"Nurse?" Colette calls to the old woman, staring after the fleeing boy. "Nurse, who is that?"

"Him? That's old Bryson's son."

"No, not him! The one who's leaving!"

"Oh! That's Alexander. A friend of Devon's. I thought you knew him?"

"No, no, Nurse! The one who never danced! Who I spoke to before!"

The nurse ponders this for a moment, dark eyes squinting up with thought. "Well . . . I don't know that one, Miss."

"Ask him," Colette pleads, giving the woman a slight shove. "Find out his name, ask if he's . . . you know, attached to anybody. If he is . . . oh, I think I might die."

With a sigh, the nurse throws up her gnarled, sun-browned hands, and begins to fight her way through the crowd. From across the room, Colette watches her catch the young man by the sleeve of his navy shirt. Watches the hurried conversation, the way, even from here, the narrowing of the old woman's eyes is visible. Her heart twists about in her breast, and fearfully, she waits.

By the time the nurse barrels back through the throng, to Colette's side, the girl knows something is wrong. "Nurse?"

"His name is Romeo," she says, her voice hardened slightly. "You've heard of him, haven't you?"

"Romeo?" Her breath comes to her in a little, horrified gasp. "Not him . . . no! The one who . . . that Devon says . . . "

Straightening her canvas apron, the nurse fixes her with a stern look. "Yes, that one. Romeo Fiore. If I were you, Miss, I'd stay away from him."

In this moment, a blade is thrust through Colette's heart. "No," she whispers. "No, he can't be . . ." Long-forgotten words spring, unbidden, to her lips. "'My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy.'"

"Miss?" The gaze has softened, warning receding.

Startled, she looks up. "Hm?"

"What did you say, just now, Miss?"

"Oh . . . it was nothing, Nurse." The lie drifts softly from her
mouth, so gentle compared to the ravaging pain that rests behind them.
"Lines, of a song. One I heard tonight. That's all."

"Hm. Sounded pretty," says the Nurse, thoughtfully. "Poetic. Like
Shakespeare," she muses. "Yes. Shakespeare."

Colette forces a smile to her pretty lips, nods. "Yeah. I liked it.
That's probably why I remembered."

"Well, it's off to bed for you. The guests are gone, and you need your
sleep."

Holding back the tears that brim in her eyes, Colette cannot bring
herself to argue. She allows the Nurse to guide her up the stairs, to her
room. She lets the woman brush out her hair for her, lay out the
nightgown so lovingly on the bed, as she has done every night for years
now. When the wizened old lady has left the room, Colette opens the
delicate, white lattice doors, and steps out onto her balcony.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~

"Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,

And young affection gapes to be his heir;

That fair for which love groan'd for and would die,

With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.

Now Romeo is beloved and loves again,

Alike betwitched by the charm of looks,

But to his foe supposed he must complain,

And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks:

Being held a foe, he may not have access

To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;

And she as much in love, her means much less

To meet her new-beloved any where:

But passion lends them power, time means, to meet

Tempering extremities with extreme sweet."

It takes so little, to move a young heart from one love to the next. The old is replaced with the new, and Romeo has forgotten Emily. Has forgotten his Rosaline, as I called her before. And that's what she was. Of course, she's nothing compared to Colette. Colette is younger, barely fifteen years old, with all the soft sweetness that comes with youth. Girls grow up quickly, after all, and this tenderness fades with the youth of their heart. Romeo is in love. And loved in return, this time. Both of them charmed by the other's face, by saccharine words exchanged in that heady, sweat-soaked atmosphere. In love with the one always forbidden to them, with the one they can care for only in secret, in whispers. He cannot tell her what he would tell another; that he loves her, that they'll always be together, that she's the only one for him. I've seen it before. Seen the hearts he broke. Well, he can't do that to her, after all. And she can't sneak out at night to meet him, to listen to his pretty lies and hold them close to her naive heart. Not that he'd know he was lying. Romeo always thinks he's in love, after all. He always believes that this time, he's found the one. But they can't be together, and he won't hurt her when, as soon as the next comes along, he forgets the name Colette and how it once made him sigh. Because of their families - because of Devon, especially, they can't.

But love will find a way. It always does. They'll find a way.

I'm an idiot. I should have realized. I should have kept him away from that party, not dragged him into it.

I saw them talking from across the room, and that's when I realized . . . Auugh! How stupid can one person get?

When his eyes filled with that glow, that adoring light they get sometimes . . . my hands clenched up into fists, and the marks my fingernails made are still there, red and angry. Almost broke the skin. Jealousy all the worse because I know I could have stopped it. It occurs to me that one day, envy of those girls --those pretty, innocent, girls whose hearts will get broken-- will turn my eyes from their cynical jade to a blazing, pained shade of emerald.

My mind is so strange, even I don't understand it some days.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~

Romeo is wondering if he can even go on. If he can make himself leave. 'Colette,' say the trees. 'Colette,' whisper the stars. 'Colette' is what he hears whenever a dog howls, when the other hounds of the city cry out in response. His soul rests not within him, but with that girl . . . that angel named Colette.

He has come to the garden wall where Mercutio stood, those hours ago. For a moment, he merely stares at the bricks, as if the answer to his troubles will somehow emerge from them, some sort of fey light to guide him to a solution. Then, almost without thought, he begins to climb. The rough stone hurts his hands, but he doesn't mind. His body's complaints are dull in comparison to the strangled cries from his heart. Voices are approaching, and, wary, Romeo hauls himself over the top of the wall, vaulting down to the ground on the other side. He lands on his hands and knees, and utters a muffled curse.

