose Guardian betrayed the clan and fled. They tried to free her from his orders by giving her another Guardian, but it didn’t work, because he didn’t have a Juliet of his own to shelter him from the power of the bond. But I have you. If I write the sacred word on Paris and make him mine—I might survive it. And I might set him free of Makari.” She drew a breath. “But I know that bond is sacred to your people. And I don’t know if it would be worse than death for him. So tell me: Should I try?”
Juliet looked at her. It felt like it went on forever, the moment that she looked at her.
Finally she said, “Romeo wants him to live. And I give my permission. So if you think you can, then try.”
20
“PLEASE,” SAID ROMEO. “MAKARI LOVES you. Can’t you make him listen?”
The Little Lady stared at him, her blue eyes expressionless, and the back of Romeo’s neck prickled with unease.
Makari had summoned Romeo to eat breakfast with him and the Little Lady—he still wouldn’t give a straight answer on her name—and then he had left them together, guarded not by Paris but by another of the living dead: a man with receding gray hair and a potbelly who had still lunged as fast as a whip when Romeo tried to get to the door. There was a bruise on his arm where the man had grabbed him.
So for hours, there had been nothing for Romeo to do but sit at the breakfast table, stare at the wall and the empty teacups, and try to coax the Little Lady into talking.
“He’s going to destroy the world,” he said. “Is that what you want?”
Her head tilted just a fraction. She stared at him still. And then she said, quietly and distinctly, “I want to die.”
And Romeo couldn’t speak, because in that soft voice was all the despair of the dying world, and he understood why Makari was willing to tear all things apart for her.
He understood. But—
“I know a girl who was also captive to the Catresou,” he said. “They took away her name before she ever had a chance to know it. They tried to take her heart away as well, and she won it back with so much courage. And then she lost everything. Because of me, because I thought I could help her but I made everything worse.
“I know that I have to die soon. I’m ready to face it. But this girl, no matter how she was wronged, she never stopped loving the world that had wronged her. I just want her to have a chance to live in that world.” He swallowed, the grief an ache in her throat. “She’ll have to live in that world without me. But she’s stronger than me. She can do it.”
The Little Lady looked at him, her forehead creasing slightly, and he waited, but she did not reply.
“If we’re going to die together,” he said finally, “then please, at least tell me . . . what’s your name?”
She started to open her mouth—
And the door slammed open, and Makari strode in.
“I have a wonderful surprise for you,” he said, smiling at Romeo.
It was a familiar smile. Romeo could remember exactly how delighted he’d once been whenever Makari smiled at him, and he felt sick.
“Are you going to let me go?” he asked.
“Obviously not. No, your true love’s coming here. Everything ends tonight.”
“Juliet?” Romeo was on his feet in a moment. “No—please, you can’t—”
Makari paused to tilt the Little Lady’s chin up and give her a kiss. Then he looked back at Romeo and said, “I definitely can. If she loves you as much as you think, that is. I told her what would happen to you if she didn’t come.”
“It won’t work,” Romeo said desperately. “I’ve got blood guilt, she has to kill me as soon as she sees me, and then she’ll be free to kill you.”
“That’s why you’re getting locked up in the attic. Paris, take him.”
Paris stepped in the door, his face as terribly blank as ever, and seized Romeo’s arm in a grip like steel.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have the Juliet in your arms soon enough,” Makari went on. “Once she’s under my control, she won’t be able to hurt anyone unless I will it.”
“Please,” said Romeo. “You can’t really want this. Don’t you remember—”
The slap across his face left his head ringing for a moment.
“I remember,” Makari said quietly, “things you cannot imagine.”
And for a moment he did not look like Romeo’s tutor at all, but an ancient, furious undead thing that had cast the world into ruin and would ruin it further still.
Then he sighed, and said to Paris, “Take him upstairs, lock him up. And do kill him if he tries to escape.”
She’s coming here because of me, Romeo thought, sick with terror. Because of me.
He wanted to believe it was a trick, that Juliet would never throw her life away because of him. That Runajo would never let her. But he knew how brave Juliet was, and how kind, and in all honesty, he had never truly understood Runajo. And Makari had been so sure.
What it all came down to was this: Romeo should have died already. He should have died long ago, and then none of this would have happened—but if he had at least died at the sepulcher, or on Juliet’s sword when she unmasked him, then he wouldn’t be causing this disaster now.
Romeo glanced uneasily at the window. The narrow, dusty attic had only one; the shutters hung open, letting in a wide shaft of golden, late-afternoon sunlight.
He was at the very top of the building. If he jumped from there, he would die.
His stomach lurched at the thought. He could face that death, if he had to—but it wouldn’t really help Juliet, would it? Unless she happened to be in the street at the very moment he jumped, she wouldn’t know he was dead, so Makari would be able to continue threatening her.
Romeo had to escape. And then either he had to stop Makari, or . . . he had to find Juliet and die at her hands, so that she could stop Makari.
She might never forgive him for that. But he didn’t mind that, if only she would be all right, and the rest of Viyara.
So he had to get out. Now.
He looked at Paris, who stood by the door of the attic, watching him without blinking.
Kill him if he tries to escape, Makari had said.
“This room is a terrible mess,” said Romeo. “I’m going to organize it, for Makari’s sake. So it can be the kind of attic he deserves.” He smiled at Paris. “Will you help?”
He kept smiling as he waited anxiously. The lie would have fooled nobody alive, but Makari had said again and again that the living dead had little wits left—
“For my master’s sake?” Paris said slowly.