For my sister Debie, the hostess with the mostest. I miss you.
ACT ONEBRIGHT SMOKE, COLD FIRE
1
The morning is cracked at the horizon as I come to the top of a rise in the lane, warm color just beginning to bleed into dark sky—a band of coral and gold that lifts gently humped clouds out of the deep gray like bits of driftwood. Ahead of me, the first threads of daylight are taking the measure of church towers, rooftops, and the crowns of cypress trees that bristle atop San Pietro Hill.
It’s breathtaking, to see my home this way—this quiet, this beautiful.
This distant.
There is no Verona without Montague, and no Montague without Verona, my father has said on more than one occasion, when he feels I need reminding. For centuries, our family has been synonymous with this city, my ancestors contributing their blood, gold, and labor to build and defend it; and, for good or ill, Verona is the anchor to which my own legacy is tied. From generation to generation, the Montagues have carried a destiny of status, leadership, and public, unflinching piety. My father makes it sound like an honor to bear the name, but more and more I find it a crushing weight. My future is one of two paths—knighthood or sainthood—and I must live up to both possibilities, at all times. Or else.
But if there’s no Montague without Verona, then why is it that I feel most like myself when I’m finally able to see it from afar? What cruel irony, that it’s only from such a remove that I can finally appreciate its beauty—the scattered glow of lanterns, like earthbound stars; the gentle warmth of terra-cotta tile and rosy marble; the spiking trees and looping ivy, so rich in green they’re almost black.
Out here, there are no rules or demands. There are no expectations I can’t live up to, no ironclad fate that I cannot escape, no future of empty gestures, tedious company, and strategic alliances. Out here, there is no Romeo Montague—there is only a boy and a vault of wild air filled with expanding color and flickering, dying stars.
Only from here, my feet in the dirt and the city’s lanterns burning against the rising sun, can I finally understand why my father always calls it “our fair Verona” in his many public speeches.
Even though, in my own experience, it is a deeply unfair place to live.
* * *
Church bells are ringing the hour as I finally reach the city gates, my legs weak from miles of walking on an empty stomach. I’ve no one to blame but myself for this suffering, of course, but still I curse the earth for the distance it forced me to travel. After all, as my father likes to say: If you can’t find someone else to blame, you are not trying hard enough.
But then, he never thinks I am “trying hard enough.” In fact, my journey from home this morning was prompted by something he’d said to me yesterday, after he let himself into my chambers and found me coloring in a sketch I’d made of some wildflowers.
“You are not a child anymore, Romeo,” he declared furiously, snatching the sheet of parchment out of my hands and tearing it in half. I was devastated; it was a piece I’d been working on for weeks. “You have seventeen years behind you now. One day, you will be the head of this family, and I expect you to behave accordingly! There will be no more of these … frivolous pursuits.” He shook the shreds of my artwork in my face. “Come the fall, you will either commit to an apprenticeship under me and learn to manage your future affairs, or else you will join the prince’s army and learn to be a man.”
Ever since I surpassed my sixteenth year, it seems I can make no choice that doesn’t result in a lecture by my parents, a litany of reminders about my duties and obligations—as if they could be forgotten. Already, the weight of them causes my heart to sink as I trudge up the winding lane that leads to the back of our villa, even though I just spent the better part of the last hour unburdening myself to the wisest man I know.
And, as always, his counsel was maddeningly obscure. At the end of every story is a new beginning. Whatever that means. But I suppose riddles are what I deserve for seeking advice from someone who talks to his plants.
My bedchamber is on the second story of our home, my windows overlooking the orchard and gardens that supply the kitchen, the stones ribbed with dense veins of creeping ivy. I’ve always loved the view I have, and in this season, it is especially lovely—a rich green sea blanketing the hillside, in which bob the pastel blossoms of coming fruit.
If I’m being honest, however, what I love most at the moment is that my chambers are on the opposite side of the grand staircase from my parents’—they won’t be able to hear me scaling the ladder of ivy to get back inside. Technically, I’ve done nothing specifically wrong; at my age, there’s no reason I shouldn’t be allowed to come and go as I please from my own home. But my parents rarely need anything as prosaic as a reason to make me feel that I have disappointed them.
As nimbly as I can, I begin the short but treacherous journey up the outside wall of my home. The ivy is probably older than I am, its roots growing sturdier every year. But then, I’ve been growing every year as well, and ominous cracking sounds underscore my progress. By the time I finally reach the ledge of the sill, I’m sweating under my cloak, and I cannot push the shutters open and dive through the darkened window fast enough.
My sense of relief is abruptly cut short as I collide headfirst with something warm and alive and angry. There comes a startled yowl, a fistful of tiny claws ripping at my collar, missing the skin of my face by a hair’s breadth; and then we’re crashing to the ground, a jumble of awkward limbs, tangled fabric, and frantic hissing.
As pain acquaints itself with each one of my tender bones, a ball of furious orange fluff leaps across my chest, streaking for the shadows beneath my raised bed. Sucking air through my teeth, I sit up, growling, “Curse you, Hecate! You don’t even live here!”
To my profound shock, I actually receive an answer.
“I’ll say this for Montague men: You love a dramatic entrance.” There comes a movement in the darkness, a figure stretched across my bed drawing languorously upright, and the waxing pool of dawn light brings features into focus: ginger hair, freckles, a strong chin, and an upturned nose. The sight is simultaneously familiar and annoying.
“Benvolio?”
“Good morrow, Cousin.” He smiles sweetly, but there’s a wicked glint in his eyes. “I do hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
Disconnected thoughts run through my aching head and then scatter like pigeons. My mother’s kin by blood, Ben lives on the other side of Verona, and I’m certain we had no rendezvous planned for these early hours. “W-what are you doing here?”
“All right, I suppose we can start with that,” Benvolio allows with a patient shrug. “As it happens, I was … visiting with a lady friend who keeps house in San Pietro, and on my way home I chanced to cut through your orchard.” He smiles, showing the devilish points of his eyeteeth. “Imagine my shock when I spotted someone climbing down the wall from my dear cousin’s window and then skulking off into the night like a thief, as quietly as possible and without so much as a lit match to see the way.”
The smug way he grins at me makes my stomach roll with nerves. I have no desire to explain where I’ve been. Even though he would understand some of the distress I feel over my father’s ultimatum, it was not the only matter I sought counsel on—and I absolutely cannot tell him the whole story. Flustered, I delay addressing it altogether. “Ben, that was practically an hour ago.”
“It was more than an hour ago,” he returns easily, stretching his arms above his head. “And I’ve been waiting here ever since, so I might find out where my prim-and-proper cousin is spiriting himself off to under the cover of night.”
It’s both question and accusation, and again I deflect. “Please at least tell me that, this time, the ‘lady friend’ you were visiting wasn’t one of our chambermaids.”
“That only happened once!” His cheeks go pink, leaving me both guilty and satisfied. “And, I’d like to note, it was her idea.”
“So then, who is the lucky girl who lives across our orchard?”
“Erm.” Benvolio coughs, looking away. “She’s somewhat reluctant to let our … association become known about publicly, and I gave her my word I would keep it a secret—hence our predawn rendezvous. It would be ungentlemanly of me to betray her confidence.” With an airy gesture, he concludes, “I’m sure you understand.”
“I believe I do,” I answer. “You’re telling me she has a husband.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, of course it sounds terrible when you say it in that tone of voice! But it’s not as though they’re happy, Romeo. He’s twice her age and treats her like an exotic pet. They don’t even like each other!”
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me.” Most marriages in Verona are arranged, and the picture Ben paints is not at all uncommon. “I’m not your keeper, and what your lady friends do, married or otherwise, is no business of mine to judge.”
Frankly, I’m hoping he’ll take this philosophy to heart before he gets to the point of his creeping into my bedchamber; but, of course, my hopes are in vain.
“I should say not.” He folds his arms. “There are only so many reasons the son of Bernabó and Elisabetta Montague would be sneaking out his window by moonlight like a common alley cat, and I am tired of waiting for an explanation.”
Thinking fast, my fingers worrying the strap of the leather bag slung across my back, I try, “I was making sketches. Of the countryside.”
Benvolio’s smug expression collapses into one of disappointment. And suspicion. “You crept out of your bedchamber to go sketching? In the dark?”
“When the sky is clear, the effect of moonlight on the river is really striking,” I tell him earnestly, and honestly. “My father doesn’t exactly approve of my hobby, so I’ve had to pursue it covertly.”