"Romeo!" Ben cups a hand to the side of his mouth, "Romeo, where the hell are you?" He is exhausted, and frustrated, and he wants to go home. "C'mon already!" Dark, curling hair flops over in his face for the thousandth time that night, and he ignores it. Where is his cousin?

"He went home," Mercutio tells him wearily. He knows exactly where Romeo is, of course. But what is the point of worrying Ben? "He's in his bed, asleep. Like we should be. School tomorrow, remember?"

"He didn't go home," Ben replies. "He climbed over the wall, I'll bet. Call for him!"

"Fine," replies Mercutio. "I'll call for him. I'll call . . ." He closes his eyes, knowing what will inevitably pass through his lips. Taunting words. Hurtful, angry, jealous words. Words to make Romeo angry with him. But anger is better than death, isn't it? And maybe this time, Romeo will come. He raises his voice. Calls. Conjures.

"'Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:

Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; Cry but 'Ay me!' pronounce but 'love' and 'dove.' Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, one nick-name for her purblind son and heir, young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim when King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!'"

Silence stretches on, and Mercutio shoots Ben a long-suffering look.

"'He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not. The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.'" A moment's pause, mouth pressed thin with thought. "'I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes! By her high forehead and her scarlet lip . . .'"

He pauses once more, and then a caustic, embittered smile flashes in his eyes. "'By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh . . . And the demesnes that there adjacent lie! And in thy likeness thou appear to us!'"

"Mer," Ben hisses. "I didn't mean to . . . look, you'll just piss him off like this. Stop!"

"Why? What's to be angry over? I haven't insulted her, his love," he snaps. "I'm calling for him. Just like you said."

Ben shakes his head. "Whatever. Look, he's probably in the trees or something. He's sulking, in the dark, alone. 'Blind is his love and best befits the dark.'"

"'If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, and wish his mistress were that kind of fruit as maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.'" Mercutio yawns, glancing about one last time. "Romeo! We're going home. Home, got it? I'm not fucking sleeping out here!" When no response is made, he turns to Ben with a shrug. "See? Not here. Now let's go."

"Yeah . . . stupid to look for someone who doesn't want to be found, anyway."

As the two head off, Romeo leans back against the bricks. "Idiot. He wouldn't laugh, if he understood love. Cynical sonofa- "

Suddenly, a light catches his eye. There is movement, behind the gauzy white curtains of a nearby latticed door. "Huh?"

A slender form is outlined in the pale moonlight. "Colette!"

'But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun'. . . . Juliet?

Romeo blinks as the lines slide their way into his brain and near to his mouth. "I have been spending way too much time around Mercutio," he tells himself, and stifles the flow of poetry that threatens to inundate from his lips. He stares, transfixed, up at the soft glow that illuminates the little balcony, at the beautiful creature standing there.

The girl leans forward to rest her elbow upon the railing, propping her heart-shaped face up with one hand. A gentle sigh drifts from her as she gazes out into the night. "Romeo . . ."

He freezes, wide-eyed. Did she see?

"Romeo, why . . . why did you have to be Romeo? It's Romeo who is hated by my cousin, and Romeo whom he has spoiled minds against . . ." Eyes fluttering shut, dark lashes hiding away the ashen colour. "Oh, if you were anyone else . . . Romeo, I'd be yours."

"Would you?" He speaks before his better sense can halt him- Steps forward, from the shadow, into the moonlight and into her view.

Colette screams. An ivory hand flies to her lips, and she staggers back in fright.

He flinches, startled heart leaping, and does his best to quiet her. "Colette! Hush . . . it's all right, it's all right!" Romeo draws a deep breath to calm himself, and continues. "If you love me . . . Colette, I don't have to be Romeo."

She shows no signs of having heard, pulling the white dressing gown closer about herself to better hide her slight form. "Who are you?" she demands. "What are you doing hiding in the dark- listening to me?"

"I can't say," Romeo replies. "My name is hateful to you, and so it is to my self."

A soft gasp of realization. "Oh!" Colette knows the voice. "Romeo . . . you're Romeo Fiore." 'Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?'

"Not if you don't want me to be." 'Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.'

"'How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.'"

"'With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt. Therefore, thy kinsmen are no let to me!'"

So love is proclaimed, through flourishes of the tongue, through bravado and youth's silliness.

Mercutio is halfway home when, even in his frustrations, worry pauses him. "Oh, God, Rome." He curses suddenly. "Why the hell do you always do this? Why do you have to fall for kids like her? And why do I always have to fix things for you?" He turns back toward the Capulet house. Stops again. "Screw it," he says. Bites down on his lower lip, toys with one of the little silver hoops through his ear.

"I am really starting to hate you," he says at last, "but you're not getting yourself killed. Not again."

Author's note: To those few that have been following the fic, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long for this chapter. I also regret that it's rather short, and not of the best quality- though I'm happy to say, Ben seems to have developed a personality. I've been rehearsing and performing intensively for a production of Grease. Yes, Grease. I'm a theater addict, no making fun is allowed. I've also been abandoned by my muses (who may or may not be merely the first signs of schizophrenia :P) Now that the show is over and I have time to think about things other than remembering the exact combinations of nonsense syllables to "We Go Together," updates should be more frequent. Thank you for your patience (and your readership!), and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

~Jiasa