2
“The central atrium of the palace contains exotic trees and plants from far-distant lands, like Persia and Aksum. You can tell this tree, commonly called a palmyra by the long, hanging leaves and the rough, scaly bark.” Prince Escalus used his long fingers to display the leaves to the whole Montague family, who nodded in unison, holding their eyes open as wide as they could to keep from nodding off. “It is said to grow to great heights far to the east, in the warmer parts of Jambudvīpa.”
In the big scheme of things, this oratory was nothing more than a fleeting moment of discomfort, but...my fault. My fault that my beloved family was bored almost to tears and we all now knew that we faced many more moments of excruciating ennui. Moments that would stretch into hours, and hours into years...
Because I was betrothed to Prince Escalus, soon to be married to him. I’d doomed my family and myself to an eternity of listening to him expound about his peculiar enthusiasms as if they were interesting.
I groaned gloomily.
Prince Escalus stopped talking and looked at me in inquiry.
Mamma and Katherina viewed me in warning.
Cesario piped up, “Rosie, you sound like Mamma. Does your tummy hurt like hers?”
I put my hand on my belly. “Sweet Jesus, no!”
Papà glared at my hand.
I dropped it to my side and faked a smile. “Prince Escalus, while as an apprentice apothecary, I admire your enthusiasm for your garden—you have so many gardeners!”
I’d glimpsed a dozen men and women lurking in the bushes, kneeling in the dirt holding a trowel, carrying plants in pots.
Prince Escalus flicked a glance around. “My garden is dear to me.”
“Obviously.”
“As an apprentice apothecary, would you like to tour the herb garden?” He gestured toward the walls that separated the common herbs from his more exotic plants.
“No, I thank you.” Heaven forbid! “I fear my family doesn’t share my enthusiasm for herbal preparations. While we have our whole lives to enjoy this marvelous space, I’d hoped to hear more about the palace art and culture.” A lousy excuse, and one that had my siblings rolling their eyes, but better than any suspicion that I might be with child.
Prince Escalus strode over, loomed over me (I was to discover he used looming to great effect), and looked into my eyes. “I was going to tell you about this spring-blooming plant, commonly known as rhododendron. But whatever my future bride desires is my command.”
Behind us, Imogene faked sticking her finger down her throat.
Mamma slapped her lightly on the back of the head.
I grinned.
One side of Prince Escalus’s mouth lifted. I think it was supposed to be a smile, but with this melancholy guy, who knew? Anyway, why was he smiling? He hadn’t seen the byplay.
The word “melancholy” fit Prince Escalus like a well-tailored coat.
He’d never been a handsome boy, and, in fact, before the battles, I remember him comporting himself like the self-important youth he knew himself to be.
Son of the podestà, heir to the rule of Verona—how learned, how glorious, and how commanding in his every word and deed! Even young as I was, I disdained him.
Not that it mattered; I was a girl and unworthy of his notice.
Then, eleven years ago, his life had been split in two.
The House of Acquasasso tried by stealth, violence, and deception to take the office of podestà for their own.
Prince Escalus the elder put down their rebellion, for he was a warrior of renown, and in the aftermath was assassinated.
To this day, the assassin remained at large and undetected.
Barely thirteen, Prince Escalus the younger survived imprisonment and torture.
He rose from the dungeons to take command of the city, and now his importance was indeed as great as he’d previously imagined.
Still, suffering had marked the unremarkable countenance, and not in a good way.
Although he was now but twenty-four, he wore black, and black, and more black, lightened by occasional trims of midnight blue, mold green, and gloomy maroon.
Streaks of white marked his shoulder-length black hair, his brown skin bore a gray tinge of dungeon, and his scarred complexion would eternally show signs of the knife and the heated rod.
He limped slightly from the iron bar they had used on the bones of his right leg, and although I’d never seen him in action, he’d earned a fearsome reputation as a swordsman.
In other words, Prince Escalus was the complete opposite of my One True Love, Lysander of the house of Marcketti.
Cesario’s patience had been tested long enough, and he blurted, “Prince Escalus, where’s Princess Isabella? I love Princess Isabella. I want to see her.”