“Of course he doesn’t approve.” Ben frowns, and my heart sinks further. “It’s a womanly pursuit, Romeo. It’s fine to admire a painting or a statue, but drawing little pictures of flowers and trees and things … it’s what girls do to pass the time and make their homes pretty. It’s not a respectable hobby for a gentleman.”
My cheeks burning, I lift my chin. “I suppose you’re saying that Giotto di Bondone is not respectable, despite designing the campanile for the cathedral in Florence—which has been hailed as a masterpiece.”
“You are not Giotto di Bondone,” he points out with no hesitation. “You are Romeo Montague, and your destiny is not to design campaniles.” Scrubbing his hands through his ginger hair, he sighs. “Great things are waiting for you, Cousin—greater things than most of us could ever dream of—and this is the sort of thing that could hurt your reputation.”
“You sound like my father.” I cannot keep the bitterness from my tone. A part of me is sorely tempted to reveal the true reason for my moonlit expedition: how I was visiting a monk, because I needed someone to understand me, for once—to take me seriously. Someone I could be wholly honest with, knowing his vows require him to keep my secrets.
The orange tabby that foiled my entrance chooses this moment to reappear, leaping into my cousin’s lap and rubbing her treacherous face against his chest. She purrs, as loud as a millstone crushing chestnuts into flour, and Benvolio scratches between her ears.
“You gingers always stick together,” I grumble, weary from my lack of sleep, yet grateful for a chance to change the subject.
“Of course we do.” Ben’s voice drops into a maudlin coo as he pets the little beast, her back arching with every luxurious stroke. “She’s a little angel. Isn’t that right? Who’s a little angel? Who’s my little whiskered angel? You are.”
He blubbers nonsense at her in a truly embarrassing way, and Hecate purrs louder. I look heavenward. “I’ll have you know that your ‘whiskered angel’ there eats her own vomit and bites my fingers while I’m sleeping.”
“Well, she’s a cat.” Ben snorts. “Why do you even keep her if you don’t like cats?”
“I don’t keep her!” I exclaim. “Hecate doesn’t live here; she just … showed up one day, honing her claws on my bedding and trying to flay me alive—and now she won’t leave! I have been appointed my own personal demon.”
“Well, perhaps if you were nicer to her, you might get along.” Ben makes a face at me, relinquishing Hecate to the floor. Then, standing, he begins fastening the buttons on his doublet. “Now get up, wash your face, and shake off some of that road dust. You look like a plow horse, and I shall be embarrassed to have you seen with me.”
“Seen with you?” My thoughts are murky with fatigue, but I’m certain he’s just started a conversation in the middle. “Ben, what are you talking about?”
“I have some important business in the city today, for which I require a chaperone.” He smiles at me deviously. “As you’re aware, my father is to be married in six weeks’ time, and he has instructed me to have some ‘suitable attire’ made for the occasion. To that end…” With a flourish and a grin, he produces a bulging coin purse from his belt, swinging it like a pendulum. “He has bestowed upon me a rather obscene amount of money!”
“Oh no.” It is all I can think to say.
“He expects me to hire one of Verona’s finest tailors and commission a whole new costume to wear on his blessed day; but I, smart thinker that I am, have found a man willing to do the same work for less than half the price—leaving us a more than ample sum to spend on a day of good food and better ale!”
“You plan to swindle your father by entrusting a cut-rate clothier not to swindle you in turn?” When Ben replies only with an eager nod, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Listen, as much as I’d love to be involved in this doomed conspiracy, I really—”
“Did I mention that Mercutio might join us?”
I freeze in the middle of my sentence. “Oh. He … he might?”
“I thought that would get your attention.” His tone is dry, but I read a dozen or more meanings into his statement before he continues, “Yes, really. You know, he’s not a celebrity, Romeo, no matter how much you worship him. He’s just an ordinary person, like the rest of us. Only with much worse table manners.”
“I do not ‘worship’ him!” I protest, heat flooding into my face.
“You do.” My cousin shrugs into his coat and gives me a stubborn look. “You always have! Even when we were little, it was always, ‘Mercutio this’ and ‘Mercutio that.’ As if he was the friend you actually wanted and I was the one you had to tolerate.”
My heartbeat slows back down as I realize that we are talking more about my cousin’s ego than we are about me. “Don’t be silly, Ben. Of course I admire Mercutio—despite his bad table manners—but you are my favorite relation, and always will be.”
“I’m your only relation within a two-days’ journey that isn’t either ten years older or ten years younger than you,” he points out in a surly grumble, “but I accept your apology. Now change into something less filthy than those rags. We have a lot of establishments to visit today, and my tailor won’t remain sober for very long.”
With a self-pitying groan, I turn to my armoire. “Oh, all right, fine. Maybe if I’m lucky, your drunken tailor will sew your mouth shut.”
“If you were lucky, you’d have been the one born with my devastating good looks.”
As I shake out my cloak and change my admittedly grubby hose, we trade a few more barbs in the perpetual battle of wits neither of us is ever going to win; and by the time we leave my chambers, I have gotten him to forget the reason he sneaked into them in the first place.
2
Any optimism I feel, however, does not even last the trip to the front door of my home. We’re only halfway across the central courtyard when my frighteningly stealthy mother appears without warning, bursting from the shadowed loggia that leads to the parlor. I actually yelp a little.
“Romeo? Where are you off to so early?” She frowns, staring at me like she expects to find some guilty confession written across my face. I’m twice as glad now that I risked life and limb on those ivy vines, because it feels almost as if she’s been lying in wait for me. “You’re not going hunting, are you? That would last all day, and I need you to carry some letters into the city for me. They’re terribly important, and these new servants can’t be—”
“Good morrow, Aunt Elisabetta,” Ben interrupts her with a dazzling grin, making me twice as grateful that he’s here. He’s always been my mother’s favorite nephew. “How wonderful that you’re up! I was afraid I wouldn’t see you.”
“Benvolio!” My mother’s pinched expression smooths instantly into a delighted smile. “I didn’t even notice you at first. What brings you out this way before the bells have even struck Prime? And, Romeo, why didn’t you tell me we were to expect—”
“I’m afraid I rather surprised him with my company,” Ben says, taking her hand and bowing over it in an exaggerated show of grace. “My father is set to remarry at the end of next month, and I’m afraid I need help having the proper vestments made, so I thought of Romeo. Who knows fabric and clothing better than a Montague?”
“Oh yes.” And just like that, my mother’s expression pinches again. “I forgot about your father’s upcoming venture. I do hope it’s a success.”
Her smile is tart enough to make my own mouth pucker. She didn’t like Ben’s father—a fact she does not bother to keep secret—never believing him quite good enough for her youngest sister, Caterina. And even though her sister died in childbirth, some seventeen years ago, she still sees this new marriage as an act of infidelity.
“I’ll be sure to pass along your sentiments,” my cousin says, taking me by the arm and maneuvering past her. “But we had better be going. The day awaits!”
“How long do you think you’ll be?” Mother regains her composure instantly, falling into step behind us as we hurry over the paving stones. “It’s vital that my correspondence goes to the city today, and—”
“Unfortunately, I suspect it will take some time,” Ben interrupts again, moving faster. “There are so many decisions to be made, and I’m such a dunce about these things. Besides, my father is insisting that I attend some awful ceremony today at the courthouse, and I absolutely cannot go alone.” With a sigh of tremendous long-suffering, he continues, “These ridiculous fetes are invariably swarming with highborn girls on the hunt for a husband, and I will need someone to help keep me out of trouble!”
If he knows nothing else, Ben at least knows how to speak to his audience; in a heartbeat, my mother’s attitude shifts. “Well. I suppose I can spare Romeo for the afternoon. Heaven knows it would do him some good to attend a party once in a while with some of the eligible young ladies of our fair city. You know, when I was your age, I was already two years married and—”
“—and heavy with your first child, yes, we know.” I try to temper my impatience. “But I’m still younger than Father was when he first met you. Perhaps I take after him.”
“Yes, well. Perhaps.” She huffs out a discontented breath. “It’s different for men, of course. There’s no hourglass waiting to run out on you, and you may take all the time you like to grow up and settle down.”
“Growing up is a waste of time,” Ben interjects flatly, “and our bones shall have an eternity to settle after they’re laid to rest. Men like Romeo and I are meant to lead exciting lives, Aunt Elisabetta! Besides, who shall keep me from gambling away my money and fighting in taverns if my cousin abandons me for a wife?”
“You jest far too much, Nephew!” My mother wags a finger at him. “There is more to an exciting life than just games of chance and broken ribs, and you can’t remain a young bachelor forever.” To me, she adds, “And are such cheap thrills truly more rewarding than giving your poor mother a grandchild before she dies?”
