Page 41 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“That makes no sense,” I whisper, even though somewhere in the foggy recesses of my mind, it does.
“I agree,” Sebastien says. “But it all goes back to Romeo and Juliet, whose story doesn’t quite end like you think. Shakespeare got it wrong. I know because I was there—I am Romeo.”
VERONA—1376
I hurl myself down the steps inside the Capulets’ mausoleum. I had been banished to Mantua, but upon receiving a letter with news from Friar Lawrence, I broke the terms of my exile and rushed back to Verona under the cloak of the moonless night.
In the good friar’s letter, he recounted how Juliet’s father had betrothed her to Count Paris, unaware that she was already secretly married to me, her family’s enemy. In an effort to thwart the wedding, Juliet took an elixir from Friar Lawrence that feigned her death.
The Capulets mourned her and laid her to rest in their tomb yesterday. But according to the friar, Juliet will wake tonight. I shall be there, holding her hands when she opens her eyes, and then we shall flee to begin our new life.
I stop short on the mausoleum steps, though, when I see her.
Juliet lies on a slab of white marble, hands folded over her gown of white silk and lace, hair arranged in soft curls around her angelic face. She’s beautiful, a porcelain goddess, the Psyche to myCupid. I know she is only asleep, but she is so still, it’s as if she’s truly gone, and my heart flounders.
But then I notice the quirk in her lips, a slight smile as if she’s committed some final mischief that no one else knows.
And I laugh. Yes, the potion. That’s why I’m here. It’ll wear off any minute. I run down the last of the steps to her side.
I sit, however, for hours. The torch I brought has burned out, and I’ve had to light another. As time passes, I grow increasingly anxious and begin pacing around the marble platform where she lies. What if Friar Lawrence’s potion didn’t work?
No,I tell myself.Only the estimate of the hour of waking is wrong.The friar had calculated forty-two hours. It’s only been forty-five.
Patience has never been my strong suit. I force myself to sit and wait.
There’s a noise behind me. I jump up, smile already stretching across my face to greet Juliet, hands ready to hold her, my lips ready to kiss her.
But she is still.
Instead, footsteps sound down the stairs.
Who comes to Juliet’s tomb?
I duck behind the marble slab on which the body of Juliet’s cousin, Tybalt, lies. I don’t want to be here, for I am the one who killed Tybalt. I hadn’t meant to, but the anger between the Montagues and Capulets had boiled over, and Tybalt murdered my dear friend Mercutio…
My thoughts are interrupted by the voice of Count Paris at Juliet’s tomb. He must have come to pay his respects to the woman he thought was his fiancée.
“Sweet flower,” he says, “with flowers thy bridal bed I strew—”
I imagine Paris caressing Juliet’s face.
And I cannot stand the idea of him touching her.
I leap up from behind Tybalt’s resting place. “Step away from Juliet.”
“You.” Paris draws his sword from its sheath. “Are you here to defile the Capulets’ tomb, Montague?”
“No, I—”
“I apprehend thee as a felon, and I hereby arrest you on behalf of the citizens of Verona!” Paris lunges at me with his sword.
Mine is out in an instant, flashing in the torchlight. Steel clashes against steel.
He swings.
I dodge.
He spins and darts in again. I narrowly avoid being impaled by his blade.
