This might not be the only death I could regret today.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Mercutio. I bent and pressed my lips to his pale forehead, and then I ran for the piazza.

•   •   •

Tybalt had fled the place of Mercutio’s murder when I’d carried my friend away; he’d since returned, though his adherents urged him to flee. He stood still in the street, surrounded by his fellows, and his sword was out. He stalked restlessly back and forth, black gaze fixed on my cousin.

Romeo had likewise not put up his sword. Finally, some Montague cousins and bravos had arrived to back him, which was all, I thought, that had held the peace thus far—that, and the fact that they had waited to hear the news—bad news, I realized, that I was bringing. But it was too late to turn away; I had already been remarked, as I pushed through the crowd damp with Mercutio’s dying blood. Romeo’s gaze had fallen on me, and now Tybalt’s did as well. A hush went through the crowd in a rippling wave.

“How fares Mercutio?” Romeo asked me. He knew. Any man could see, from the evidence soaking my clothes. But still he asked, so that the answer would be clear to those watching.

“Mercutio is dead,” I said. It felt like fiction, though I knew it for fact.

Romeo nodded. He looked older than his years in this moment, older than I; he looked every inch the heir of House Montague, weighed down with the responsibilities of that office.

Tybalt, perhaps ten feet away, had gone very still in watching us. He could have put up his sword, and by all reasonable measures ought to have done so; his blade had already broken the peace, already claimed a life, but perhaps knowing that, he cared not for the future. I could smell the violence on him, and the rage. He was in the grip of a blood fever that only our two deaths would break.

“And here stands the furious Tybalt,” I said. I put my hand on my sword’s hilt. If the peace was broken, let it be well shattered and done. Mercutio’s death had been stupid, meaningless, and in part it was laid at my own door; if I hadn’t met with the witch, if Roggocio’s companion had not escaped to Tybalt’s side, then none of this would have happened.

“Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain,” Romeo agreed. His voice rose, and hardened. “My forgiveness has gone to heaven with him. Now, Tybalt, call me villain again—Mercutio’s soul is but a little way above our heads, staying for you to keep him company, and either you or I will join him!”

“You consorted with him here, and will go with him there!” Tybalt answered.