“You are going to outlive us all, and you know it,” I reply, eager to cut off that thought. “Besides, I’ve yet to meet a girl who can hold my interest for more than a season, let alone one I wish to be the mother of my children!”
“It can happen faster than you imagine, my darling,” she says, almost fondly. “And better that it happens now, with a young lady of appropriate standing, than if your father elects to make the decision for you.”
This is not advice but a warning, and a quick, clammy wave of panic rolls through me. Yet another aspect of my future that I won’t be consulted on, a looming choice that won’t really be my choice at all. I’ve always known I would be married someday, and always envisioned that stage of my future as an oil portrait: me, looking distinguished, standing with an elegant bride, surrounded by our children. But that future has always felt a long way off, and the woman in my imagining was always hazy and indistinct.
Now the future is coming at me a little faster with every passing day, and I still cannot make the bride in that imaginary portrait take on recognizable features. There are plenty of ladies in Verona whose company I enjoy well enough, but not one with whom I can imagine sharing the sort of life, the sort of confidences, my parents share with each other. Their own marriage was arranged—they were practically strangers when they wed—and what affection they share today was bought with years of mutual negotiation.
But what if I’m not built for the same sort of work?
Benvolio talks about girls the way I try to talk to him about sunlight—how magical it is, how undefinable, how exquisitely beautiful in all its permutations; at any given time, he is pursuing multiple paramours, and each one is uniquely alluring, uniquely irresistible. But I have never felt that way about any girl. Why have I never felt that way?
“Fear not, Aunt Elisabetta,” Ben says, shoving me ahead of him into the grand entrance hall. His manner is still just as suave as ever, but I know him well enough to sense his growing impatience. “There will be heaps of delightful and appropriate young ladies at the courthouse, and I shall see to it that Romeo is buried beneath them all.”
When we’re outside again, the morning sky painted bright and decorated with birds, I draw as much fresh air into my lungs as I can. Heat is already gathering in these early hours, warming the golden dust under our feet and drawing a heady, resinous scent from the cypress trees that line the road. I try to let it fill me, to chase away my worries. But there is a sour feeling in my gut, a grim underside to all my thoughts, and it won’t be washed clean that easily.
“If Aunt Elisabetta has her way,” Benvolio murmurs under his breath as we trudge down the lane, “you will be strapped to your marriage bed for the convenience of producing grandchildren.”
“If she had her way, I’d have been married for some three years already.” A dull ache has begun to form in my head. “The instant my fourteenth year began, she was pestering my father to seek a match for me.”
“This world is terribly unfair.” Ben shakes his head in frustration. “Your mother is practically begging you to woo as many beautiful girls as you possibly can, while my father has all but threatened to castrate me if I don’t stop! There is no justice.”
“My mother does not care if they are beautiful, or if I have any interest in them; she cares only if they are eligible and of a proper station,” I point out wearily. “She wants me to find a wife, not pleasure. If I carried on with girls the way you do, she would be just as tyrannical about it as your father.”
“She has given you license to be licentious, and you are sulking about it.” He shakes his head again. “Honestly, Romeo, sometimes it is nearly impossible to understand you.”
I swallow any answer I might give to this, and feel that grim underside expanding. Although Benvolio is possibly my closest friend, there are still so many ways in which we seem to talk and think at cross-purposes—and, lately, those instances have become more and more frequent.
We were seven the first time Ben fell in love, with a girl who got mad at him for chasing pigeons in the piazza. For weeks, she was the only thing he could talk about. Her shiny hair, the way her eyes flashed when she’d shouted at him—he was infatuated.
By the time he was thirteen, he had a new infatuation every week, one girl after another capturing his attention. At first, I assumed his perpetual frenzy of desire was the result of some overactive glands, but then the same syndrome began to spread through all our friends. It was an epidemic of girl-madness, and somehow I seemed to be the only one who was immune.
But at the same time, I was starting to have a lot of feelings—confusing, intense, and unignorable feelings—that I didn’t completely understand.
And most of them had to do with our good friend Mercutio.
Two years older than me, and the son of a distinguished judge, he was the most remarkable boy I knew. Taller and stronger than the rest of us, smarter and more daring, funnier and more charming, more interesting, more present, somehow. Certainly, he was the most handsome of us. There wasn’t another person in Verona, boy or man or otherwise, who seemed as good-looking as Mercutio.
I was desperate to impress him, to be his favorite, to gain his respect. I wanted to be him, and I used to practice all his familiar gestures and expressions at home in the mirror. In my fantasies, I would wake up to find myself transformed—not into a copy of Mercutio, exactly, but maybe into someone he would recognize as his equal.
And then one night I dreamed that Mercutio kissed me.
I had awoken with a start, hot and cold all over at once. What I had conjured in my sleep was no casual press of lip to cheek, either; it was a true kiss, performed with the same passion Mercutio often spoke of when telling us about his romantic exploits with girls. The dream throbbed in my memory, frightening and exciting all at once, and every time I let myself revisit it, warmth would flood my stomach and pressure would build in my groin.
It was the moment I began to realize that something about me was different.
My condition is not unheard of. For example, it’s an open secret that the prince’s brother spends considerably less time with his wife than he does with the captain of his personal guard. But what a relative of Prince Escalus does in private is no one’s business—not even his wife’s. People will only speak of it obliquely, or in hushed whispers, and always, always, with a patina of scandal.
No matter how badly I wanted to know more about why I felt these things, and what they meant, and how I was supposed to make any sense of them, I was also instinctively aware that I should never ask about it directly. To seek information would be seen as a confession—and the prince is no brother of mine. Surely, there was a reason the truth had to be so hidden?
My parents expected me to marry and produce heirs; my friends expected me to chase girls and brag about my successes. And yet no girl made me half so weak in the knees as Mercutio did. And I had no idea what that truly meant—for me or about me.
“I hope you don’t intend to be this quiet and broody all day long,” Ben comments abruptly, and I glance up, realizing that we’ve already walked quite a distance while I was lost in thought. “Otherwise, I shall regret choosing you to share my ill-gotten gains. At least your mother was hungry for conversation.”
“Sorry.” Fighting back my thoughts, I yawn. “I’m a bit tired. I was meant to be taking a nap just now, but someone pestered me into going without it.”
“The only thing I’ve pestered you into is an afternoon of delight and debauchery—and at my father’s expense, no less.” Gripping my shoulder, he shakes me a bit. “Romeo, you are my best friend, and I love you dearly, but sometimes I think you hate to enjoy yourself!”
I grumble my response, hoping he’ll take it for a bit of good-natured complaining—but the truth is that I’m not at all sure how to reply. You are my best friend. I’ve always felt the same way about him … but what would he say if he knew the reason I do not care to chase girls the way he does?
He’s almost more interested in my romantic notions than my mother is, and every time he presses me about it—about whether I prefer blondes to brunettes, or tall girls to short ones, or this sister to that one—I have to dodge or deflect or lie. It has gradually created a distance between us that seems to spread wider each day.
“I will enjoy myself when you finally say something amusing,” I retort, burying my troubled thoughts behind a cheeky facade—an act I’ve grown quite good at. “Or when this cut-rate tailor of yours gives you lockjaw from a rusty pin.”
Ben smiles wickedly. “That will be a price well worth paying, so long as he also gives me the wool I need to fleece my father. Now stop dragging your feet! The longer it takes for us to get there, the less time we’ll have for drinking.”
With that, he takes off at a sprint up the lane, leaving me to scramble after him.
3
Benvolio’s tailor turns out to be just as questionable as I’d imagined, running his business out of squalid quarters in one of Verona’s most disreputable neighborhoods. Everything smells faintly of mildew and spoiling food, there are stains on the walls, and the man is already half-drunk despite the early hour.
To his credit, though, the tailor does seem to know what he’s doing. He takes his measurements quickly and with assurance, he asks all the appropriate questions, and our visit ends up being surprisingly short. When the agreements have been made and hands have been shaken, Ben leads me back into the street, grinning from ear to ear.
“That’s my business sorted for the day. Now let’s see to some mischief!” Slinging an arm around my neck, he says, “I’ve discovered a tavern near the Arena that has adequate beer and exceptional girls. I promise that your father won’t approve of any of them.”
“Are we going to be robbed?” I’m skirting the topic again, but it’s also a serious question; nothing excites Benvolio more than being accepted as an equal by the criminal element, and he’s embroiled us in more than one dire situation as a result.
