Chapter 3
The chamber exploded into chaos. Women screamed. Men shouted. Everyone crossed themselves and murmured prayers, and the stampede for the door could only be called every man for himself.
I leaped to my feet, bent over Nonna Ursula, and checked her pulse … which beat strongly under my touch.
Prince Escalus appeared on the other side of his grandmother. Leaning down, he murmured in her ear, “Nonna, you wretched female! Nonno indulged you too much.”
I felt her shake with laughter or, knowing Nonna, the thwarted desire to retort.
While Imogene rested her head on Katherina’s shoulder and wailed, Mamma wrapped Lady Pulissena in a thick shawl to calm her trembling.
Gentle reader, you cannot possibly be surprised by the dramatic abilities of my famed family.
As Cal lifted Nonna Ursula in his arms, Princess Isabella fluttered around like a pretty butterfly, distracting attention from Nonna’s healthy color. When Cal moved toward the door, Isabella ran ahead, looking tragic enough to be an adopted daughter of Montague.
I paused long enough to gather Yorick’s skull, drop it in the black bag, and gingerly wipe my fingers, then followed behind, my attention fixed on the prince’s tense shoulders.
So …
Prince Escalus.
What to say about him?
He’s a good man. A noble man. A man of Verona who would give his life to protect his city, and during the Acquasasso rebellion he nearly did, and for that, he’s scarred and he limps. He needs a wife and, after making a pro and con list about me, decided I would do.
Be still, my heart.
The pallor of the dungeon clings to him, and when he wishes, he can slide into the shadows. Become one with the shadows.
I account myself shrewd when judging what thoughts make a person act, and thus I guide them in the direction I judge best. Yet so far, a complete comprehension of Prince Escalus has eluded me.
In fact, when I found myself betrothed to him through his contemptible stunt of compromising me, I realized my knowledge of him was superficial.
Perhaps that was best between husband and wife, but I found it a sour potion to swallow after at last and unexpectedly meeting my One True Love.
For those of you who came late to the party, that would be Lysander of the house of Marcketti.
How shall I describe my One True Love?
Not with poetry—poetry insisted on lingering over rhymes, sighs, and iambic pentameters until I wanted to scream.
No, practical woman that I am, I dwelt on Lysander’s straight, dark blond hair streaked with strawberry; his ears, whimsically too large; his countenance, so handsome that the sun must hide its face lest it be outshone.
I am as God made me, a shallow woman who sees beauty in a youth who will quickly age.
I worshipped his wit and cleverness and found in him a soul that communicates, empathizes with, and admires me.
A man who shared my sense of humor was a rare find, and a man who could laugh at himself even rarer.
To sum up, I loved Lysander, and even more, I liked Lysander. Of great moment, that.
As if my thoughts had compelled him, a hand brushed my fingers. I turned my head to see Lysander.
Our eyes met for a moment, one so brief no one noticed.
Yet as I walked away from Lysander, I realized Cal had paused, Nonna Ursula in his arms, to wait for me.
Had he seen Lysander’s brief touch and my almost imperceptible and quite involuntary response?
I thought not, for already Cal walked again toward Nonna Ursula’s chambers.
Nonna Ursula’s sumptuous suite of rooms was on the ground floor, to facilitate her aging inability to climb stairs.
Or so she said. In truth, it allowed her to keep her fingers on the pulse of the palace.
She received visitors in her sitting room and slept in her bedchamber, as did Lady Pulissena, who had arrived to visit and had never departed.
Her fusty handmaiden, Old Maria, cared for them both.
Paintings, luxurious furniture, mementos of Nonna Ursula’s past, and a genuine glass window gave the rooms a cozy, almost cluttered feeling that spoke to me of home more than anywhere else in the palace.
Although he didn’t know it, soon I’d make changes to the living quarters upstairs where Cal and I would reside. Cal’s cherished dark formality could use softening and updating.
