CHAPTER TWELVE
What the...?
How had Count Prospero recovered from my kick to his cojones, gone back into his office, then returned to catch and save me...with, I knew, the intention to hurt me, to ruin me, to destroy my family, for revenge...
Obviously, there was only one thing to do. I screamed, “Fire!”
On the other side of the curtain, voices picked up the message. “Fire!” “Run for your life!” “Fire!” And from one of Madame Culatello’s ladies, “Prospero uses his hellfire against us. We’re all going to burn!”
Beneath the satyr mask, I thought Count Prospero rolled his eyes. Later, I also thought—Of course, because his eyes are dark. But at that moment, the detail escaped me.
He peeked out from the curtain, nodded and let me go.
I didn’t wait to wonder at his leniency. I darted out into the ballroom. The screaming crowd had much diminished, and what was left ran, stumbled, jolted toward the doors and spilled out into the street. I had planned to escape across the square to nearby La Gnocca but remembered I would find no refuge with Madame Culatello, who had betrayed me.
Turning, I fled toward Casa Montague. Toward home. When I was well away from Verona’s center, I slowed to a walk. I had, after all, been ill and the well-being that had buoyed me through this night drained away, for I realized that the worst had happened. Count Prospero did not have the ransom—but he still held Princess Isabella’s ring.
I had failed. Failed my family, failed the princess, failed so fatally I might as well amble my way to a nunnery. First I had to let Katherina and Princess Isabella know, and I had to face my parents with my shame written plain on my face.
As I trudged along, I began to imagine I heard sounds behind me. Sounds like men’s boots thumping in pursuit.
Surely not. I’d got cleanly away. Only if someone knew my destination could they track me.
...Truly, someone did know my destination. Someone with rough men who lived to do his bidding. Count Prospero had let me go only to hunt me.
I picked up the pace. Took a side street. The boots thundered past.
I leaned into a recessed doorway. Put my hand on my aching side. Thought I’d misled them. Thought I’d imagined that they tracked me.
Then, oh God, then they returned, muttering in deep voices. I heard my name, and I knew this pursuit wasn’t my imagination.
I sprinted away, dodged and weaved through the dark, narrow streets, while the boot heels thumped in pursuit. My heart pounded like a rabbit’s that was hunted by hungry wolves; I dared not stop, for violence itself chased me. I wound my way through the back streets toward Casa Montague, trying to lose my stalkers, but they seemed always to predict my route and to herd me toward some unknown destiny. Fatigue hunted me as fiercely as ever did the villains, and I began to falter. They would be on me in a moment...
I spied an open iron gate that led into a courtyard dimly lit by a single candle. To me, at that moment, it seemed like a haven. I dashed inside, pulled the gate almost closed and flattened myself against the wall.
The gate clinked shut with a resounding thunk. The key turned in the lock.
A tall man, dressed in dark clothing and wearing a satyr mask, stood with his arm outstretched, his hand firm against the gate. “Rosie, how good of you to come to me and save me the trouble of hunting you down.”