Chapter 24
You’re right, gentle reader, you already know what happened. Not life, but Friar Laurence caught Cal and me snuggled together like two spoons, my back against Cal’s chest, while Cal guided my hands as I caressed myself. Which was working rather well for both of us.
Thus we weren’t breaking any vows made to Friar Laurence, which we both pointed out to him while he was throwing his heaven-raising tantrum.
He patently didn’t care, announced he would make his decision about us after proper and thoughtful prayer, and banished us to the seventh circle of hell, or, as I liked to call it, the deepest depths of boredom. …
Which is how we came to be seated at Great-uncle Magno’s large square table with twenty other sufferers, separated by gender and from there into subsections consisting mostly of families with a few unrelated guests mixed in.
Filled wine cups and untasted tidbits had been meticulously placed at each setting, yet we were not allowed to eat or drink.
Instead we, all of us, Leonardis, Capulets, Montagues, and guests alike, stared longingly at the food and wine while Magno droned on.
“Each grape has its own distinct flavor profile, which, if blended with other grapes, can either engage in battle like warriors or, in the hands of a talented ampelographer, become the ambrosia of the gods …”
If ever there was a way to unite the Montagues and Capulets, this was it: Withhold food and drink.
Hands that longed to hold a sword hilt now twitched to use a small sharp knife to stab slices of peppery salami and smelly cheese and convey them to a thin slice of grainy bread spread with tart, garlicky agliata.
“Stare into the cup and note the color, in this case a deep red that echoes the color of blood, and thus by this sign given us by God Himself, we know this wine will build blood and should be given to invalids …” Magno droned on and on.
Clearly, he had arranged the table to his liking, for his sycophants sat on his left side: Sir Christofolo of Cittadella and Niklaus of Denmark, whose shoulders seemed to diminish the handsome, gallant, strong (one assumes) Sir Christofolo.
Directly to Magno’s right sat—no big surprise—Princess Isabella, who sparkled with youth, beauty, grace, and nobility.
“A wine this rich red should never be drunk by a virile man lest he be overcome by lust—” For a moment, Magno interrupted his own droning on and on and on to give her his best flirtatious glance.
Princess Isabella pretended not to notice, but she couldn’t hide her blush.
Magno seemed to think that indicated she considered him an attractive man rather than a beetle-headed, flap-eared knave with pretensions, for he took a moment to gloat.
My lips may have twitched in a half sneer, for Magno pounced like a great cat on the puniest vole. “Do you not agree, niece Rosaline?”
That he was a beetle-headed, flap-eared knave with pretensions? I so did but was pretty sure that’s not what he meant. “Agree about …?”
Magno tsked. “Pay attention, niece! Do you not agree that a dark red wine overheats a man’s blood?”
Glances crisscrossed the table between Cal and me like blades clashing before a fight.
When I didn’t immediately reply—I mean, really, what retort was there, especially for me, who had been marched in by Friar Laurence himself and seated across the table from Cal and told forcibly to remain?
—Magno continued speaking, seemingly oblivious.
“I hear that you brag that you have the knowledge of a man, and not just any man, but a man of Montague lineage.”
Now, to that I could reply. “I am no man, but I am a Montague, and a Montague of Verona, by God.” Beside me, my sister Vittoria gave me an under-the-table congratulatory fist bump for my queenly answer/nonanswer.
Directly across the wide table, my disgruntled and frustrated betrothed, Cal, pulled a disbelieving face at my false humility.
“Niece, I am pleased to know you realize your place. And surprised.” Magno seemed impervious to my double meaning. Subtlety was not his strong suit. With particular emphasis, he picked up the thread of his droning. “The virile man must add water to this wine.”
Gentle reader, are you startled to know that every man at the table splashed water into his wine?
Me either.
Magno lifted a finger. “But first! Let us swirl and inhale the aromas, and you can tell me what scents rise to your nose.”
I did not grin. I did not. Other women were not so controlled and buried their noses in their cups to smell the scents and hide their amusement.
When we finally, finally were allowed to sip, to nibble, to exclaim about Great-uncle Magno’s supreme good taste in wines and congratulate him profusely (although not as profusely as he congratulated himself), we rose with immoderate haste.
I escaped out the one door with the women as Cal was headed out another door with all the gentlemen.
Then I walked to the end of the corridor and slipped into one of the rooms, and no, not because I intended to waylay Cal. Gentle reader, you do me an injustice.
I wished to see if my suspicions were correct. … And sadly, they were, for Magno and Princess Isabella walked out, deep in conversation, and wandered with seeming artlessness toward some secluded destination Magno had no doubt scoped out.
I followed them.