Friar Lawrence came at a hustling pace, with Romeo chivvying him along like a dog driving a wayward sheep, and when he saw me sitting by the gate he frowned and slowed. “Benvolio?” He offered me his hand. I stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, then nodded and wearily got to my feet. “Come.”

“We dare not,” I said. It tasted foul in my mouth, and worse when I swallowed. “If we’re recognized—”

“Ah, of course,” he said, and nodded. “I understand. I’ll care for the poor wretch. Go home. Take your cousin. I trust you know better than to try to see Mercutio just now.”

I did. I was not sure of Romeo, truly, but I nodded. I held the friar’s hand, looked into his eyes, and said, “Be gentle with Tomasso. He died bravely.”

“He died a sinner,” Friar Lawrence said, but it was not an accusation, only a sorrow expressed. “But even a sinner may be brave. I will see him shrived and buried; fear not. I will not mark his grave, though. There are those who would defile it, even inside the church’s precincts.”

He spoke as if he knew, and he likely did.

I put my arm around Romeo’s shoulders when he tried to follow the friar out of the gates. We watched as he walked down the hill, paused in front of Tomasso’s hanging body for a moment, prayed silently, and then lifted the boy to loosen the noose from his throat.

The way he carried the body, held close to his chest like a sleeping child, made my throat feel tight enough to shatter.

I turned Romeo toward home, and made him walk. “I swear,” he said in a raw, naked voice, “I swear I will find who betrayed him. Someone did, Ben. You know someone did.”

“I know,” I said. My own tone sounded flat and lifeless. And I did.

But I could not tell Romeo that it was my own sister, his own cousin, who had done it.

On my life, I could not.

•   •   •

In the end, we spent the day silently, together, playing chess. Neither of us drank, because we knew well that once we’d begun we would not stop until we drowned ourselves, for sheer misery. From time to time, Romeo would say something, always painful: “We should have stopped it,” perhaps, or, “They would not even let him mourn.” I scarce noted it, except as the punctuation to the roaring silence that filled the space between us.

When Balthasar finally said, very tentatively, “Shall I bring food?” it occurred to me that our family would soon be down to dinner, and our absences would be very strongly, ominously noted. I could not bring myself to care overmuch, but it was Romeo who—surprisingly—did.

“No,” he said, and stood up. “Bring us water to wash off the dust. We’ll dress and go down.”