“You need to live a little, Cousin,” he urges me. “You heard your mother: One of these days, old Bernabó is going to pick a bride for you, and you’ll be stuck with her for the rest of your life. If you’re lucky, she’ll be rich and quiet and decent to look at, but a gilded cage is still a cage.” His expression is pointed. “Do you really think he’s going to care about finding a girl you might actually like? Don’t you want to choose at least one girl for yourself, while you still can?”
This is a trick question, deserving of a trick answer. “You make it sound like borrowing a shirt or deciding on a meal. How can you want to … be with someone you barely even know?”
Ben’s answer is swift and decisive. “Familiarity breeds contempt. Witness how relieved I am to finally be free of Maddalena—whom I once loved deeply—because I eventually found her habit of laughing at her own jokes to be intolerable.” He spreads his hands. “You’ll have a boring wife for years, so you may as well have a little fun before the gossips of this town start minding your private affairs.”
“You know very well I’ve already found a girl whose looks please me,” I point out, seizing the opportunity to remind him of an elaborate fiction I’ve been designing. “Rosaline Morosini is the most enchanting girl in Verona—probably on this entire continent—and it is senseless for me to pursue girls who I know will only disappoint me in comparison.”
It’s possible I’m being a bit too effusive, but it’s still true enough for him to believe. There’s no denying that Rosaline is uncommonly beautiful—with luminous eyes, a pouting mouth, and warm brown skin that has apparently never known a single blemish. My cousin has himself remarked upon it more than once, so convincing him I am under her spell should be an easy task.
But regardless of what he thinks about Rosaline’s appeal, Benvolio only groans. “Cousin—”
“I know you refuse to accept my feelings, because you think she’s out of my reach, but I can’t help it.” I affect a manly scowl. “How am I supposed to feign interest in women who possess only a fraction of her loveliness? Her elegance? I’m besotted, Ben, and I have no desire to seek the companionship of weak substitutes.”
He rolls his eyes. “The only reason I think Rosaline is out of your reach is because she is.”
“You lack faith in me.”
“She has taken a vow of chastity.”
I wave this away. “No one is perfect.”
In reality, however, it is thanks precisely to this very obstacle that Rosaline Morosini is perfect for me. So long as she remains determinedly chaste, she is my ideal woman: untouchable. I can pine for her as much as I choose, and no explanation will ever be required as to why I cannot successfully woo her.
Ben has not given up trying to talk me out of it. “She is not just out of your reach, she is out of every man’s reach! You are fishing in an empty pond, and you are guaranteed to come away with an empty hook.”
Trying not to sound too ridiculous, I counter, “How can you gaze upon perfection and be satisfied with anything less?”
Ben is quiet for a moment. “I know you think of me as some debauched, girl-mad satyr, but I actually do understand what it means to desire someone special, Cousin.”
His solemn tone catches me by surprise. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Yes, you did, but it’s all right.” He laughs a little, although he doesn’t look at me. “All girls are special in their own way, and I suppose it’s just easy to desire them—but it’s not as if I wish to be a bachelor forever. Someday, I’m going to be a father, you know? And I hope my future bride, whoever she may be, is someone fascinating.”
“That’s what I’m saying as well,” I tell him meekly, because I’m aware that we’re not saying the same thing at all.
“Rosaline will never be yours,” he counters bluntly. “Unless her father forces her to recant her oath so she can be married away, there is no future you may hope for.” With a heavy sigh, he adds, “This is not a torch worth bearing, Romeo. And someday very soon, your father is going to marry you away, and you will lose much of the precious freedom you have to choose companions of your own.”
The words fall on me like hail, sharp and bruising, because they are even truer than he knows. “I cannot simply undo my feelings, Ben.”
“No one is asking you to!” He thumps my back encouragingly. “The world is filled with girls; and although some of them may not measure up to Rosaline’s beauty, you’ll find plenty who exceed her in charm and liveliness. There are, after all, more important qualities in a woman than the ability to look glamorous while moping at a dinner party.”
“You know that is an unfair assessment of her! She does not simply mope at dinner parties.” I struggle with a comeback, though—and not only because he actually does have something of a point. In the end, I decide to be honest. “You will not find a woman who holds more appeal for me than Rosaline. I guarantee you that much.”
“That’s a bet I’m happy to take,” he answers. Too late, I realize I’ve somehow said the wrong thing after all. “Give me one month—during which you will actually go places with me, and smile, and let me introduce you around—and I am certain I can find a girl who will make you forget about Rosaline. If you still think she is the only decent woman in Verona at the end of it, I shall give up and leave you alone.”
In spite of myself, I hesitate. My immediate instinct is to treat his offer as a bad joke, to push it aside and distract him with something else … but it is impossible to resist that final remark.
Arching a brow, I clarify, “Forever?”
“Yes, yes. I will leave you alone about it forever,” he vows theatrically. “I’ll never concern myself about your perpetual, brooding loneliness ever again.”
I ignore his sarcasm, aware that this is one devil’s bargain I cannot afford to decline. As reluctant as I am to spend an entire month flirting with girls to appease my cousin, while simultaneously avoiding any potentiality of an actual romantic entanglement, it may be the shortest—perhaps even the only—road to a future free of this pressure for good.
What I want more than anything is for Benvolio to stop concerning himself with my lack of interest in girls, and if I must commit the next few weeks to a more enthusiastic charade in order to achieve it, it’s a price worth paying. “You have a deal.”
“I’m offering to throw the prettiest and sweetest-tempered girls in Verona at your feet, and you act as if you’re doing me the favor.” Ben tosses his hands up and lets them drop. “Sometimes I truly struggle to understand you, Cousin.”
As I turn up one of the alleys that lead to the heart of the city, he suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me back. “Not that way. We’ll go to where the bridge crosses by San Fermo, and then cut through from there.”
“Are you sure?” I wrinkle my nose, and when he says nothing, I press him. “Didn’t you say this tavern of yours is close to the Arena? It is barely five minutes in that direction, but if we walk all the way to San Fermo—”
“It will make us that much thirstier for cheap ale,” Ben says, cutting me off and dragging me away from the sensible shortcut and toward the avenue along the embankment. “Trust me, you’ll be glad we took the longer journey. That grubby little street you were about to stumble down is rather overrun these days with rats and Capulets—but I repeat myself.”
“Capulets?” I echo. “What are you talking about? None of them live anywhere near this part of the city.”
“Oh, none of them are living here, but they’ve claimed this quarter just the same.” He tosses a wary glance over his shoulder as a pushcart trundles by, wooden wheels grinding against the cobbles. “See for yourself.”
When I look back, it is just as three figures emerge from the mouth of the alley, daggers sheathed at their hips. As they lean up against the walls on either side of the passageway’s entrance, like sentries taking up their post, I recognize them immediately: Venzi, Arrone, and Galvano—three of the Capulets’ most quarrelsome representatives. Their manner is lazy, but menace hangs in the air, and a frisson of nervous apprehension travels the length of my spine.
“Two weeks ago, Jacopo went down that very street to meet a lady friend, and he was set upon by Tybalt and some of his boys,” Ben continues, hastening me along at a brisker clip. “They told him, ‘Montagues aren’t welcome south of Via de Mezzo,’ and left him bleeding in the gutter.”
“Jacopo?” I repeat, a bit dumbfounded. Jacopo Priuli, only eight years our senior, was a clerk at my father’s warehouse—not a Montague at all, except perhaps by association. “No one told me he was attacked! Why am I just hearing of this now?”
“Well, you’ve had your head somewhat in the clouds of late.” Ben’s accusatory undertone is hard to miss. “It’s impossible to tell you things when no one can find you.”
“This is absurd!” I ignore him, sticking to the safer argument. “The Capulets have San Zeno, we have San Pietro, and everything in between is neutral ground—that’s how it’s always been. They can’t just start claiming parts of the city as if it’s theirs to divvy up!”
“And yet they’ve done just that,” Ben counters drily. “If you decide to challenge it, though, I’m sure Tybalt would be happy to let you explain your point to his fists. As for me, if I’m going to have my nose bloodied, I’d rather earn it by getting ferociously drunk and flirting with a married woman in front of her husband.”
The Capulets are one of Verona’s most powerful families; some even say they are the most powerful, much to my father’s discontent. Every breath he draws is in service to enhancing the glory and prestige of the Montague name, and he hates to think he has competition. But Alboino Capulet, notorious for his public devoutness and patronage of the Church, is just as greedy for influence as he is for wealth. And he has astonishing wealth.
Verona may be our whole world, but it is barely large enough to contain both our lineages at once. The Capulets live in a villa near the San Zeno Basilica, to the east of the old Roman walls. We Montagues reside in the exclusive district of San Pietro, on the north side of the Adige River from the old city. Our paths never cross, if we can help it.