Cal, still holding Nonna, stood to one side to allow Princess Isabella and me to enter the antechamber. As I passed, I shot a sideways glance at him.
How would he take it? When I moved in and cluttered his austere living space? Added color and light? Produced a baby who pooped yellow on his black velvet hose?
Yes, dear reader, that’s jumping from design changes to real-life challenges without pause, but you will allow me my moments of mirth during these fraught wedding festivities.
Old Maria rose from her place at the hearth, and with a sour glance at Nonna Ursula and a clucking sound of annoyance, she stirred up the fire.
“Bring Nonna Ursula into the bedroom,” I instructed. “She may be a grand charlatan, but I perceive she’s weary from the day.”
Lest you think I am an overbearing whelp, let me explain that I train with Friar Laurence, the Franciscan monk and apothecary, and therefore give health-related instructions as necessary.
Princess Isabella stripped the heavy covers down. Cal carried Nonna to her bed and placed her against the pillows, stepped back, and waited until she lifted an eyelid. Seeing we were alone, she chortled, and in his “I’m the prince, so fear me” voice, Cal asked, “Nonna, what were you thinking?”
Both of Nonna’s eyes snapped open, and in a clear “I’m the dowager princess and I wiped your baby bottom” voice, she said, “The Montagues and the Capulets have barely arrived and are already at each other’s throats, and watching for a treasure among the gifts and a murder among the guests will give everyone a break from sharpening their blades. ”
“Guests are fleeing the palace!” Cal gestured toward the street.
“Good. We’re overrun with guests. We have too many guests. Every home in Verona is stuffed with guests. Let them flee over the bridges, drown in the river, escape through the catacombs.”
“I wish,” I muttered, because Nonna Ursula was right. Verona was overrun with guests, Casa Montague was stuffed from the attics to the wine cellar with guests, and our purses were being emptied and our hospitality overtaxed as they ate and drank and snarled insults at each other.
In a return of her good humor, Nonna settled against her great mound of goose down pillows. “Did you see the looks on their faces? I live to inspire awe and terror. This was a productive and entertaining evening.”
Princess Isabella seated herself on the side of the mattress. “It was a magnificent sleight of hand, Nonna. That trick at the end …” She shivered. “I’ve seen it before, and it still scared me.”
I dragged a heavy chair over to sit close. “I suppose I could plant some lost thing among the wedding gifts. Do you have something in mind?”
Princess Isabella made a small sound, something between a cough and the noise you make when your wine goes down the wrong pipe.
Before I could ask what was wrong, Cal said, “Stop it, you two!” He rarely showed exasperation. In fact, he rarely showed any emotion but calm. Right now, he wasn’t happy with his sister or me, and he stood by my chair and gestured toward his grandmother. “You’re encouraging her!”
“As if she needs encouragement?” I didn’t try to hide my amazement at Cal’s misguided conviction.
Nonna beamed beatifically.
A commotion in the outer sitting room presaged the arrival of Lady Pulissena. She leaned heavily on Mamma’s arm and reeked with evil delight. “Ursula, my dear friend, you are a most excellent soothsayer. When Friar Laurence hears of it, you’ll be praying the rosary for hours!”
“I know,” Nonna said. “I’d say, ‘My poor knees,’ but thankfully, I can’t kneel anymore.”
“Yes, you can. You simply can’t get up afterward.” As she laughed, Lady Pulissena slapped her sides with her hands.
Cal glared daggers.
I was surprised. Usually his equanimity, whenever breached, quickly re-formed. Today he seemed as irritated as a monk in a hair shirt.
Mamma helped Lady Pulissena to the second bed set up in the dowager princess’s suite, and when she was settled, Mamma turned to me. In a tone clearly meant to convey bad tidings, she said, “Rosie … Great-uncle Magno has arrived.”
I started up out of my chair as if I’d sat on a pin. “What? What? I didn’t invite him. How? Why? Of the miserable, self-important impersonators of male magnitude who ever walked the earth … how did Magno arrive here, now, without an invitation?”