“I will be free of my name.” Juliette looked up. “I will take yours.” There was a moment of stillness, a moment where Roma gazed upon her like he was trying to commit her features to memory. Then: “Juliette,” he breathed. “It is not as though my name is any better. It is not as though there is less blood on mine. You can call a rose something else, but it remains yet a rose.”