Prince Escalus glanced around as if puzzled. “I don’t know. I believed she would join us for this part of the tour. She always seems so interested in my garden.”
In other words, she was staying the hell away.
“I’m sure directing a formal dinner could be a challenge for a twelve-year-old.” Mamma had already established herself as the orphaned Princess Isabella’s surrogate mother. “Perhaps I should find her and offer my assistance.”
“And me!” Katherina said.
“And me!” Imogene said.
“And me!” Emilia said.
“And me!” Cesario said.
Papà put his hand on Cesario’s shoulder. “Son, men don’t interfere in the business of women.”
“That’s not fair!” Cesario protested. “I’m the one who asked about her!”
“Princess Isabella is surprisingly accomplished at such formalities,” Prince Escalus assured us, “and needs no assistance.”
“If you have no taste,” Katherina said to me out of the corner of her mouth.
I widened my eyes to keep from cackling.
The prince continued, “If you come this way, this door leads into the long walk.”
As with most rich homes in Verona, the palace stood as a private enclave surrounded by tall stone walls built to keep intruders out and the residents safe, for Veronese families fought for power, and at any moment, another city-state could march to bring us under their control.
Yet while the palace walls were the tallest and most heavily fortified, and the towers were created to support the prince’s archers and watchmen, the interior reflected all the wealth and comfort of a master family.
The atrium at the center of the house was the largest I’d ever seen, and the balconies and stairways and great carved wood doors led into the home itself.
Despite my recent humiliations at the prince’s hands, the interior of the palace interested me.
Prince Escalus led the way. “Within the great walk, we display the works we collect for public display.”
“You allow the public to view?” Papà knew very well he did not. Since the revolt, the prince had instigated a security shutdown and no one entered the palace except to speak privately to the prince, and that in one designated and well-guarded office chamber.
“No.” Prince Escalus was brief, blunt, and unapologetic. “The best works of art we keep above with the bedrooms for our private enjoyment.” He turned to me and without appearing to move closer, again he loomed. “I look forward to giving you, Rosie, a private showing.”
Gentle reader, what was I supposed to say to that?
I’m looking forward to it, too?
Because while I’m not a subtle person, I knew his private showing had little to do with works of art.
Papà made a low, rumbling growl.
That was never a good sign.
Mamma, bless her, stepped in with a firm hand on Papà’s arm and a pleasant reprimand. “As you know, Prince Escalus, Romeo is one of the most renowned swordsmen in Verona—”
Cesario interrupted, “The most renowned.” He knew the legend as well as anybody, and although he didn’t quite understand Prince Escalus’s subtext, he did know he didn’t like the tone of the conversation.
Mamma placed her other hand on the top of Cesario’s head. “—and should anyone unsheathe their works of art prematurely, I don’t know if I could stop my beloved husband, Romeo, from removing said works of art from their hooks on the wall.”
A prolonged pause.
Prince Escalus looked around at the Montagues. Mamma was now gripping Papà’s straining elbow with both hands. Katherina kept a straight face. Imogene openly giggled. Emilia was whispering to Cesario what Mamma’s code meant. (Remember, Cesario was only six, and a boy; subtlety was beyond him.)
At last, Prince Escalus’s gaze landed on me.
I explained, “In a large family, a member must always be aware that what one says may be overheard and subject to interpretation by other members. Discretion is advised.”
Prince Escalus looked around again at the Montagues, and I think it was the first time he truly realized that in marrying me, he married the whole family.
I felt obliged to add, “Please recall, I have two sisters not present who are equally opinionated and outspoken.”
Katherina had to spoil my warning with an opinion of her own. “No one’s as opinionated and outspoken as you, Rosie.”
Prince Escalus’s mouth did that sideways twitch, which might indicate horror in this case, but I’d come to suspect might be humor. He bowed first to Mamma and Papà. “I beg your pardon. I hold the greatest respect for your daughter’s virginity.”
Only I recognized that as a thrust (if you’ll pardon the term) at my irritation with that virtue that has given me fame among the vulgar of Verona.
