Page 61 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“So hearty a dish?” I nodded sagely, feigning serious consideration over the veal and mushroom stew. “Well, I suppose I am feeling a bit tired. The monstrance clock I worked on this morning was rather heavy. All right, then, zürcher geschnetzeltes it is.”
Clara beamed, pleased that I’d agreed with her choice, even though it wasn’t a surprise, because I always agree. I would do anything Clara asks.
We are deeply in love with each other, but I’ve rushed the previous reincarnations of Juliet. I want to try a slower approach with Clara. Perhaps that is what will break the curse. Perhaps, if the relationship is done right, it will last.
She tended to her other customers for a while, giving them all the attention they deserved, even though we both knew she’d prefer to spend the entire lunch hour with me. She takes care of the diners not only because it’s her job but because it’s in her nature to be generous, just like Juliet the first time I saw her, when she descended the Capulets’ staircase and acknowledged everyone from the musicians to the servants cleaning up empty goblets.
When Clara returned with my lunch, that fetching blush again colored her cheeks. “I hope you enjoy your meal.”
I gazed at her and smiled. “I assure you, I already am.”
—
I press my fingers tothis last line, and a twinge of envy vibrates through me like a plucked violin string. Am I jealous of Felix and Clara, and the way Felix clearly adores her? Even in my early days with Merrick, he never looked at me like that. I think we liked the idea of each other more than the reality of each other. We were seduced by the potential that people would look at us and think,Wow, what an impressive journalistic duo! Number one and number two in their graduating class. How can one couple possibly have so much talent?
But Romeo and Juliet were the opposite; they didn’t give a damn what other people thought. Sure, their impetuousness was a flaw, but it was also love in its purest form, untainted by outside opinions. So yes, I’m a little jealous of Felix and Clara—their certainty, their quiet and deep history. This journal is thick, the pages weighted from nearly two years of ink and emotion.
And yet, it still ends. There is no volume two of Felix and Clara.
Bern, Switzerland—June 13, 1561
After lunch, I returned to the clockmaker’s shop. The ticking of the timepieces welcomed me back to work, their steady rhythm assuring me that all was in order with my life. Clara would come by in a few hours. She wanted to see the lantern clock I’ve been building for her. It was to be a wedding gift and would sit in the entryway of our future home. It was almost finished.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
At forty-three minutes past four, the lantern clock malfunctioned and began to chime as if it were midnight, and it would not stop.
At forty-four minutes past four, a runaway carriage flew through the streets outside the shop.
At forty-five minutes past four, the lantern clock finally ceased its chiming, but the sound was replaced by screaming in the streets.
At forty-six minutes past four, I found Clara’s body trampled on the cobblestones.
—
There’s a bunch of writingthat’s been scratched out angrily, tears bleeding the script until it’s just a mess of illegible smeared ink and heartbreak.
And then, lower on the page:
I have done it wrong again.
I thought patience was the key, but…
I’m sorry, my love.
I Do Not Know How To Save You.
—
The paper is partially tornat the word “how”; it was written with so much force and grief the pen went through the page.
Downstairs, the lantern clock on the first floor of Sebastien’s library chimes.
I start to cry.
