The Healer likely assumes that I have chosen not to gift Juliet with Tybalt’s heart for reasons that are medical in nature. I would wager she thinks that my good sense has triumphed and that I lowered the knife in deference to divine Providence and my own inexperience. But this is not so. Here is why I stayed my hand:
For e’en if my brave procedure did somehow keep my beloved cousin alive, I was not sure that Juliet would be capable of loving Romeo with Tybalt’s heart.
And Romeo, I am certain, will live. I rise from the floor, feeling the heaviness of my blood-soaked skirt as I move toward Romeo, bidding the Healer to bring me her satchel.
From within it I choose a small flask in which there is a thick syrup. ’Tis a precious but unpalatable concoction derived from the ipecacuanha shrub; the plant is unknown in Italy, and this small quantity is all that remains of some given to the Healer by a stranger who traveled here from a place he called Brazil.
I take hold of Romeo’s chin and force his mouth open to pour a stream of the syrup onto his tongue, then I tilt his head farther backward. When I am satisfied that the liquid has reached his stomach, I quickly shift him to his side, careful to aim him away from the place on the floor where Benvolio has landed.
The syrup is effective. In moments, Romeo begins to gag, then heave, then vomit violently, purging his system of the poison he’s ingested. I apply pressure to his forehead as he upchucks and try to ignore the unpleasant smells and sounds that emanate from him.
When at last Romeo has finished emptying his guts onto the floor I use a clean rag to wipe his mouth. He breathes normally now, and the blue tint has vanished from his lips.
I turn my attention to Benvolio, who is just now coming awake.
“Rosaline?”
“Aye, Benvolio, I am here.” I extend my hand to him as he rises unsteadily. “Watch thy step,” I caution. “There is blood and vomit everywhere.”
“Ah, such a sweet talker is my lady,” Benvolio says, an attempt at levity which, surprisingly, I much appreciate. Viola draws near to me and takes my hand. She nods her chin in Juliet’s direction.
“She is dead?”
“Dying,” I say. “But not dead yet.”
Romeo stirs, letting out a ragged groan.
“He is well?” Benvolio asks anxiously.
I then lean close to Romeo’s face. “Romeo? Romeo, dost thou hear me?”
Another groan, and then his eyes open. For a moment, he simply stares, then, with a jolt, he sits upright, flinging his arms around me.
“Rosaline! My darling.”
Benvolio frowns. “Darling?”
I squirm fervently in Romeo’s grasp, but he will not release me.
“Rosaline, o, angelic one, I had the most peculiar dream—”
He begins to press urgent kisses onto my neck.
With a grunt, Benvolio takes hold of Romeo’s collar and gives a mighty tug.
“Collect thy wits,” Benvolio advises. “Then see if thou canst remember who thou shouldst be calling darling.”
Romeo’s face is blank.
“Think hard, Romeo,” Benvolio counsels. “The feast … the girl … the balcony.”
Romeo’s eyes widen. “Juliet! O, my Juliet. Then ’twas
not a dream? The wedding? The murders? My exile? The poison?”
Romeo’s skin turns pale. “Juliet. My lady wife, my love … I found her here, dead—”
“Not dead,” I say softly. “She merely appeared thus.”
“Then she is alive!”
“For the moment,” I reply softly.
“’Tis a most complicated tale,” Benvolio offers. “I shall tell thee all, but let us first away from this rank place—”
“No!”
I start at the fierceness of Romeo’s refusal.
Benvolio looks to me; I nod. Wordlessly, he takes Viola’s hand and leads her out of the tomb while the Healer gathers her paraphernalia. She too makes a silent exit.
I return to where Juliet lies upon the bier and kneel again beside her, leaning to rest my head upon the cool stones of the crypt.
Romeo’s hand comes to rest in a brotherly way upon my shoulder as he sits upon a nearby coffin to join me in keeping this solemn vigil.