Papà gave another growl, not quite as menacing, but, still, a warning. “Step carefully, my prince. Montague loyalty flows to the house of Leonardi. But above and beyond all other duty, I am the papà. I stand with my noble family in joy and peace, and before my family as a bulwark against harm.”
Imogene’s giggles abruptly halted. The other children straightened and nodded solemnly.
“I understand, Lord Montague.” Prince Escalus bowed more deeply to Papà and Mamma. “And madam.”
“We know our roles in our world,” I said softly.
He viewed my siblings with what I thought must be a new comprehension, inclined his head to them, and offered me his arm. “Would you walk beside me, Rosaline, as we lead our family to the grand walk?”
I placed one fingertip on his velvet-clad arm. “As you command, my prince.”
He looked at that fingertip, then into my eyes, and I knew he saw too much.
He said nothing, and merely led me toward the palace’s massive doors of walnut and worked bronze. At our approach, two footmen in livery flung wide the entrance, and once inside, Prince Escalus waved an encompassing hand.
No one spoke a word, our reticence not because of ennui, as in the garden, but because this place, this home, this monument to beauty, conquered us with parts equally glowing and impressive. The high ceilings, the wooden floors, the long carpets, the statues, the framed paintings, the murals, the gilding, the candles, the fresh flowers...the rich, warm colors of the tapestries threaded with gold and the velvet curtains.
Each breath felt alive with color, as if I was standing inside a sunset, and for the first time in days, my humbled soul eased.
Mamma broke the silence. “My prince, who decorated this?”
“My mother, Princess Eleanor,” Prince Escalus answered.
“I knew it!” Mamma’s eyes sparkled with joy. “When Eleanor walked into a room, she lit the very air with warmth.”
“You knew my mother?” Prince Escalus asked without expression.
“I did. She was my dear friend. Her death robbed the world of light.” Suddenly Mamma looked tired, and she gripped Papà’s arm.
At once, Papà said, “Prince Escalus, the wife of my heart needs rest before our meal. Where may I take her?”
“This way.” Prince Escalus gestured the Montague offspring to the right along the great walk. “If you like, you may preview the works and I’ll be along later to help you understand them.”
While Prince Escalus escorted my parents into a quiet room close by, I noted a great many maids dusting, and a footman or two hovered to give advice. Such a display seemed excessive to me, but it wasn’t yet any of my business how the prince ran his household. What was my business was my doleful siblings, who stood eyeing each other and me.
“This is nice,” Emilia said, “but—”
“Art...” Imogene moaned softly.
Cesario wasn’t a whiny boy, but he whined now. “Do we have to? Look at the pictures and the statues?”
“Don’t worry, the prince will be ‘along later,’” Imogene imitated Escalus’s superior tone, “‘to help you understand them.’”
The art tour stretched before us in excruciating boredom, and without Mamma’s diplomacy, we had no chance of escaping.
“Psst!” I heard. “Psst! Emilia!”
In unison, we looked around. Princess Isabella stood behind a heavy velvet curtain, beckoning to my youngest sister.
It took only a moment for us to realize Princess Isabella offered escape, and Emilia leaped toward her and vanished into the folds.
Cesario started to rush toward concealment, but Princess Isabella held up a hand. “Wait. You’re the boy. My brother will immediately realize you’re missing. You must stay until almost the end.”
Cesario sagged. “Noooo!”
Emilia stuck her head out. “You get to be the youngest. You get to be the boy. You get to do all the fun stuff. Balls up, kid!” She disappeared again.
Princess Isabella blew him a kiss, and she followed Emilia.
Cesario looked around at Katherina, Imogene, and me, and we nodded. “She’s right,” I told him.
He sagged and with dragging feet wandered toward me.
Prince Escalus stepped into the great walk and made a shooing gesture with his fingers. The servants vanished and my sisters scattered as if admiring the works of art; in fact, they had placed themselves in such a manner to make it difficult for him to realize we had lost a sibling. I pointed toward the ornate mosaic that covered part of one wall and projected my voice to fill the space. “You’re right, Cesario, you can see the Moorish influence in the brightly colored tiles and elaborate design.”
The prince joined us. “Did you recognize the Moorish influence, Cesario?”
Cesario fixed his gaze firmly on the prince’s chin and lied like a trouper. “Uh-huh.”
