I stare up at the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling.

The light from outside shines through the stained-glass windows, casting rainbows that flicker around the beams. It’s absolutely beautiful, standing in sharp contrast to the travesty that my life has become.

I crouch in my pew, a creature in hiding.

Over and over in my mind, I picture the doors to the church being thrown open.

I see my father and his men come to get me at last. In my head, they carry me, kicking and screaming from the safety of the cathedral. They deliver me straight to the Governor’s doorstep, a pretty little gift, only missing the bow.

I shudder at the thought, remembering the Governor’s coarse hands on my body, recalling the way they spun me around the dance floor. I’d rather die than go to that man.

Everything has gone so colossally wrong.

Tristan is gone. The one thing in this world that I had was him.

Now, I have nothing. No one.

Theo is dead, my parents are monsters, and the love of my life is shackled somewhere in a cage. He’s out of my reach, and once again, I’m powerless.

The thought of Tristan makes my heart race.

Being arrested is bad enough, but I can’t imagine that my father will stop there. Things in our world don’t end in convictions. They end in blood.

I see Theo, lying dead in that field.

Only now, it’s not Theo, it’s Tristan.

Tristan with a hole in his head. Tristan whose blood stains my legs. I see the nightmarish thoughts so clearly, me bathed in the blood of my love in the most unholy of baptisms.

My blood runs like ice through my veins. My dreams wither in my chest, seeming silly now that they’ve died. My hopes were nothing more than childish wishes.

No one in this world gets to be happy, least of all Tristan and I.

The realization dawns on me with the ring of utter truth. This was never going to work.

We were fools to think otherwise. Tristan is in chains, a man not long for this world. Soon, I’ll be a prisoner as well, my fate worse than death.

I stand slowly, the reality of my situation driving me to my feet. There’s nothing left to do. There’s nowhere to run, no happy ending.

I would be better off dead than in the hands of my father.

So that’s what I’ll be.

My spine is straight as I walk to the empty administration office, my head held high.

The short period I spent with Tristan was the only true happiness I ever knew. I feel grateful for it, even now. Through all of the pain suffered, all the lives lost, I don’t regret a moment.

I got to know love, real love. It was worth every tear.

I’m not crying now, not as I walk to the desk. Not as I pick up the pen. I scribble quickly, eager to be on with my plan now that I’ve made up my mind.

I am no one’s prisoner. Not anymore.

I will never be again.

I love you, Tristan.

- Isobel

I stop short in writing my last name. I’ve lived my life as a Capulet, and look where that got me. I think I’d like to die as someone else. Someone not bound by the horror that my name carries with it.

For the rest of my life, what little now remains, I’ll just be Isobel.

I set the letter gently onto the desk, running my fingers across my signature. It feels right.

My hand finds its way into my boot, grabbing the dagger there with a delicate, almost respectful touch. I feel good, knowing that Tristan’s dagger will end this.

One final gift from him.

My freedom.

I don’t tremble as I hold the weapon out before me; instead, I grasp the handle firmly with both hands. I think of the pain with a sort of numb removal, I think of my death with an utter lack of fear.

My lips pull back into a smile. Wherever I’m going, I know Tristan won’t be far behind.

It’s this thought that I cling to as I prepare to draw the blade into my chest, it’s his face I see. I extend my arms as far as possible, eyes shut tight in determination.

This is it.

I pull back.

“Isobel!”

I nearly scream in surprise, head whipping around wildly to see who’s called my name.

Father Lawrence stands in the doorway, hands thrust out in a calming gesture.

“Isobel, don’t,” he says, eyes pleading.

“Why not?” I challenge. “What possible reason do I have to go on living?”

“You don’t have to do this, Isobel. There’s another way. That’s what I came to tell you. I have a plan.”

I search his eyes for a moment, hoping beyond hope that it’s true.

“For Tristan?” I ask, scared of the answer.

He smiles, “Yes, and you.”

My heartbeat picks up speed, hesitant yet hopeful.

“What is it?”

He stares pointedly at the dagger, still held tightly in my outstretched hands.

I lower it slowly, still unsure.

“I need you to do what I said before, fake your suicide, Isobel.”

“How will that help Tristan?”

“With you dead, or appearing to be, he’ll have a chance. Don’t you see? With the Capulet princess dead, Tristan becomes unimportant. Your family only cares to hurt him now because he stands in the way of their plan. With you gone, there’s no plan to ruin. If we get your family off of him, I think we can get him free.”

My head spins, confusion racing through me. To be so near to ending it all, only to be brought back to the point of hoping…I feel faint with the effort of taking it all in.

“Will it work?” I ask, desperately needing it to.

“I believe it will,” he says.

I nod, feeling the possibility of another end flutter to life in my mind.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

He smiles at me. “Good, Isobel, just give me one moment.”

He disappears back through the door, and I turn my attention to the dagger, now loosely gripped in one hand. How close I came to ruining everything.

I slide the knife back into my boot, still feeling comforted by its presence. It’s a little piece of Tristan, something to hold on until I can hold him again.

Father Lawrence reappears in the next moment, familiar green bottle held in his hand. It looks like the stuff of fairy tales, the kind of thing a princess might purchase from a witch. The price, of course, being her soul.

I push those thoughts to the back of my mind. Father Lawrence is no witch, and I’m no princess. Not really, anyway.

“Come with me,” he says, beckoning me forward with his empty hand.

I follow as he turns, leading me deeper into the cathedral. We come to a door I’ve not noticed before, tucked as it is into a dark corner.

“This way,” he says.

I step through the doorway, inspecting the new room with hopeful eyes.

I see something I never expected to find.

In the very center of the room, sitting elevated on a platform, is a casket. It’s made of fine, dark wood, polished to an almost inconceivable shine. The fittings on it look like, and may in fact be, gold. The lining is of fine white silky satin.

“I know it’s a bit morbid,” Father Lawrence says. “But we do need it to look real.”

I nod in understanding. If I’m going to play dead, I’ll need a coffin.

“Should I...” I gesture towards it.

“Yes, yes. Once you drink the sleeping liquid, you can just climb right in. It should take effect very quickly. Anyone looking won’t be able to tell you’re still alive. It’s very effective.”

I feel hesitant, the thought of climbing into a coffin unnerving me.

Still, I hold out my hand. What other choice is there?

He places the vial into my outstretched palm, nodding as I close my fingers around it.

“You’ll see,” he says. “This will all turn out alright.”

I can only hope he’s right.

I unstop the bottle, sniffing curiously at its contents as I hold it up before me. It smells like nothing, not even water.

“Well, cheers.” I say, tipping the tasteless liquid into my mouth.

The moment I swallow it, Father Lawrence takes me by the hand, guiding me towards the coffin.

“The effects really should manifest quickly,” he says. “Best to climb right in.”

I do as he says, stepping into the casket, chills rushing down my spine as I do. I lay my head back onto the silken pillow, breathing deeply to calm my nerves.

“Thank you,” I say, gazing up at Father Lawrence.

“It’s my pleasure, Isobel.”

My eyes immediately begin to feel heavy, my body relaxing on its own.

I have just long enough to marvel at just how quickly this stuff works before things start to go dark. With one final thought of Tristan, I’m carried away into darkness.