Romeo lunged forward, all restraint fled. Tybalt met him in a clash of steel, both of them slipping in Mercutio’s spilled blood on the stones. One of the Capulet bravos drew his blade, and I lunged for him with a shout of fury, because, like my cousin, I needed to avenge my friend’s terrible, useless fate. I was aware of the striving of Tybalt and Romeo, but I dueled my own enemy—the bravo I’d chased through the city, who’d led me to this field of slaughter. He was as quick and deadly as any I’d faced. His blade slithered over mine in a lunge, and tore a bloody strip from my shoulder; we parted, circled, and I feinted high and lunged low, aiming for his thigh and the vulnerable vein there. He parried, and pinked me again, but he slipped on the cobbles and his point wavered, and I riposted hard and fast and ripped a thick red line on his cheek. He dropped his sword and staggered back, clapping a hand to the wound.

I stabbed him in the throat and ended him.

Not soon enough, since he’d told Tybalt what he knew of my secrets. I had to silence Tybalt before he could accuse me in public . . . and before he learned of Romeo’s ill-advised marriage vows with his cousin. Silence, but not kill so openly in the street, under a Capulet’s blade; this situation required quick, silent assassination away from prying eyes, if I was to save my house.

It was vital that Romeo not be seen, in public, to bring about his death.

I spun toward the other battle, intending to wound Tybalt enough to render him unable to speak—a blow to the throat would do—just as Romeo, down on the cobbles where Tybalt had toppled him, rolled and slashed, catching the Capulet—more by luck than skill—on his unprotected vitals.

Tybalt staggered back, eyes wide. For an instant, the cut looked small, but then it parted, and the blood, oh, the blood. He fell into the arms of his adherents, thrashing in his death agonies, and I scrambled forward and dragged my bloodied, hard-breathing cousin to his feet. His eyes were fiery with the fight, and his lips parted in a feral grimace.

It was all done, then. All hope gone. My problem had been solved, but Romeo’s, Montague’s, was only just begun.

I shook him, hard. “Romeo! Be gone from here. Tybalt’s slain, and the prince will see you dead if you’re taken; do you hear me? Be gone!”

The exaltation suddenly faltered in him, driven out by my words, and by something else, something much greater, and worse. He looked horrified well beyond what he ought to have done. “Oh, I am fortune’s fool!” he whispered, and clung to me for balance. “Benvolio—”

The Capulets were turning on us, screaming in their fury. “Why do you stay?” I shouted at him, and shoved him. “Go! Run!”