“Do you know the two reasons we have a Moorish influence in Verona?” Prince Escalus asked in an instructional tone.
“Nuh-huh.”
“Because the Moors captured the island of Sicily and there spread their culture, art, and architecture. What do you think the other reason is?”
Cesario looked like a mouse trapped in the mouth of a scrawny cat. In what was clearly a wild guess based on his tutor’s current teaching, he said, “The Holy Father’s Crusades?”
“That’s right!” Clearly delighted, Prince Escalus hugged Cesario’s skinny little shoulder, while Cesario looked at me in alarm.
Prince Escalus looked around at the girls. “Come with me and I’ll show you... Weren’t there more children—”
Katherina joined us and widened her brown eyes, exotic in their upward tilt—Mamma’s eyes—at him. “I can’t wait to see what else you have to show us.”
He fell for it. Of course.
Imogene lagged behind as Prince Escalus led us onward through the gallery, and whenever he glanced back, she would appear to be studying a sculpture or a textile.
He seemed gratified by her fascination, and by the questions with which Katherina and I plied him, and before too long, Imogene had vanished.
When the prince failed to notice, I nodded at Katherina and interrupted him midsentence. “Cesario, do you need to use the facilities?”
Cesario was squirming from boredom, an action easily misinterpreted by Prince Escalus.
“I’ll have a footman take him,” the prince said.
Two footmen popped out from beside the drapes and hurried toward us.
“It’s a large palace and he’s a small boy. With Mamma resting and Papà tending to her, I’m in charge.” I spoke crisply, for I was the oldest sister and I was in charge. “I’d feel more at ease if Katherina escorted him. Perhaps the footman can show them where to go?”
“As you wish, but that leaves us quite—”
Katherina snatched Cesario’s hand and fled, chased by the footman.
“—alone,” the prince finished. He looked around. “Where did the other children disappear?”
“I’m sure they’ll appear momentarily.” I saw a nearby drape move.
A pale, sad-faced female peeked out at me, but as soon as my gaze met hers, she pulled back.
“Who was that?” I asked in a low voice.
“Orsa of the kitchen. She wants to view you, I trow.”
“Yes. I do seem to be a moving display.” I had suspicions that the parade of servants worked to observe their future mistress—she who would hold their futures in her hands. Testing my theory, I said, “The palace seems well tended, if perhaps a little dusty.”
At once, two maids popped out of hiding holding cloths and wiped at vases and tables.
Craning my neck, I looked up. “Especially the cove molding and drapes. There are cobwebs!” I managed to sound scandalized.
Three footmen appeared, one carrying a ladder; in moments, the neglected upper parts of the great walk were being tended.
Prince Escalus seemed not to notice my manipulations. “Your siblings...as you said, it’s a large palace, and I hope they’re not lost.”
“I’m sure they’re fine.” As I prepared to launch myself into scintillating conversation to keep him occupied, a large portrait had caught my eye, a man of impressive physique and weathered beauty. His shoulder-length blond hair had been artfully highlighted, his dark eyebrows served as a frame for his alert green eyes, his unsmiling mouth, sculptured cheekbones, and determined chin bespoke a man of authority and responsibility. I wandered toward it, trying to comprehend how it was possible for mere wood plank and paint to portray a face so alert his gaze seemed to be watching me. “Who is this?”
“My father, Prince Escalus the elder. Alberti painted him as Papà received the first rumbles of rebellion, and captured a mighty likeness of his sense of responsibility for the unrest and his ongoing schemes to turn the tide. After the uprising, much strife had changed his countenance. When he rescued me from the Acquasasso dungeons, he spoke more wisely and looked more haggard, a man who’d given all for his city and feared for the future of his family.”
“When was he...”
“That very night, he was drugged and stabbed in his bed, and I, to my eternal shame, have not been able to find his killer.”
I knew the story, comprehended the prince’s tragedy, loss, and sense of responsibility. As I looked up at the picture, my betrothed joined me, standing behind and to the right, and I looked between Prince Escalus, a man of shadow and scars, and the portrait. “You don’t look like your father at all. He’s very handsome.”