For generations, their bloodline and ours have battled—figuratively and literally—and to this day a bitter rivalry persists between our camp and theirs. According to my father, the Capulets have committed any number of heinous crimes against the Montagues throughout our shared history: theft, swindling, false accusations, slander, murder.
The feud began, as I have always heard it explained, when one of their ancestors—jealous of our family’s good fortunes—cut down a Montague patriarch in cold blood, eager to supplant him. The Capulets, of course, tell the tale the other way around; and because there is no one left alive who remembers which version is closest to the truth, both accounts prosper to this day, and hatred’s long shadow is cast upon the cradle of every new generation.
My father believes in the Capulets’ innate villainy with a martyr’s conviction, and he has drummed it into me that I am not to trust a one of them under any circumstances. And I suppose he’d be happy to know that, in fact, I don’t. Although that is less because of the folklore he’s handed down to me than it is because of my experiences with one Capulet in particular: Tybalt.
Alboino and his wife have a daughter, but as Lord Capulet’s oldest nephew, there is no question that Tybalt is their favorite. Destined to be the next patriarch, he’s also first in line to inherit the family’s profitable business in trading furs, and he has spent his whole life believing this makes him untouchable. The same age as Mercutio, he is the most vicious person I’ve ever met—the quickest to throw a punch, and the last to hesitate on a violent impulse. When I put some thought to it, I have no trouble believing that he would breach the unwritten treaty that has demanded peaceful interactions within the city walls.
“Wait—so they just … decide that this quarter belongs to them, and that’s it?” I protest. “We start taking the long way around, skulking in the shadows of our own city, and let them do as they please?”
“Exactly what solution do you propose?” Ben arches a brow. “You’re not going to convince Tybalt and his crew of ill-tempered minions that they’re being unfair, and I’m pretty certain you’re not suggesting we challenge them to fisticuffs. You hate fighting, and I’m approximately half Tybalt’s size.”
“There are laws against fighting inside the city,” I point out, a little vexed by his attitude. We both carry knives of our own, of course, as do most of the men in Verona. But we have never had to draw them before—not on this side of the walls, at any rate. But if the Capulets are shedding Montague blood in the heart of town, it’s a new and altogether alarming turn of events. “And that’s my point. They attacked Jacopo, and evidently right out in the open! Why haven’t they been reported to the prince’s guard?”
“If Jacopo were to denounce Tybalt and his boys, he would need witnesses to back him up, and I believe you’ll find there is a fresh plague of amnesia spreading through the city south of the Via de Mezzo.” Resentment curdles Ben’s tone. “Only a fool would risk crossing Alboino Capulet for the sake of a lowly warehouse clerk—and everyone in Verona knows what sort of retribution they could invite if they make an enemy of Tybalt.”
“But…” Only I’ve got nothing else to say. The injustice of it all is infuriating, but it’s also just one more grain of sand in the expanding desert of my troubles.
“It’s the prince’s fault,” Ben mutters, glancing over his shoulder to be sure no one is close enough to overhear. “He should be standing up to them, but he’s a coward. Or maybe an idealist. I don’t know which is worse.”
His boldness has me glancing around as well, but the embankment is empty. It’s a sunny day, the heat gradually climbing, and a sluggish breeze stirs up the thick green scent of the river. “He told my father that he refuses to take sides because he thinks the feud is childish, and that there’s no reason for ‘ancient animosities’ to ‘run our lives.’”
“‘Ancient animosities.’” Benvolio gives a scornful laugh. “As if the Capulets don’t make a point of refreshing those animosities once or twice a day. The true reason Escalus refuses to take sides is because he’s afraid of being put at a political disadvantage.” His cheeks color. “The denizens of Via de Mezzo aren’t the only Veronese afraid of getting on Alboino’s bad side. If Tiberius were still in charge…”
He may simply be repeating something he heard his parents say, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Prince Tiberius was a committed ally to the Montagues, having married a distant cousin of my father’s, and his loyalty to our bloodline removed any possible question as to who Verona’s leading family was. But when he unexpectedly died three years ago, the crown passed to his younger brother Escalus—who is unmarried, unaffiliated, and uninterested in acting as an arbiter.
Whether born of idealism or cowardice, his indifference to our ongoing hostilities creates an imbalance in Verona’s power structure. And, clearly, Tybalt sees the lack of obvious favoritism as an opportunity to tip the scales in the Capulets’ favor.
When we at last reach the bridge that spans the river at the Church of San Fermo, I glance across it, to the district of Campo Marzio on the other side. From here, the far bank is nothing but green trees and rust-colored rooftops. Somewhere beyond it spreads the lengthy and formidable stone wall that protects our city—the same wall that wraps around San Pietro, San Zeno, and the old city, and holds us all in an embrace that’s growing far too tight for comfort.
Lately, everywhere I look all I can see is another wall, another limit. For just a moment, I can’t seem to breathe. Staring across the bridge, down a lazy avenue that leads nowhere, I can think of nothing besides the dwindling scope of my future. Verona is shrinking, my days to govern my own life running swiftly out, and every door available to me merely opens onto four more walls.
Beside me, Ben turns away from the bridge, heading into the city again. After a moment, I unstick my feet and follow after him—down yet another path that ultimately leads to the same stone wall.
4
The tavern Ben has chosen turns out to be just as dank, dark, and questionable as I’d envisioned; but there is a lively atmosphere, and we both receive a boisterous welcome. The company is seedy but convivial, and I decide I like the place well enough.
As we make our way to a free table, ruddy-faced men clap Ben on the back and greet him by name, and I’m struck anew by how easily my cousin manages to make friends. The ale begins to flow the second he takes his seat—on top of the table, because it allows him the best opportunity to see and be seen—and within minutes he has launched into a performance that commands the attention of everyone around us. First, a little flirting with the barmaid; then, a bit of, “Did I ever tell you about the time…?”; and finally, as a full tankard of beer appears in his hand, he is off on a wild tale that has the room in his thrall.
“And there the cook stands,” he says as he approaches the climax of his first soliloquy, “with a basket of broken crockery in one hand and my favorite rock in the other, and she has the flames of hell in her eyes!” His voice jumping two octaves, he does a scratchy impersonation of the woman. “‘Which of you is responsible for this?’”
“You’re telling the story wrong!” I interrupt him at last, unable to abide his inaccuracies a moment longer. For once, he has chosen to describe something that actually happened, and yet he still muddles all the facts—it is very like him.
“I never tell my stories wrong,” he rebuts confidently. “If there is a discrepancy, then it is history that is in error, not me.”
I cannot help but laugh. “That is not at all how it works!”
He turns back to the room. “In any event, the cook stands there with my trusty rock—the one I had carved my initials into—and says, ‘Which of you is responsible for this?’” For a heartbeat, the tavern is silent as Ben leads them right back to the edge of his story. “And as I sit there, my slingshot still gripped in my trembling fist, I muster my most innocent look and reply, ‘Your house must have a ghost!’”
The room roars with laughter, and another tankard of beer settles on the table beside my cousin—the second he has been served without having to pay, I notice—but I have reached the end of my wits. “No, no, no; all of that is incorrect!”
Ben merely shrugs. “If I have improved on any of the details, it is only because they weren’t right to begin with.”
“To begin with,” I counter, “she was not a cook—she was a nurse. My nurse, as it happens.” Rising to my feet, I lean across the table. “And I believe your exact words were, ‘He told me it was a ghost.’ And you were pointing at me!”
There is a moment as Ben’s audience puts these new pieces together, and then they roar with laughter again. But my cousin is unperturbed. When the merriment subsides again, he tosses his hands. “See? My version was better after all.”
There is still more laughter, sympathetic hands pat me on the back and shoulder, and a tankard full of ale slides into place before me, unbidden—and, believe it or not, it is only at this point that I realize just how skillfully my cousin has manipulated me.
With very little effort, he has finagled me into being the center of attention—a source of fresh entertainment for the regular clientele, who have long since memorized one another’s most interesting stories. Just like that, I’m the most popular person in the room, being coaxed and begged and urged to tell more tales of Ben’s outlandish antics; and whenever I get close to the end of one account, my cousin prompts me to tell another.
It doesn’t escape my notice that there are plenty of girls in my steadily growing audience, and that all of them live up to Ben’s promise of beauty and spirit. The men are all eager to wring me dry of every embarrassing, compromising, or off-color tale I have to tell, but these girls are clearly measuring me for a different sort of entertainment. It makes me terribly uneasy.
