The garden was full of the heady scent of roses. Bees lazily buzzed from one bloom to another, laden with pollen, as butterflies flitted around, their colours almost rivalling that of the flowers in the garden. The air was heavy and humid, the late afternoon light a tawny hue that threw dreamlike shadows. Not a breath of wind stirred; it felt like the world were hushed and waiting.
Beneath the willow, the air was cooler; damselflies hovered over the still waters of the pool. It was peaceful there; a perfect place for Tybalt to retreat to on those occasions when even his own room was not sanctuary enough.
Tybalt had felt restless, though he could not have said why; for once, he had no duties and his time for a few hours was his own. His room had seemed too close and claustrophobic, and there had been a steady stream of visitors to the house all day in preparation for the ball that evening. He had retreated to the willow tree with a book, but his mind would not settle on the words on the page. Juliet had often teased him for preferring printed books to digital ones, but he found comfort in the feel of the pages as they turned beneath his long fingers, and the scent of old paper.
He found little comfort or distraction in the book on this afternoon however, and after finding his eyes scanning over the same sentence for perhaps the fourth or fifth time, he finally gave up. Slipping a thin silk ribbon between the pages, he closed the book and laid it aside. He leaned back against the trunk of the willow, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and laced his fingers together upon his breast as he stared up into the branches of the tree.
It had been months since last he had sought refuge beneath the willow. He was a little disquieted to recall that the last occasion had been the night the assassin attacked Mercutio. He had little memory of what had happened that night – vague remembrances of reaching the sunken garden, then dim flashes after that.
He dipped one hand in the cool water, letting his fingers trail ripples across the surface. His hand looked pale and ghostly through the green water; he stared at it, fascinated by the way the light through the water played over his skin. Rolling over onto his stomach, he stretched his other hand out into the water, splaying out his fingers, and idly wondered what it would look like to gaze up at the willow branches through the green water.
He was disturbed from his reverie by the sound of voices approaching. He came back to himself with a start, pulling his hands from the water and twisting around to peer over his shoulder in the direction of the noise. One hand stole towards the knife that was ever present upon his belt these days; his fingers curled firmly around the hilt and drew it from the scabbard noiselessly.
He relaxed only fractionally as he recognised his aunt's voice. She was deep in discussion with someone whose voice he didn't recognise – a man, but not one of her usual parade of suitors and paramours. They were slowly approaching the sunken garden; he could see them through the trailing branches of the willow, though they had not yet seen him – dressed in black as was his custom, he blended into the shadows whilst they had the late afternoon sun in their eyes. From their demeanour he realised they did not wish to be overheard and were wary of being seen. Tybalt realised there was no way he could slip away without being spotted, and as they drew closer he rose to his feet and withdrew around the other side of the tree.
He hoped briefly that perhaps they would pass by, but that hope died as they descended the steps into the sunken garden. There was nothing for it. Sheathing his blade, he leapt lightly up, grasping a low branch and pulling himself up into the tree, climbing until he reached the fork of the trunk. He curled himself in as much as he could, his long limbs not best suited to confined spaces, and held still as his aunt and her guest came to stand directly beneath him.
"Are you sure we will not be overheard here?" asked the man quietly.
"My dear Paris, no-one ever comes here except my nephew Tybalt. We are quite alone here."
Paris. The Prince's cousin? Tybalt uncurled himself a little, leaning forward to catch the conversation. What was he doing here – and why the clandestine nature of their meeting?
"I was quite impressed by the reports of how he dealt with that, ah, little ambush," mused Paris. "I shouldn't like to get on the wrong side of him."
"Tybalt does as I say," Lady Capulet said sharply.
"Got him wrapped around your little finger have you?" chuckled Paris. "Him and half the men in your house I dare say."
Tybalt's lip curled in a sneer.
"Anyway, we're not here to talk about him. Have you considered my offer?"
"I have. I need to consider it further. Juliet is only 16, after all."
Tybalt felt his breath hitch in his chest. He shifted slightly, all senses alert now.
"You were married at her age, as I understand it."
"I was far more worldly at her age," said Lady Capulet. "Juliet is still an innocent, and her father would have her remain as such. He dotes on her."
"She cannot remain a child forever," said Paris dismissively. "And it's not as though I need her dowry after all. She remains the price of my co-operation."
Tybalt clenched his hand hard around the locket that, as ever, hung around his neck. The thought of losing Juliet in marriage to another man was in itself intolerable, but to Paris? A man old enough to be her father?
He couldn't breathe. It felt like a tight band of steel had suddenly clenched around his chest; he felt sick to his stomach, a faint roaring in his ears. He clung to the branch with one hand, head bowed, trying to regain his composure and remain unseen. He almost missed Paris' next words, but his head jerked up as Lady Capulet answered.
"Attend the ball tonight and meet her for yourself. Perhaps you may charm her sufficiently. Or if not, at least make a favourable impression upon her father."
"And Tybalt?" asked Paris. "I have heard he is rather... protective of his young cousin. Do you think perhaps he and she...?"
She threw her head back and laughed. "You do not know Tybalt! He looks upon her as a sister, nothing more. He has grown up with her and seen her grow from a babe into a young woman. He will understand that this match would be the best possible thing for Juliet. No, you need not fear Tybalt. It is her father and Juliet herself you must persuade."
She extended a hand to Paris. "Come, we shall go and take tea together."