Prince Escalus gave a bark.
I’d heard that sound once before. I was fairly sure it was his form of laughter, and immediately I realized what I’d said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant—”
“I know what you meant. I resemble my paternal grandmother, a formidable woman who spreads terror before her like a farmer spreads manure.”
I sputtered a laugh. “I have indeed heard such.”
“Soon enough, you can form your own opinion.”
Without thinking, I snipped, “One more thing to look forward to.” At once, I realized I had broken my vow to my mother and myself, and swept around to face him. “Not that I—”
He was leaning down, leaning close, eyes closed, nostrils quivering.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
His eyes popped open, and we stood face-to-face.
“Were you smelling me?” How bizarre was that?
He didn’t straighten up or back away. “In the past, I’ve noted your hair smells like a flower.”
“A flower.”
“A rose. A dark red rose. One with velvety petals.”
“Dark red? You know what a color smells like?” Then, “In the past, you’ve smelled my hair?” I didn’t know how to respond. Outrage? Confusion? Laughter? I experienced them all.
“I don’t know why dark red. Your hair’s so black, it has blue highlights. I saw the whole glorious length of it, do you recall? In the moonlight?”
“Yes. I recall.” Thank God, my mother had made me promise to be all that was polite because the memory was so uncomfortable I’d have punched him in the pizzle right there. “When you made the list of my virtues and my undesirable characteristics, which side did ‘her hair smells like a dark red rose’ go on?”
As you recall, gentle reader, by his own account, he’d done exactly that: made a list of what qualities I had that would make me a good wife and what qualities I embodied that weighed against me. Not that I held that cold, logical approach against him...
You’re right. In my family, we looked not for riches or pulchritude—everlasting love ruled our lives.
He said, “I like the scent of a dark red rose. It inspires me with...dark red passion.”
An almost inscrutable answer, except that now, as daylight fled and the autumn evening began its reign, I noted many things. Although he was scarred by the tortures he’d endured at the hands of the house of Acquasasso and not (as I’ve said) a handsome man, his eyes were large and heavy-lidded, changeable as the sea, seductive in their intense focus...on me. I, who had felt nothing but a burning humiliation at the clever and public way he’d entrapped me, now recalled how he’d laid me across his lap, wrapped himself around me, kissed me until wit had flown, and what took its place burned under my skin like cold, still silver heated to liquid lust.
The lust had not, as I thought, dissipated in the cold light of day, but only awaited the dusk and the man to heat again, and course through my veins, my nerves, my mind.
He grasped my left hand and looked into my palm. “Do you still have the betrothal kiss I placed therein?”
I nodded, because that was, in fact, what he’d given me on the night of my dishonor and our betrothal. He’d spoken of his admiration for my courage and my loyalty to saving my family. He’d pressed a kiss on my skin and wrapped my fingers around it and bade me keep it close to my heart, and, as Nurse had loudly and publicly noted, to my dismay, I did find myself occasionally and unexpectedly holding my fist to my chest.
Now the prince leaned in. His breath feathered across my skin. “A more solid token will soon take its place on your hand. A ring of precious diamonds that will with its magic stones protect you from harm and be a warning to all that the prince has claimed you…forever.” His gaze compelled my eyes to close and—
Carried on the breeze, a voice called my name. “Rosaline...”
I wrenched my head around. I looked down the gallery, expecting to see the figure of a man.
Nobody was there. No breeze ruffled the air.
“What?” Prince Escalus’s dagger sang as he drew it, and he searched, too. “What’s wrong?”
“Didn’t you hear that?” I trod the carpet toward the far, dim end of the long walk. “Someone called me.”
Prince Escalus looked around again, and gradually resheathed his dagger. “I heard nothing. Who called you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you making sport of me, Lady Rosaline?” In a moment, the prince’s voice had changed from summer warm to winter chill.
“I am not, sir!”
“Is the man you heard Lysander, forever with you in your head and heart?”
“No, I... No! I wouldn’t so dishonor your home by such pretense.”
“For I tell you now, I’ll not have the ghost of that youth haunting my marriage bed.”
