She remembered them all, and she thought, I am sorry. I tried. I am sorry. Good-bye.
Her fingers sank deep into the silky dust—
And it crumbled away beneath her hands. Drained, as if a hidden pit had opened.
Before her, in the dust, was a hole. Not a grave: a gap, and she looked through it, down and down and down into an infinite space full of darkness.
In the darkness, there were stars.
That was the only word she could think—the only thing remotely like she had ever seen—but these blooming, shimmering lights were not at all the same as stars. They were vaster and farther away, and small and close enough to cup in her hands, and they sang to her. Her heart turned over, and she wanted to smile and weep at once, and there was nothing, nothing, she desired so much as to fling herself down and be eaten up by their light.
She thought they might destroy her. She knew they would change her. And she yearned for it, because it felt like coming home.
But she remembered the light that was in Runajo’s eyes, as she spoke about seeing a beauty at the heart of the world. She remembered Romeo’s smile as he kissed her reverently, and kindled stars across her skin.
For their sake, she could wait a little longer to be consumed.
For the beauty unfurled beneath her, she could still bear to hope.
It was the hardest thing she had ever done, but she did not throw herself down. She rose.
And she heard a voice—so like her own—say, “Hail and well met, my child.”
She turned, and saw Death.
37
“I DON’T KNOW WHO ELSE has gone so deep in my kingdom, and yet looked back,” said Death.
Juliet couldn’t speak. A cold feeling blossomed behind her ribs, and it was like fear, but she was too dazzled and surprised to feel true fear. The song of the stars beneath still echoed in her ears.
No longer was she on the endless plain of dust. Instead, she stood on a little island filled with blue flowers and broken white columns. Surrounding her was dark water, slick and reflective as a mirror.
Before her stood Death: a girl her own age, wearing a red Catresou dress, dark hair falling free.
But Death did not wear her face.
It was like her face, but there was a shape to the eyes and chin that was different. There was no mistaking one for the other, and she wondered what that meant.
“I suppose you’ve come to bargain,” said Death. “Everybody does.”
Juliet caught her breath, and now she was afraid. Because she knew this was the final moment, the only moment that mattered, when one mouthful of words could redeem the world . . . or just as easily lose it.
Everybody bargained with Death, and nobody ever won. The reapers had told her this, and she still believed them. But she had to find a way.
“No,” she said.
“No?” Death raised elegant eyebrows.
Juliet bared her teeth. “Bargains are for equals,” she said, “and I know that you can use us as you will. But I came to tell you . . . Romeo returned what was stolen from you.”
“I know,” said Death, and smiled in satisfaction. “Already my land is healing.”
“Then why didn’t you end the Ruining when he did it?” Juliet could barely keep the anger out of her voice. “You have no right to hate us any longer.”
Death clasped her hands, pale fingers lacing together. “I hate no one. Do you not yet understand?”
“No,” said Juliet. “I’m not clever. I’m only the sword of my people.” She took a half step forward, feeling the terrible weight of the world swing upon her next breath. “And I only came to beg of you . . . let us go. You have us all in the end. Release the world from the Ruining, and let us live a little while before we come to you.”
“Do you?” Death tilted her head. “Do you beg?”
The line of her throat was as proud as Juliet’s father had ever been, and Juliet’s body shook with bitter laughter.
“Yes,” she said, and dropped to her knees. “Yes, I beg you. Do you think I would do anything less for my people?” She bent and kissed Death’s bare toes; they were cold against her lips. “Please, please release us.”
Death stooped to face her; she seemed taller now than she had before, less human. “Is that all you have to offer? Words?”
Romeo’s words had been enough to crack her world apart . . . but she was not Romeo. And Death was not a lonely maiden.
“No,” said Juliet. She drew a breath, remembering the tales the reapers told her. “I’m here to offer my life. And my death.”
She did not want to say these words. Even now, when life was so far lost to her, she wanted to save herself. But there were people to protect. She had promised.
“Make me a tree,” she said, “or a reaper, or a drop in the river of blood.” Every word was heavy as stone, but she did not cease speaking. “For all eternity, if it pleases you, let me suffer anything you like. Take me, as you took that handmaid of the last Imperial Princess, and let me pay for the world.”
There was a little space of silence where all she heard was her own heartbeat, her own desperate breaths. Then:
“That is not the bargain that I made with that girl,” said Death. “And even if it were—I never make the same bargain twice. And even though it is not—your life, child, is not half enough to pay for Romeo, let alone the whole world.”
Despair wrapped itself around Juliet’s heart.
Then Death shrugged her shoulders. “But you have done what that girl did not. You have righted all the wrongs of your people.”
Juliet stared at her. “All the wrongs?”
“Your people have been so reverent in their blasphemy,” said Death. “I cherish them for that. It was a very great blasphemy nonetheless, to seize the sacred words for themselves. You cannot understand how terrible. But now those words have been borne back into my kingdom on a living body. And you, sword of the Catresou, will you now relinquish those words on behalf of your people?”
Juliet couldn’t speak. She thought, It cannot be that easy.
“There will be no more Juliets,” said Death. “There are only two Catresou magi left alive, and when they wake tomorrow morning, they will remember nothing of the sacred words. Half the rites and the magics of your people will be gone. Will you ruin the pride of your people, to end the world’s Ruining?”
It should have been easy to say yes. Juliet had dreamed so long of finding a way to protect everyone. And this was not just protection: this was a new world, one not governed by the bloody, abominable equations of the Sisterhood. Where they could have a city that was not a charnel house, and their lives did not have to be bought in blood and murder.
And yet she was Catresou still. For one wretched moment she hesitated, remembering the prayers she had learned at her mother’s knee, the pride she had once felt when she stood beside her father.
In that moment, what gave her strength was Paris, who had become living dead, an abomination in the eyes of the Catresou, and yet still done his duty to them. She could bear that fate. She could accept it for all her people.
“Will we remember zoura?” she asked.
“All people remember it,” said Death, “unless they willfully forget. But that word your ancestors fashioned with their own tongues. So yes, you will remember it.”
“Then,” said Juliet, “yes. I yield the words back to you.”
Death smiled and laid her palm on Juliet’s forehead. Fire seared down Juliet’s back and across her palm. Juliet gasped, and she knew without looking that the words had unwritten themselves from her skin.
“The Ruining has ended,” said Death.
She spoke quietly, yet Juliet could feel the words echo through all of Death’s kingdom; they made the ground tremble beneath her knees. She did not trust the words, because she simply knew that they had accomplished their meaning.
The Ruining was over.