It’s not as if I’m unused to situations such as this. Every time my parents host a ball or a garden party, I am surrounded by proper young ladies I’m expected to impress, and I’ve become expert at finessing my way through those conversations. At flirting casually, but never seriously—creating a painstaking ambiguousness that’s impossible to openly question by the unwritten rules of our social tier’s sense of propriety.
But the ladies at this inn, with their forthright gazes and ostentatious charms, are not like the girls I’m accustomed to. There is nothing unassuming about them, and they are not under the sway of any sense of artificial “respectability” that I might otherwise rely upon to maintain a comfortable distance.
“Tell them the story of how you once mistook a tureen of chicken broth for a chamber pot,” Benvolio suggests, his face alight with impish glee.
“I believe you’ve just told it for me, Cousin.” Setting my tankard down, I glance at the rear door of the inn, sunlight leaking through around its edges, and get an idea. “In fact, I could use that tureen now—I need to go make some room in my body for a little more ale. Don’t gossip about me while I’m gone!”
Before I can be waylaid, I duck out of the crowd, scuttle across the tavern, and slip through the door into the narrow passage that cuts along the inn’s western side. The air is dusty and hot, and the smell of a nearby latrine spoils whatever else is left to enjoy. Nonetheless I shut my eyes, feeling my shoulders loosen and the knot in my chest unravel. The tranquility here is worth the price my various senses have to pay.
I didn’t always feel like this—relieved to get away from my best friend, from the escalating pressures that come with a roomful of people. It wasn’t even very long ago that I actually looked forward to making new acquaintances. Once upon a time, I reveled in my popularity, even if much of it was unearned. After all, it’s hard not to be popular in Verona when your last name is Montague. But still, I loved how it made me feel to have people taking an interest in me, wanting to know me.
But that was then, and the mask I’m wearing now is one I’m not sure it’s safe to take off anywhere. I have to avoid my parents’ inquisitiveness, I have to avoid my cousin’s relentless if well-meaning entreaties about my love life, and I have to avoid—by any means necessary—a situation where I must explain to a girl why I do not reciprocate her affections. There are precious few tactful ways of saying, “I do not find you attractive,” and I have already used all of them.
I miss when an afternoon like this was easy and fun—when I didn’t get nervous at the sight of Benvolio, the one person I’ve always been able to count on. And I don’t know how to deal with the fact that the problem is only growing more acute. Part of me is almost hoping my father will choose a bride for me soon, so that I may be done with dreading it, and done with my cousin’s persistent meddling.
When I open my eyes again, I could swear the alley has gotten smaller—that all of Verona is finally closing in.
I take my time at relieving myself, extending the silence of the alley as long as I can, trying to think of what I’ll say when I’m back inside. And when I can dawdle no longer, I start back for the door to the inn … and stop short when I discover a slim figure huddled on the meager doorstep. A boy of only about twelve or thirteen sits there as though he’s been abandoned, his knees tucked together, his face blotchy with frustrated tears, clutching a hefty leather satchel that rests in the dust beside him.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” I begin delicately, unsure what tone to strike but certain I’m using the wrong one. Having no siblings has left me utterly incompetent at dealing with anyone much younger than I am. “Is everything okay? You seem upset.”
He scrambles to his feet, clearly embarrassed. “I’m all right. Um … sir.”
The lie is palpable, but just in case I missed it, he sniffles loudly and turns away—hoping I won’t notice as he swipes at his eyes. He’s too clean to be one of the orphans who beg in the piazza, but he has such a desperate aspect about him, I hazard, “Are you lost?”
“Yes.” He takes a sharp breath. “Maybe.” His face crumples again. “I’m not sure.”
As he begins to sob—making the most wretched squeaking sounds into his hands—I am frozen in horror. Fortunately, the door bursts open at that exact moment, startling both me and the boy into glancing up, and Benvolio leans into the alley.
“Oh, there you are. I was beginning to think you’d ducked out on me.” His gaze moves to the boy with the satchel, and he does a double take. “Paolo?”
Relief suffuses the boy’s face, and I blink my surprise at Ben. “You know him?”
“This is Paolo Grassi. His mother does our washing.” My cousin steps into the passage, letting the door bang shut behind him, and puts his hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder. “What on earth are you doing out here?”
“I was looking for someone.” Paolo gestures defeatedly at the tavern, shaking his head. “But he isn’t here. I was so sure…”
“Who are you looking for?”
Paolo puffs out his chest a bit. “Giovanni da Peraga. He is a famous condottiere from Lombardy, whose soldiers aided the Milanese forces in the Battle of Parabiago.”
The way he says this last bit, it’s clear he’s repeating something he’s overheard; and yet the condottieri—military captains, in command of highly skilled, independent armies—are a very distinguished and elite class of men. Ben’s eyebrows creep toward his hairline. “I am almost afraid to ask what need you have for a band of mercenary fighters. Or perhaps your mother is looking to eradicate her competition among the laundresses of Verona?”
“I have gotten a job,” Paolo returns, puffing out his chest even more. “I’m serving as a page for a prestigious household now, and they’ve tasked me with making some important deliveries, but…” His voice hitches and cuts off, tears welling up in his eyes once again. “I can’t find any of the people on the list. It took me more than an hour just to locate this inn, and yet the landlord insists that Giovanni da Peraga isn’t a guest here! I don’t know what to do.” More tears rolling, he whimpers, “I cannot afford to lose this position.”
“Well, don’t weep, man, it will only cost you valuable moisture!” Ben looks Paolo in the eye encouragingly. “Show me this list of yours—maybe I can help.” Dully, the boy nods and then produces a bit of folded parchment from his bag, which Ben examines with a doubtful expression. “I don’t mean to question you, but … it seems as though all the addresses are written out right here next to the names of those invited.”
Turning first pink and then bright red, Paolo mumbles, “I cannot read.”
“Oh.” Ben takes this in. “Oh! Well.” He breaks into his brightest and most disarming smile, clapping Paolo on the shoulder with so much force the boy nearly topples over. “Lucky for you our paths happened to cross today, because I’ll bet that me and my cousin can help you track down every person here! For instance, it looks like this da Peraga character is staying at an inn on Vicolo Alberti, while this inn is on Via Alberico.”
Paolo’s face remains scarlet. “That sounds exactly the same.”
“Vicolo Alberti is where they hold the fish market,” I supply, trying to be helpful. “There’s a bust of Prince Tiberius on the corner near the inn.”
“Oh.” Paolo frowns. “I know where that is. Why didn’t they just say all that?”
“So that’s this one.” Ben flicks the page with his finger. “And then come Ugolino Natale and his wife—and their address is in San Pietro, where Romeo lives!”
“Whatever you’re meant to deliver, you might as well let me take care of it for you,” I say. “I can practically see the Natale villa from my home.”
“They are invitations,” Paolo explains, the color already subsiding in his face as we take charge of his troubles. “There’s to be a masquerade, and they’ve arranged for musicians and peacocks and everything.”
I appraise the boy with new eyes. There are some peacocks in the prince’s royal menagerie, and the occasional boat comes down the Adige with exotic creatures for sale, but to populate a private estate with rare birds for the sake of a party? That meant considerable wealth. “This sounds like a rather grand event.”
“The grandest of the season,” Paolo replies stoutly. “There shall be nobles in attendance.”
“How exciting.” Benvolio’s comment comes without any particular emotion, his attention fully wrapped up in Paolo’s list. “This does seem to be a very … comprehensive index of Verona’s upper crust. Count Anselmo, Count Paris, the lady widow of Antonio Vitruvio, Lucio and Helena Azzone … oh, and look at this, Cousin!” His expression brightens with mischief. “The fair Rosaline is to attend, along with her father and brother.”
“How exciting,” I reply, my voice thick with wariness.
“She is just about the fairest girl in all Verona, you know,” Ben adds for Paolo’s benefit, to which the boy merely shrugs. “Have you ever set eyes on her? She has our Romeo here somewhat bewitched—”
“Who else is on the list?” I ask brusquely, not eager to return to this subject again. “The Azzones live south of the old Roman wall, not far from the Cittadella.”
Ben turns back to the page, his brow furrowing. “Hmm.”
“What is it?”
“Mercutio and Valentine are to be invited as well,” he remarks disinterestedly, turning the sheet over to inspect the back side, although it appears to be blank. “And their family is scarcely remembered anymore by the sort who can afford peacocks. How strange.”
“Valentine?” It’s a name I haven’t heard in years, and it takes me by surprise. “Mercutio’s brother, Valentine? Is he not still living in Vicenza somewhere?”
