That was how he found himself going back to the Little Lady.
“I don’t think I ever properly thanked you,” said Romeo.
The Little Lady stared back at him with empty blue eyes. Romeo knew now that she had once been a Juliet, but he couldn’t stop thinking of her by the first name that he’d known for her.
But that wasn’t really a name, was it?
“You saved Juliet,” he said. “You saved us all. I know you probably didn’t do it for my sake or hers, but . . . thank you.”
She was silent.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “They tell me you were once a Juliet, but . . . is that what you want to be called?”
Still she didn’t reply.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But I’ve heard Juliet and Runajo talk. I know we’re all going to die soon. And when I’m dying . . . I want to remember the name of the person who let me live long enough to marry Juliet.”
“I want to die,” she said, and the back of his neck prickled.
He knew that he was very ignorant about necromancy and the land of the dead. That Runajo was the one who should be questioning the Little Lady. That Juliet should be the one deciding what to do about what she said.
But she looked so lonely and so lost, and he remembered how they had sat together locked in the room where Makari placed them, and it had felt like they were prisoners together.
He remembered what Makari had never asked her.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “I owe you my life. I will help you any way I can.”
For several silent moments, he waited, and he started to think that she wouldn’t answer and that it had been a useless question—
“Take me back,” she said. “Open the door.”
She still spoke in the same soft, dead tones. But now she was looking at him, directly into his eyes, and his heart jumped and thudded against his ribs.
“How?” he asked.
“I can’t find the way,” she said. “I can’t go back. But you could lead me. You are the key.”
29
My dearest Juliet,
I will not beg you to forgive me. I do not have the right, when I do not regret. But I will beg you to understand.
The Little Lady—Justiran’s daughter, the other Juliet—spoke to me. She told me what I think you know: that if she is to rest, somebody must open the doors of death and lead her in. But she told me something else: when Paris and I broke the bone key with a knife covered in my blood, its power passed to me.
We are now both of us the keys to death.
And that means one of us must take her to rest. And I do not think the one who goes will return.
I know you are angry, and you have every right. I have wronged you greatly; I should have told you, and let you make this choice. But you are the peace between our peoples. You are the one who can protect us. So that means I should protect you.
And I am selfish, and I cannot bear to live without you again.
The Little Lady says that if I lead her back to rest, the Ruining will end. I hope she is right. But if you read this letter and the world is not healed, you may still need to follow after me, and do what I could not. So know this: the Little Lady told me that for the two of us, opening the door is as simple as spilling blood and calling on Death.
I do not know what waits for me in that darkened kingdom. But I know that whatever I may find, if there is any way, then I will wait for you.
With deepest love and resignation,
Romeo
JULIET, STILL SITTING IN BED, stared at the page. At the graceful handwriting she knew so well. Her body felt numb and cold, her fingers like weights, her heartbeat like falling stones.
He had left her. He had left her.
And now he was dead.
She did not doubt that he had managed to open the gates of death. Romeo had his weaknesses, but he had never, ever failed to do the impossible. And since she was alive and breathing, she knew he had not destroyed the world by doing so.
She did not know if he had saved them.
She did not know if she could ever forgive him. She thought this, and knew even as she thought it that it was a lie. Nothing could make her hate him for being too kind and too brave—for doing what she would have done in a heartbeat, if she had been given the chance.
Last night he had whispered into her hair, Do you know how much I love you?
She had laughed as she replied, Of course I do: a little more than reason.
And you, he had asked, how much do you love me?
A little more than vengeance.
And now he was gone. A death she could never avenge.
She realized that she had been waiting to weep. But her eyes were still dry. So she got up, and dressed herself, and went to find Runajo. She had fallen asleep over a stack of ancient books, her dark hair loose and tangled.
Juliet shook her awake. “Has anything changed?” she demanded.
“What?” said Runajo, sitting up. Then she looked at Juliet’s face. “What happened?”
“Romeo discovered that he’s also a living key to death. Because when he broke the bone key, his blood was on the knife. So he’s taken Justiran’s daughter and gone.”
The words felt jumbled and meaningless in her mouth.
“Romeo went into death?” said Runajo. “But . . . he didn’t read any of the records, he doesn’t have any idea how to talk to Death—”
“You don’t either,” said Juliet. “He wanted to stop me from going first.”
Runajo grimaced. “Of course he did,” she muttered.
“We need to find out if he stopped the Ruining,” said Juliet. “Because if not, I’ve got to go after him.”
“Well,” said Runajo, “I suppose we’d better find someone who’s just died, and see what happens.”
“People don’t die on command.”
“You have a knife,” said Runajo, running a hand through her hair. “Or we could check the gates into the Lower City. If the Ruining is ended, the revenants should all have died again.”
As they walked through the streets together, Juliet strained her ears with every step, twitching at every tiny noise. If the Ruining had ended, would there be a commotion? A terrible silence? Would anyone have noticed yet?
Without the Ruining, what would the world look like?
But she wasn’t going to find out. Because when they got to the gates, and looked down into the Lower City, they saw the mass of revenants still pawing at the doors. They saw the white fog swirling among the houses, despite the dazzling morning sun.
Juliet sat down heavily on the cobblestones. A moment later, Runajo sat beside her.
“It might not happen at once,” she said gently.
“You let me read that manuscript,” said Juliet. “You know how fast it happened last time.”
The sun was so very bright. It didn’t seem right, when Romeo was dead.
She remembered Justiran’s daughter saying, I want to die, and she thought viciously, I hope you think your death was worth it. I would have lived ten thousand years without rest, rather than be his death.
I have been his death.
Gingerly, Runajo laid a hand on her shoulders.
And then, at last, Juliet started to weep.
“I won’t take you with me,” Juliet said that evening.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Runajo. “I was the one who read the manuscripts—”
“And told me what they said. ‘Death will parley with those who pass the reapers’—tell me, which of us has killed reapers?”
“Which of us,” demanded Runajo, “has been trained in that lore?”
“That girl who bargained with Death,” said Juliet, “she wasn’t a trained Sister, was she?”
“She was one of the Ancients, a servant of their Imperial Princess,” said Runajo. “She probably knew a lot more of magic than you.”
“Or you,” said Juliet. “And if I don’t succeed, you can read my father’s notes, make a new key to death as he made me, and have a second chance. You know it’s logical.”
“But—”
“Mahyanai Runajo.” Juliet stared her down. “You owe me a life. Many more than one, in fact. So consider this my vengeance: you will not go with me. You will live, and do what you can to protect our peoples.”