of the hilly Pennines.
She is not impressed. “That’s not a balcony,” she says. “You can barely fit two people on it.”
“Actually, it is,” he says. “It’s a Juliet balcony.” His voice almost doesn’t break.
She softens. “Named after Juliet?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a little romantic.” She softens some more. “Can you help me out of these clothes,” she says, “and maybe you can recite some Romeo to me.”
It takes them a long time to undress, to have their shallow baths, to be mindful of the wounds they can’t get wet. He dries her and changes her dressings, and then she changes his, as best she can, because her broken clavicle makes it painful for her to move her arm. They are bandaged, but they leave themselves naked, they allow themselves the small indulgence, a hat-tip to better times—for Julian in remembrance of the days gone by, for Mia, in hopes of the days to come.
Alas, that my love so tender should be so tyrannous and impolite, Julian whispers.
Finally I get my Romeo.
And I my Juliet.
Where is this tyrannous and impolite love? she says. Alas, indeed! When did we get so old, Jules?
He helps her into bed, covers her, and carefully lies down facing her under the heavy quilts.
The splint for his fractured forearm is inadequate. He must lie on his left side, but he can’t raise his right arm to touch her. His shoulder, shoulder blade, and the ragged, stitched-up back wound are on fire. With his index finger he caresses her skin below her bandaged chest. Even her breasts are bandaged, her nipples.
Are you sleepy? she asks.
Not really.
Do you feel like talking? They lie on their sides, face to face.
Sure. What do you want to talk about?
I want to ask you about something you said to Duncan at Bank, and to me at the Savoy.
Uh-oh.
When Dunk asked if you’ve ever had a thing with two girls you said it wasn’t the time for that kind of story, and you wouldn’t tell him even if it were.
Julian twinkles at her.
She twinkles back.
Is now a good time for that kind of story?
As good a time as any.
Well . . . did you?
Did I what? If you want to know, you might as well say the words.
Were you ever with two girls at once?
Yes.
She snaps to attention. Really?
Really.
She tries to scoot closer to him and hurts herself. Oh, no, she says. Oh God, I can’t move, I’m so sore. Don’t do this to me.
What am I doing? I’m barely even touching you. His index finger continues to draw small circles on her stomach. He can’t extend his arm, can’t lower it to seek out paradise.
You scintillated me into moving, she says.
Don’t ask questions if my answers distress you.
Wait. Let me get comfortable before you tell me more.
You want to get comfortable for this story?
Yes, I can’t have my body agitated by you. You’re going to pop all my bandages.
Is that what you call it?
Ha. Okay, I’m better now. Where were we?
Lying on his side, he gazes at her, his pupils amused and dilated, his body stirring. I’m still in love with you, he whispers. I’m so in love with you.
Still? I should hope so. You’ve known me barely five minutes.
He smiles, even though his cheek hurts. You want to hear a story or no?
Yes, I’m quite curious to hear this one. Were they the girls tattooed on your arm?
One of them was. Every story I have, Julian says, is about the girl on my arm.
The girl? You mean a girl. When he doesn’t reply, Mia asks to guess which one it was. Not MIRABELLE, she says. You’re too fairytaley and soppy about her.
Is that what I am?
Yes, and not Shae because—I don’t know—she seems kind of the opposite to me. Opposite of a fairytale.
Like a horror story maybe?
Kind of. I think either Miri or Mallory. They seem like the type to go for that sort of thing. If I had to pick, I’d say Mallory.
Very good. It was Mallory.
Tell me more. Who was the other one?
A girl named Margrave.
Were they both pretty?
Of course.
And naked?
Of course.
And you? Were you naked, too? Don’t tell me—of course!
He laughs, and it hurts his face and back and ribs.
How should we do this, she says.
Do what, Mia, says Julian. What would you like to do?
Don’t be naughty. Do you want me to interview you, like before? There’s no stage anymore. No audience.
You’re my audience. So, whatever you want.
Look at you acting all accommodating. I suppose you’d have to