“No, Cousin.” Ben turns an exasperated frown my way. “Mercutio sent for him last month, when he finally got his apprenticeship and could afford a place with enough room for both of them. It’s all he could talk about for weeks!” Shaking his head, he gives the list yet another once-over, grumbling under his breath, “Honestly, where have you been?”
Talking to a monk, I almost tell him.
“It’ll be nice to see Valentine again,” I manage instead, a little weakly. “I’ve thought of him from time to time.”
Valentine is a year younger than us, one of Mercutio’s half-dozen siblings—who, until the year Ben and I turned fourteen, were all packed together under the same comparatively tiny roof. When their father died of a sudden illness that winter, seven mouths very quickly became too many to feed; when some well-off relatives in Vicenza agreed to take in thirteen-year-old Valentine, he was shipped off overnight—just like that, bag and baggage—to live with near strangers in a city he’d never seen before. Aside from a letter or two in the early days, we’d heard nothing from him ever since.
We all missed him, of course, but Mercutio had been utterly heartbroken. It was, I think, the only time I’ve ever seen him cry.
“Evidently, everyone has been thinking of him. He’s scarcely been back in the city for a fortnight, and already he’s being asked to attend the ‘grandest event of the season!’” An uncomfortable laugh comes out of him. “Near as I can tell, the only people in Verona who aren’t invited to this expensive little soiree are you and me.”
He thrusts the page in my direction, and at a glance, it’s easy enough to see that the list bears out his statement: Almost all of Verona’s luminaries and notable figures are represented—with the exception of anyone connected to the Montague dynasty.
With a bad taste in my mouth, I ask Paolo, “Exactly which household is throwing this masquerade, did you say?”
The boy turns scarlet. “It’s Lord and Lady Capulet—but I need this job, Ben, you don’t understand! They’re paying me well, and without it—”
“Oh, calm down.” Benvolio waves the boy’s burgeoning tears into submission. “I’m not angry, for goodness’ sake. Just because you’re doing the bidding of our mortal enemies doesn’t mean I hold it against you. Or because you’re off inviting people to a sumptuous party with food and wine and peacocks, from which we are specifically excluded, and where I’m sure there will be numerous beautiful girls I’ve never—”
“Ben.”
“The Capulets are throwing the event of the season, Romeo!” He looks up at me, and there’s a canny glint in his eyes I long ago learned to recognize—and fear. “All our dearest friends and acquaintances will be there, along with nearly every young lady of distinction who lives anywhere between Milan and Venice, including your precious Rosaline! Isn’t that just grand?”
“Ben.” I don’t know exactly what’s cooking in his thoughts, but I’m sure I’m not going to like it. This particular expression of his always precedes a catastrophe.
“Cousin.” He smiles beatifically. “I’ve just had the most wonderfully terrible idea.”
5
Scarcely two weeks later, under cover of night, Benvolio and I are venturing cautiously into the San Zeno district against my better judgment. The moon is full and the sky is clear, the air scented with jasmine where we walk a narrow lane bordered by a high stone wall. It’s beautiful here, the stars bright and the crickets chirring, and yet I’m hardly in the mood to enjoy it. My misgivings are doubling with each step we take.
“I cannot believe I let you convince me to infiltrate a party thrown by the Capulets,” I finally hiss, irrationally afraid of being overheard. There is no one out here but us and the insects, and yet I feel as though I’ve already been caught.
“I cannot believe you have lately grown so fatally allergic to having a good time,” Ben grouses back. “You used to love sneaking into parties uninvited, and seeing how much wine we could drink before we got caught!”
“Yes, when I was thirteen, and the worst that would happen is we would be scolded by an angry footman.” I thrust my hands out at the countryside. “Tybalt and his crew are willing to attack anyone who wanders into his imaginary territory if they even smell of Montague! What will he do when we waltz into his uncle’s home and start making ourselves comfortable? What do you think Alboino Capulet will do?”
Ben shrugs, unbothered. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I repeat, my tone just shy of a screech. “Cousin—”
“To begin with, this is a masquerade.” He gestures at my attire. “As long as you keep your disguise on and your wits about you, no one will ever know who you really are.”
I’m dressed as a shepherd—one of the few costumes I could devise on short notice—with a porcelain volto mask that will cover my entire face. It still somehow does not feel like enough.
“For another thing,” Ben continues, “this is not just some family affair—there will be kin of Prince Escalus at this party. Even Tybalt cannot be foolish enough to do violence right in front of them, with his uncle’s reputation on the line. And the same goes for old Alboino. He cares far too much about his public image to let Verona’s aristocracy see him acting on an old grudge against two innocent boys.”
“That all sounds very reasonable, Ben.” I let out a nervous breath. “But you are putting a rather great amount of trust in people who openly despise us.”
“Romeo.” Ben turns to me, and there’s some expression on his face I’ve never seen before: a mixture of vexation, sadness, and exhaustion. “What’s happened to you? You used to live for this sort of mischief, but lately it’s as if you don’t want to do anything. You avoid me, you make up excuses, and I have to negotiate with you like an ambassador forging a peace treaty just to get you to have a little fun!”
I open my mouth and then close it again, warmth pouring into my face. His assessment hews far too close to the bone, and I don’t know how to respond—because he isn’t wrong. The only reason I’m even with him on this misguided escapade tonight is because, after I summarily rejected his first suggestion that we should trespass on the Capulets’ party, he offered to restructure the terms of our regretful arrangement.
“You told me you’d let me see if I could find you a better match than Rosaline,” he pointed out that afternoon in the heat-soaked alley, determination sparking in his eyes. “Well, there shall be no finer opportunity than this. She’ll be there herself, and you can try your best to convince her to recant her vow of chastity; and if you don’t succeed, there will be dozens of other girls around—and all of them from families your father will approve of!”
“I don’t want to deceive my way into a Capulet stronghold, and I definitely don’t want to do it for the purposes of a wife hunt!” I tried not to sound too panicked. “How is my being a stowaway at a masquerade supposed to impress Rosaline, anyway?”
“What will impress her is how you choose to speak to her, and maybe even how smoothly you dance—ladies love a man who is light on his feet.” He rubs his hands together. “Besides, what could impress her more than learning of the lengths you’ll have gone to just for the chance to meet with her? You would do well to let her know you came despite being unwelcome; girls find that sort of thing wildly romantic!”
Again, I hesitated, because this was a very good point … almost too good. Rosaline struck me as someone far too sensible to be persuaded by reckless gestures; but Ben knew way more about this sort of thing than I did. What if she did find it wildly romantic? What if it changed her opinion—of both me and marriage? It would be just my luck to win her love by accident, and then have to figure my way out of that mess.
But after all the energy I put into convincing Benvolio that Rosaline holds my heart in her hands, what possible grounds could I invent to discount his reasoning?
Misreading my discomposed silence, Ben huffed out a breath. “Romeo, I am practically begging you to put aside your worries for one evening and go on an adventure. Instead of giving me a month to help you woo a girl, just give me this night—just this one. Please.” He smiled hopefully. “Let’s catch some trouble by the tail, the way we used to! Do your best to charm Rosaline, and then dance with five girls of my choosing. Only five, and I shall thereafter leave you to lonesomeness for good.”
I hated the way he made it sound: like an ultimatum, or a lost cause. Like one last chance before he washed his hands of me. And yet, for all of that, I felt a sense of pure relief. Rather than a full month of dodging his attempts at arranging liaisons for me, I would only have to endure a single night of decorous flirtations—all beholden to a strict code of moral conduct I already knew how to exploit. In the end, it was hardly a choice at all.
“Very well,” I’d said. “I’ll do it.”
* * *
Tonight, of course, as we get closer and closer to the Capulet villa, I am having second thoughts. And Ben, also of course, is making it impossible for me to explain myself in a way that does not make me seem tedious, whiny, or indifferent to his feelings.
“It isn’t you I’m trying to avoid,” I tell him, as honestly as I can. “It’s just … sometimes the things my parents expect of me are more than I can manage, and I become … I don’t know. Crushed under the weight of it all.” Shrugging, my hands nervous where they grip the mask I’ll be wearing tonight, I add, “It’s difficult to enjoy myself when all I can think about is what my father will do if he catches me being the wrong kind of happy.”
“And that’s all the more reason we must have this adventure!” Ben exclaims, resolute—and not listening, either to the words I’m saying or to the meaning I’m trying to convey. “Your parents wish to drain you of your spirit, and you cannot let them. We are going to wring joy out of this night with our bare hands if it kills us!”
“Ben…,” I begin, but he stops me.
