And then the ghost—necromancer?—who had been killing Sisters to raise himself from the dead had stolen it.
For the last month, Runajo had tried desperately to think of any way to reach Death without the key. She had written letters to the Sisterhood, begging them for help. But nobody had ever answered, and all she’d been able to think of on her own was going to the Mouth of Death and joining the procession of souls that she had seen when she sat vigil. Vima, the priestess of mourning, had told her that whoever joined the dead souls became just as dead—but there must be a little difference. Juliet, dragged into the procession by magic gone wrong, had kept her body, and been truly alive when Runajo pulled her out. Perhaps if Runajo walked into the procession alive and willing, it would be enough of a difference. Perhaps she would be able to speak to Death.
It didn’t matter how slim the chance was. The only other choice was to lie down and wait for the whole world to die.
And that was why she was now reading the Catresou manuscripts, puzzling her way through old dialects and bad handwriting. Because she did not think that if she spoke to Death, she would come back alive. And if she died while bound to Juliet . . . well, some Juliets survived the deaths of their Guardians. But not many.
She had to dissolve the bond. Or better yet, make Juliet not the Juliet anymore, so that she could never be forced to kill again. But so far, no matter how many of the stolen Catresou records she read, she couldn’t find any mention of anyone doing either.
She couldn’t even find anyone who had tried. The Catresou had never, in all their history, desired to free a Juliet.
At least they had been considerate enough to keep exhaustive chronicles of every one. Sometimes she wished they had been a little less thorough; when they discussed how easily the Juliets had adjusted to the seals, how well they had been trained, if and how many children they had borne, she felt like she was reading the livestock records kept by the Sisters who guarded the city’s small, precious supply of red meat.
There were records, too, of the girls who had died under the seals, unable to bear the weight of their power. All of them without names. When Runajo thought of that, she felt a cold, fathomless rage that she didn’t have time for and didn’t really have the right to. So she tried to ignore it, and she kept reading.
The nineteenth Juliet is now dead. It is my sad duty to write the record. She accepted all the seals without injury and received her full power. Three years she served us eagerly and well. Her Guardian, Andaros Ilarann Catresou, was widely considered a swordsman of great skill and honor, but in this, the common wisdom lied. For he was found to be a spy in the pay of our enemies, and when his treachery was discovered, he commanded the Juliet to sell her life protecting his flight. She was captured alive, but he escaped, and therefore she was left still bound by his orders. Two months we held her in chains, but Andaros could not be found nor killed, and all were moved to pity by the torment she suffered. In the end, the magi devised a desperate plan: to bind a second Guardian to her, that the newer seal might overpower the first, and free her from the traitor’s orders.
Benario Valiet Catresou bravely volunteered for this task. May he find his way swiftly to the Paths of Light. For he died in the attempt; the bond was made, but it destroyed him. The magi believe that the Juliet, already having a Guardian, could not shield another from the power of the seal. The Juliet herself was driven mad, and in her rage slew nine of us before she was brought down. We have permitted her burial in the sepulcher, for it was only the treachery of her Guardian and then the weakness of her own mind that turned her against us.
There was a line drawn across the page, and then under it, in the same hand:
A girl, three years old, accepted the first two seals, but died upon the third.
Runajo sat back, her stomach twisting. She’d already read several accounts of Juliets turning against their clan, and always it was blamed on their Guardians, their families, or their weak minds. Always the records said that they were permitted burial in the sepulcher, as if they had not already paid more dearly for it than anyone else. She wondered if this Juliet had really been betrayed by her Guardian, or if that was just a lie to prop up the Catresou pride.
One Guardian replacing another. Her first thought was of Romeo, whom Juliet had tried to make her Guardian. But he was dead. And even if he weren’t—even if there were anyone left alive whom Juliet could bear to have as a Guardian—there would still be the problem of the new Guardian dying. Runajo believed that part of the chronicle was true, for Juliet had told her much the same thing once: the magic that created the bond between Juliet and Guardian was too powerful for any normal human to bear. The Juliet could survive it only because her body had been trained since infancy to accept magic, and the Guardian survived only because the Juliet shielded him through the bond.
So it wasn’t a solution at all. It hadn’t saved that long-ago Juliet, and it wasn’t going to save the Juliet that Runajo was so desperate to help now.
But it did mean that the rules could be bent. There might yet be some other way around them, a way to set Juliet free.
She just couldn’t find it.
She wanted to scream, or maybe weep. She was out of ideas. She was out of time. Because three days ago, a revenant had risen before it was even a single day dead.
Runajo had hardly slept since.
The other Mahyanai had been terrified, of course. But now they were all sleeping in their beds. Runajo felt that this was on account of them being idiots, but she knew that really, it was because they hadn’t spent time among the Sisters of Thorn. They hadn’t been trained in the lore of the Ruining, and the magical walls that the Sisterhood wove to keep it out of the city.
They knew that a revenant rising after just one day was frightening. But they didn’t know what it meant.
A year ago, when Runajo had joined the Sisters of Thorn, she had learned that the walls around the city would not last forever. That the blood sacrifices would have to be offered more and more often to maintain the walls, and in the end no amount of blood would be enough. That they only had forty years left. The knowledge had made her desperate enough to break every law of the Sisterhood, looking for a solution.
If the dead were rising faster, that meant the Ruining was changing, growing stronger. They might only have months. Weeks. Who knew?
Juliet’s life was not worth the whole of the city. Runajo knew this. She knew that Juliet would scream it at her, if given the chance. She knew that if the city were falling, she would do it, would sacrifice Juliet the same way that everyone else in her life had been willing to sacrifice her.
But she didn’t want to. She was desperate not to.
Runajo stared at the page, her eyes watering, and tried to believe that if she kept reading, there would be an answer. But she was losing hope.
In her dream, she was trapped somewhere small and dark, her throat dry as she tried endlessly to explain something, but her words were never enough, and everyone was laughing at her, saying Never forgive you—
Somebody knocked on the door.
Runajo sat bolt upright, her head swimming. She was in her bedroom. She was not, at the moment, failing at anything besides all the things she had been failing at last night.
Juliet was gone.
The knocking kept on. “Yes?” Runajo called out, trying to clear her head.
The door eased open a crack. A young serving girl looked in at her.
“If you please,” she said, “there’s a visitor waiting for you. The blue room.”
A visitor.
Hope and fear sparked in her stomach. Maybe somebody from the Cloister. Maybe somebody had finally, finally listened—maybe she was going to get help—