"Wait – what's this?"
Tybalt cursed his foolishness. He'd left the book lying there at the foot of the tree.
Paris had picked up the book and was flicking through it. "Les Miserables? And in French, too."
Lady Capulet glanced at the book. "Tybalt must have left it behind; most unlike him. I do hope he has not taken ill."
"Ah, his falling sickness. Didn't he have a spell at the palace at the Hallowe'en ball? Caused quite the stir as I recall."
"No, an assassination attempt. I have my suspicions as to who and why."
"Oh?" Paris' voice held a note of interest.
"I think our dear Prince was trying to send me a message. If he thinks I can be frightened off, he is very much mistaken. Tybalt's little, ah, demonstration should have driven that home. It would take more than one assassin with a garrotte to take down my Tybalt." There was a note of fierce possessiveness in her voice. Tybalt felt conflicted; he ought to feel pride at her statement, but instead it left him disquietened.
"Ah. You have indeed succeeded well with him. Do you think he will play his part then?"
Lady Capulet sniffed. "Tybalt will be Tybalt. He is nothing if not predictable. Set a red flag at a bull and it will charge, will it not?"
Tybalt felt a cold chill ran up his spine. A hand crept to his throat unconsciously, fingers brushing the silk scarf he habitually wore. No. She couldn't have. She wouldn't. Not his aunt.
"Best be wary, my Lady; bulls have horns, as careless matadors find to their cost." Paris' voice held a note of caution.
"I am never careless," she sniffed. "Come, we cannot tarry long or my dear husband will begin to wonder."
Paris caught her hand as she turned to go then yanked her to him. She regarded him coolly then smiled, and inclined her head as he bent to claim her lips. He released her wrist to grasp her slender waist with one hand as the other drifted to her breast; she made an encouraging noise and he pulled her down to the ground directly beneath Tybalt.
Tybalt curled up in his hiding place, biting his hand to keep himself silent. As the sounds of lovemaking drifted up to him, he felt sick to his stomach. He tasted blood, and felt dizzy.
He had no idea how long he remained thus; after a while his legs began to cramp badly, but he held his silence. His aunt cried out, Paris grunting, and then there was silence. After a while he heard them rise, a rustle of his aunt's skirts as she composed herself, and then they departed towards the house.
Tybalt stayed in the tree a while longer; when finally he moved, he nearly fell as his legs threatened to give way beneath him. He slipped as he swung himself down to the lowest branch and fell heavily to the ground, knocking the breath from his body. He didn't know how long he lay there, sprawled upon the ground, but eventually he drew his legs under himself and managed to stagger a few steps to the edge of the pool. He reached trembling hands towards the water and splashed his face as he strove to calm himself. It would not do to be seen in this state. He paused and stared at his right hand, at the bloodied tooth marks. It ached, but somehow the pain was not as bad as that in his heart and the sick feeling in his stomach; indeed, it seemed preferable. Physical pain he could deal with; this heartsickness was unfamiliar and unpleasant. After a moment he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wound it around his hand. It would draw attention no doubt but not as much as the bite marks would.
He rose to his feet and began to make his way unsteadily towards the house. He had not gotten far before his stomach heaved and he vomited into a nearby rose bush. The scent which had seemed so heady and sweet now seemed cloying and rotten, and he reeled away gasping. He staggered away and headed back towards the house.
He almost reached his room unseen, but as he laid his hand on the door of his room Juliet called to him. "Tybalt?"
He turned, putting his bloodied hand behind him, and Juliet gasped.
"Tybalt, what's wrong? You look ghastly!"
"Nothing," he lied. "Perhaps too much sun. I will be fine after I lie down for a while."
She hurried towards him and stared anxiously up at him. "Perhaps you should rest and forgo the ball," she said hesitantly.
"No!" he said, a little too vehemently as he reached out to grasp her shoulders. "No," he repeated, quieter. "I will be fine, Juliet, truly. I – I want to dance with you; it has been too long since we danced. Will you? Please?"
The worried look on her face was replaced by an incredulous, delighted smile and she caught hold of his hands. "Truly? You want to dance with me? Oh Tybalt, it has been so long since you asked me! You make me so happy, I thought you would never dance again!" She flung her arms around him and hugged him for joy; his arms went around her to hold her close and it felt so right, so natural, and he wished he could hold her forever. He buried his face in her hair and thought of her in Paris' arms, and he closed his eyes and fought down the rage that threatened to overwhelm him at the idea.
"Tybalt, your hand! What did you do to it?" exclaimed Juliet as she pulled away and caught his right hand.
"It's nothing; I caught it upon one of your mother's rose bushes. You know how savage her thorns are," he said lightly.
"Oh Tybalt, you should be more careful," she chided him gently as she cradled his injured hand gently with both hands.
"Kiss it better?" he said with a faint smile. She giggled then lightly kissed his hand; he caught his breath. Never had he loved her so much as at that moment; the thought that she might be taken from him forever was unbearable.
"Go and rest; I shall wake you in good time before the ball," she promised him.
He smiled and withdrew into his room.
He fell heavily upon his bed and rolled over onto his back. His mind was a-whirl, his head dizzy from what he had seen, heard and felt that afternoon, but uppermost was the feel of Juliet's lips upon his hand, her arms around his waist, the smell of her hair.
He drifted into a light doze, his injured hand curled protectively about the locket.