“You can’t change whatever future your father has decided upon for you, but you can set whatever course you like in the meantime.” Dressed as a soldier, wearing his own father’s old uniform, he looks as though he means to encourage me into battle. “Remember when we sneaked into the reception for Magistrate Stornello’s wedding? We both ate too much and drank too much, I knocked down a trellis trying to climb it, and you mistook the tureen for a chamber pot?” Eyes glowing, he says, “That was the best night of my life, Romeo. And I want us to have that again.”
“Me too, but—”
And then he rounds on me, his expression so angry and heartfelt that it startles me into silence. “I have missed you, Cousin! We used to spend all our time together, but you’ve practically been a stranger to me since this past winter. I don’t know where you spend your time, or who you spend it with; I don’t know what you’re thinking, because you make a point not to tell me; and you act as if a night of my company is a chore you must endure!” He shakes his head, frustrated, and I begin to sweat through my tunic. “Did I do something wrong? Have I somehow made you tired of me?”
“No, Ben!” I scramble for a reply, praying for a sudden lightning strike or an earthquake—anything to change the subject.
Naturally, I miss him, too, but I cannot say so without encouraging him further. I hate having to avoid him, and I hate that when we do see each other, I know him a little bit less than before. But avoiding him is easier than lying to him, than having to talk my way out of corners, having to inventory all my falsehoods so I don’t contradict myself later.
It agonizes me to think that I have hurt his feelings, but there are no good choices to be made. Verona’s walls will crush us all, in the end.
“I … I know I haven’t been myself, and I’m sorry for that,” I manage to tell him, “but I promise that I’ve not grown tired of you.” Tossing a look at the empty lane behind us, winding all the way back to San Pietro, I mutter, “It is only that I’ve found it hard to be merry at all for a while now, and I know that makes me a burden when you wish nothing more than to have a good time. But I have missed you, too.”
“Romeo, you are rather impossible sometimes.” Ben looks down at his feet, shaking his head. “We don’t have to always go carousing, you know. When you aren’t in the mood for it, you can simply tell me, and we could do something else. I might even go along with you on one of your artistic excursions. Provided you never tell anyone about it, of course,” he adds hastily. Then, with a teasing grin, “After all, it is my duty as your friend and kin to bear you—no matter how much of a burden you might be.”
“Oh, thank you,” I tell him, although I cannot restrain a smile. The matter is complicated, but I am genuinely touched to know how much our friendship means to him. He disapproves of my hobby, and yet he’d be willing to indulge it in order to spend more time with me? Pressure builds in my chest, and I blink a fine mist out of my eyes.
For the first time, I wonder if Benvolio is someone I can trust with my secret.
It is then, as I am lost in thought, that the Capulet villa at last heaves into view. Sitting at the top of a pronounced rise, backed by the milky endlessness of the night sky, it sprawls across the horizon in stacked tiers. The silhouette of it is vast, lanterns glowing at every window and walkway, swaying on hooks and warming the moonlit stone. It’s like a net of stars cast down on the hillside, and it takes my breath away.
Their home might be even grander than ours.
“Here, hold this,” Ben says, thrusting his mask at me. Then, withdrawing a few steps, he takes a running start at the wall beside us—and leaps, grabbing the ledge at the top, his boots finding purchase among the jasmine vines. Hauling himself up, he leans back and stretches out his hand. “Okay, give me those and come on!”
Luckily, the wall only takes a small bite out of my shin, and then we’re both dropping to the ground on the other side, where we find ourselves standing before a phalanx of olive trees that climb the hills toward the backside of the looming villa. The air is loamy and resinous, the grove planted in orderly rows, and I realize that we’ve been walking alongside the Capulets’ property this whole time. Everything on this side of the wall is part of their estate.
Ben takes off through the trees, bright moonlight broken by the leaves into dappled patches, and I hurry after him in order to stay close. I’m panting when we finally make it to the top of the hill, where the olives end and extensive kitchen gardens begin, tidy beds of flourishing thyme, fennel, and rosemary scenting the night.
Ben stops me before I step out into the open, speaking in a harsh whisper. “The door to the laundry should be open and unattended, but we ought to stick to the trees for now. If anyone sees us, our night will be over before it starts.”
He ties his mask into place, and with a little difficulty, I manage the same. Lord Capulet might hesitate to throw us out if our identities are exposed in front of his genteel guests, but if we’re caught and recognized before we even make it onto the premises, no rules of public decorum will protect us.
As we stalk along the backside of the villa, where darkened balconies and empty arcades make it clear that the party is excluded from this part of the home, the air thickens with the fragrance of roasting onions, grilled fish, and venison on the spit. My stomach growls, and I suddenly hope that if we are thrown out, it isn’t until I’ve had time to eat.
“There,” Ben murmurs, pointing to a door at the foot of a shallow staircase bordered by rosebushes. It’s one of several such doors along the rear wall, all of which are meant for the use of servants. Taking me by the arm, my cousin drags me from the safety of the trees at last, scurrying straight for what is apparently the laundry.
And we almost make it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The journey of (nearly) a hundred thousand words begins with a single step, and in this case that step is thanks to my editor, Emily Settle. It was Emily who offered me this amazing opportunity, who listened to all my thoughts and concerns, and who provided critical guidance that shaped the book you have in your hands. It was also Emily who made sure that Hecate the cat received a happy ending, and for that reason (among many others), she has my undying thanks.
I would need to throw a Capulet-style party, complete with rented peacocks, to express my gratitude to the rest of the Feiwel and Macmillan teams who helped this book come together. To Samira Iravani, Ilana Worrell, Celeste Cass, Brittany Pearlman, Morgan Rath, Brittany Groves, Melissa Zar, Gaby Salpeter, Kristen Luby, and Elysse Villalobos: Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And to Jean Feiwel and Liz Szabla, thank you from the top of my lungs, as well.
There is nothing quite like the feeling you get when you see your characters brought to life through someone else’s eyes, and Julie Dillon took my breath away with the amazing cover art for this book. Thank you so much for your stunning work, and for giving Romeo and Valentine such a perfect, romantic moment.
Without my agent, Rosemary Stimola, my literary ambitions would be—as Shakespeare himself might have put it—“no more yielding but a dream.” Thank you again for helping my words find their wings, and for giving your counsel when I need it most!
I wrote most of this novel in isolation, seeing and talking to no one but my husband. Until the holidays rolled around, anyway, and I became the world’s worst houseguest to our friends and family—holed up in isolation, seeing and talking to no one while I scrambled to meet my deadlines. Many, many thanks to my parents; to my sisters Jaime and Ann; to my brothers Dan and Dave; to Nick and Mars and Jennifer; to my many niblings, who impress me more and more every day; to my mother-in-law, Māra, and of course to Todd; and a special thank you to Lelde Gilman, who opened her heart and her home, and who was right there when I hit send on the first draft of this book.
It’s hard to thank someone who isn’t here anymore, but I have to try. Thank you, Debie, for teaching me (the hard way) to take a stand, and for teaching me (the easy way) the joys of sharing comfort. Thank you, Mom, for a lifetime of hilarious stories, for being a capital-C Character, and for letting me know in ways great and small (and heartwarming and annoying) that your love was always boundless and unqualified. I miss you both.
And then there is the east, and within it, the sun. Uldis, there is no one I’d rather survive a pandemic with, be locked down in a foreign country with, or be stranded at the border with than you. Thank you for making it so easy to write about being in love. Es tevi mīlu, Ulditi.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Caleb Roehrig is a former actor and television producer who cannot seem to live in one place. Currently dividing his time between Chicago and Helsinki, he is an expert at writing on planes and recovering from jet lag. His young adult titles include Teach the Torches to Burn: A Romeo & Juliet; the acclaimed thrillers Last Seen Leaving, White Rabbit, Death Prefers Blondes, and The Fell of Dark; and The Poison Pen—a tie-in to the CW’s popular Riverdale television series—and the Archie Horror original novel A Werewolf in Riverdale. His short stories have appeared in anthologies such as His Hideous Heart, Out Now, and Serendipity. Wherever he’s living at the moment, he’s there with his husband and an overabundance of books. You can sign up for email updates here.
CONTENTS
Series PageTitle PageCopyright NoticeDedicationAct One. Bright Smoke, Cold FireChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Act Two. Love’s Sweet BaitChapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Act Three. To Lose a Winning MatchChapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Boundless as the SeaAuthor’s NoteAcknowledgmentsAlso by Caleb RoehrigAbout the AuthorCopyright
Copyright © 2023 by Caleb Roehrig.