JULIET WOKE IN THE ARMS of her beloved.
She had greeted three dawns in Romeo’s arms before. But every one of those mornings she had woken a dozen times before dawn, twitching awake each time Romeo shifted or she heard a noise from elsewhere in the house. In half-awake snippets, she had watched the sky grow pale until it bloomed with cold morning light, and she had pushed Romeo out of her bed in her haste to get him safely away.
This morning, she woke once before dawn, her heart pounding with sudden, nameless fear. But Romeo was sleeping beside her, and she remembered that she was his wife. That she did not have to fear discovery. That she was meant to be in his arms. And she lay back down beside him and slept until the risen sun was bursting through the chinks in the curtains.
When she opened her eyes again, Romeo was already awake. Morning sunlight danced in his dark eyes as he gazed at her with delighted reverence.
“I married you,” he whispered.
Juliet smiled, and reached to touch his face. “You did.”
But the world was dying still.
And those who lived had to pay the price.
Juliet had barely finished breakfast when Runajo, white-lipped, came to give her the news: Inyaan, the new Exalted, had decreed a weekly sacrifice.
“They have worked the equations,” said Runajo. “It’s the only way to maintain the walls.”
Juliet’s mouth felt dry and sour. “Even after Sunjai’s sacrifice?”
“Of course even after,” Runajo said bitterly. “Did you think we’d live another way?”
Her pain ached through the bond between them.
“Then we end it,” said Juliet.
The words hurt. She had never had so much to lose, in all her life. But she was the Juliet and she was the key to death and now that the Mouth of Death was dry, she was the only hope to stop the Ruining.
And she had always, always mattered less than what she could do for her people.
“When do we go?” she asked.
“I don’t know if we have to go anywhere,” said Runajo. “You might just need to open the way into death and let me go through. And not yet. Now that the Sisterhood will talk to me, I want to try some more research. We only get one chance at this. I need to be sure.”
“Is it safe to wait?” asked Juliet. “When the Ruining is so strong?”
Runajo laughed bitterly. “Inyaan’s pouring out enough blood to keep us alive another month at least. You can’t imagine how the Old Viyarans love her. They’re lining up to offer themselves for sacrifice. I think we can wait a little longer.”
But Juliet could tell that Runajo thought the time they had left was more little than longer. She thought of this when she watched Vai argue down Lord Ineo, negotiating on behalf of a new-forged clan than might not last another year. And when she walked the streets, and saw mothers caring for children who might never grow up. And when she leaned against Romeo, and listened to his heartbeat, and wondered how soon the final end would start.
On the third day after her wedding, Lord Ineo dismissed her before she had expected. She meant to find Runajo, to ask how her research was going—but then a servant told her she had a visitor waiting for her in one of the sitting rooms.
It was Vai, holding a gleaming, straight-edged razor.
“I hope that’s not a challenge,” said Juliet.
“No,” said Vai. “I’m here to ask a favor.”
“Why?” asked Juliet, genuinely curious. They had never been friends or enemies.
“Well, I hear you’re a woman.”
“Romeo tells me you are too,” said Juliet, eyeing her cautiously. She knew there were a lot of strange customs among the various peoples in the city; she couldn’t say she felt at ease with this one, but she had learned to live with the Mahyanai, after all.
“There he’s wrong,” said Vai. “I’m definitely a man. I have the braids and a dead brother and a vow to prove it. Did he tell you that, too?”
“Yes,” said Juliet. “Romeo thinks it’s very touching.”
Vai grinned. “Not you?”
Juliet often needed to watch her tongue these days, but after a moment’s hesitation, she decided that Vai was not one of the people who preferred her quiet.
“I think it’s an utterly abhorrent custom,” she said. “Demanding that your girls renounce their womanhood so they can raise up bastard heirs to their families?”
“Says the woman who wields a sword,” said Vai. “Not to mention those spells on your back. At least I was given manhood before I was compelled to fight for my people.”
Juliet crossed her arms. The words cut closer than she would have liked.
“And you?” she demanded. “Do you thank your family for what they did to you?”
Vai was silent a few moments. Then: “My grandfather was also born a girl,” she said, very softly. “He died when I was nine, but I still remember him. He told me once that he was never so happy as on the day his mother declared he would be her son.” She sighed. “It’s a finer thing to be a man than a woman, or so my mother told me. I should have found it easy to be just as delighted as my grandfather. But I never could.”
“You didn’t come here to tell me that,” said Juliet.
“No.” Vai pursed her lips. “Did Romeo tell you that there’s no one left of my people but me and my mother and my grandmother?”
“Yes,” said Juliet.
“I made a vow to be a man so long as my family needed heirs. If my father were still alive, and got a son on my mother, then I could stop. It’s a very traditional loophole. But my father’s dead. I’m the man of the family, and that means my word is law. Or should be; I’m not sure my grandmother has ever quite accepted that. But if I declare that our women can pass down an inheritance—well, she won’t accept it, but my mother might after we bury her.”
She held out the razor to Juliet.
“I’m not helping you kill your grandmother,” said Juliet.
Vai rolled her eyes. “As if I would suggest such a thing.”
“I don’t actually know you well enough to be sure you wouldn’t,” said Juliet, but she couldn’t help smiling.
“I’m asking you to help shave my head,” said Vai. “That’s what the women of our people do: shave our heads when we turn thirteen, and never let a single hair grow after. And it’s meant to be a thing that women do for each other, but . . . my mother won’t while my grandmother lives. My grandmother won’t ever.”
“And I’m not your kin,” said Juliet.
“No,” said Vai. “But you’re a woman. And kin to Paris, who was going to be mine. And you know what it means to pick and choose the duties that you pay to your family.”
I didn’t get to choose those duties, thought Juliet, but that wasn’t true. She had chosen to love Romeo and try to make him her Guardian. She had chosen to help Runajo in the Cloister. She had chosen to win the Mahyanai’s loyalty.
Even in her childhood, when she had done nothing but what she was told—she had chosen to be so scrupulously obedient. (And she was uncomfortably aware that even if she had a chance, now, to find her way back to being that girl—she wouldn’t want to.)
She took the razor. “I’ve never done this before,” she said. “I will probably cut you.”
“Well, don’t try to shave me,” said Vai. “I can take care of that myself. Just cut the braids off. That’s the part that’s ceremonial.”
Slowly, carefully, Juliet began slicing off the braids one by one.
“Thank you,” Vai said quietly as she worked.
“Paris cared for you and he was mine for a little while,” said Juliet. “These days, I think that makes us close enough to sisters.”
It was strange, for Romeo to wake without desperation.
He could hardly remember what it was like. He’d been desperate to save the Catresou, to atone for his sins—before that, to find the Master Necromancer, to save the city and avenge Juliet—before that, to find a way to be with Juliet—
Now he could wake in her arms and fear nothing.
There was also nothing for him to do now. The Catresou might count him as kin, but he could do nothing for them, besides exist as Lord Ineo’s son and Juliet’s husband.