My good and gentle friend makes a most difficult choice. He leaves the lady to save the boy.
Oh, that is Benvolio through and through.
I, however, am not nearly so decent.
When heroic Benvolio is gone I approach the girl, who lies where he left her on the ground, hidden and a good distance from danger. I cannot help but wonder why Benvolio did not press his advantage. Why, he might easily have pushed her skirt up to admire her knees. He could have kissed her full on those plump, pink lips, perfectly parted now in what would surely be an invitation, were she not currently cataleptic.
Hell’s blood, she is an angel, the sort to make a man’s mouth water.
And she is brave. I saw her, as Benvolio did, risking her own skin to save that child. I imagine she is bright—not that it would signify, for a stupid girl can please a man just as readily as a smart one (perhaps more readily, for the less intelligent ones rarely think through the potential consequences of a careless romp).
She stirs, this beauty of unknown heritage. I crouch beside her, for I am curious as to what assumptions she will make upon her waking. Never let it be said that Mercutio declined a chance to dabble in some mischief.
Her eyes open slowly, and she looks much to me like a kitten. A sultry and desirous kitten to be sure. They are blue, those eyes, a shade near cobalt, and even in her hazy state, I see there is great intelligence behind them.
“Good day, my lady.”
She blinks. I imagine lashes as lush as hers would feel exceedingly good fluttering against a man’s face. Or elsewhere.
For a moment, she but stares at me. I have seen that manner of stare before. It means she is aware of who I am, and mindful of my reputation. She is likely thinking that while she may be away from the fight, she is not entirely unthreatened here in my company—for I present a danger of another sort.
“What happened?” she asks me at last. “Where is the child?”
“You were nearly killed,” I state calmly. “As for the boy, he is safe.” I have no intention of confessing that
neither her rescue nor the boy’s present safety is due to any effort by me. She continues to stare with those jewel-like eyes; I can almost see her mind working, wrongly surmising what hath transpired, how she arrived here, and how I have come to be hovering above her so protectively.
And now the angel smiles.
Were I not Mercutio, it might indeed remove me from my senses.
“Thank you, good sir,” she says in a voice like a siren’s song, “for seeing fit to rescue me.”
I see no point in correcting her. Rather, I reply with a modest nod. She makes to rise to a sitting position, but I urge her not to.
“Rest, my lady. Any sudden movements will surely have you reeling.”
This counsel, of course, pertains as much to myself as to her.
“You are Mercutio,” she whispers.
“I am.” I take her hand (soft it is, more so than any I have ever held before).
“I am in your debt, my lord.”
She is, of course, in no way whatsoever obliged to my person, but why on God’s earth would I ever dissuade her of such a conviction?
“If you say so, cara mia.”
“Rosaline,” she breathes sweetly. “My name, ’tis Rosaline.”
Beyond, in the square, there is a new commotion. I
turn to see that the prince has arrived. His Grace has long opposed this feud and is by no means an admirer of mine. Should he see me here, I know he would blame this day’s dispute on me. Amusing, that, as it would be the first time I am not deserving of such reproach.
“Well now, my lady, I see you are no worse for wear, despite your courageous risk.” (’Tis rare that I am compelled to speak truth to a lady, but that remark is indisputably valid; harsh incident notwithstanding, she is quite perfect to behold.) “Alas, I must take my leave of thee.”
This Rosaline is full of surprises, to be certain, for she reaches up to touch my arm without so much as a blush upon her cheek. “When shall I see thee again, Mercutio?”
“I know not, fair Rosaline,” I say, and that too is honest.
Were I inclined to love any woman, this Rosaline might just be the one.
But love is a dirty trick.
I make a quick bow and hastily depart. Her blue eyes bore into my back as I retreat. I can feel the icy heat of them. Helpless to resist, I turn once more and see them flutter closed again.
Rosaline. Valiant, exquisite Rosaline.
It occurs to me, as I round the cathedral tower and exit the square, that I may have just met the one and only person in Verona who could prove to be even more dangerous than I.