With those words, my promise to my mother burned to cinders. “In your marriage bed, sir, you’ll get, sir, what you’ve earned by your cold analysis and unworthy deception. Now, on my own, sir, I’ll explore the palace further and trust that no man from within or without will summon me in any unprovoked manner.” By the time I was done with my magnificently indignant speech, I may have been shouting, for as I stormed away, Prince Escalus winced.
Served him right, the arrogant, petulant, anticipated-by-him master of me.
I walked—nay, I stalked—down the great walk to the far corner, aware all the time he watched with a judgmental gaze. I wondered if he’d be foolish enough to try to stop me. I entertained myself with imagining his apology and my haughty rejection thereof. I turned the corner and gave rein to my increasing outrage with dire mutterings and a good, solid kick at one of the finely carved, heavy wood tables.
To my horror, the tall vase thereon rattled and tipped, and I caught it barely in time. As I cradled it in my arms, I remembered my father’s admonitions, my mother’s lectures, and the scar that had been my constant companion since the last time I’d lost my temper.
Besides, my toe hurt from the impact.
Meticulously I returned the vase to the table. Shouting imprecations at the prince and storming away was greatly satisfying, but I’d learned from other iterations the return usually involved some form of uncomfortable apology. And I was pretty sure it would have to come from me, because apparently the Lord God’s Eleventh Commandment was: Men do not apologize, no matter how wrong they are.
I really hated that one.
“Lady Rosaline...” I heard the faint call again. But from where?
I whirled to face...nothing. No one stood behind me. For as far as I could see, the great walk was empty. “Who’s there?”
No reply.
“You kids better stop teasing me.” For that was the only thing that made sense; Princess Isabella had led my siblings into a hidden passage—great Veronese houses were riddled with hidden passages—or they’d slipped from curtain to curtain in a nefarious intention to frighten me. Surely, the palace servants, for all their skulking, wouldn’t play such a trick. No. That made no sense. It had to be the kids. At any moment, I’d hear a childish giggle and...
“Lady Rosaline...”
A door stood open that had previously been shut and the mysterious voice seemed to originate there.
Why, you ask, would a sensible woman follow an eerie voice up a narrow, steep, dark staircase? Surely, that was as ill-advised as going into the cellar in a thunderstorm to investigate a noise when a murderer is on the loose.
The answer was simple—because the alternative was apologizing to the prince for my impetuous speech, while at the same time practicing restraint so I don’t kindly point out what an ass he’d been and that he deserved every word.
I climbed that stairway, climbed another stairway, climbed another, paused to gasp (my recovery was not yet complete and my layers of clothing heavy) and considered whether I was being a deluded fool.
Probably.
I almost turned back, but again I heard the voice call my name. Leaning down, I pulled the stiletto from the sheath on my ankle. I exited the last open door onto the stone balcony that surrounded the top of the tallest palace tower, there to find myself alone.
I did not doubt that I’d conjured the man’s voice out of my own longing to be out of this marriage trap in which I found myself—but you’d think that the prince was right. If I was going to hallucinate, it would be Lysander’s voice I’d hear.
Sheathing the stiletto at my ankle, I straightened to study the view.
All of Verona lay beneath me bathed in twilight: the hills, the Roman arena, and the expansive piazzas. I leaned my elbows on the rail and watched the shadows of the sun-kissed clouds slip across Verona’s red stone streets, sprawling markets, golden buildings with their rosy roofs, and wander along the showy crescents of the Adige River. I stared, enraptured, as the occasional torch moved through the streets and the glow of firelight and candles spilled from the public houses. It was beautiful, my city, and I loved it with all my heart; yet right now, if I could follow those clouds and those shadows, and travel the countryside and escape even for a few moments these city walls, how swiftly I’d leave this all behind!
“Lady Rosaline.”
The voice, much amplified, spoke near me, and I jumped so hard I bit my tongue. I whirled to face—a man emerging from the stone wall. I mean, like, materializing through cold, hard rock.
I’d seen this man recently.
Prince Escalus the elder. The man in the portrait. The man with the golden hair and the striking green eyes. The father of Prince Escalus the younger and Princess Isabella, who, for lo these many years, had been moldering in the grave.
“Wait.” I pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re dead.”