I dress for the feast in my cousin’s chamber.
Juliet sits before the looking glass as though she does not recognize the face she sees there. I am elbow-deep in her best blue brocade, which she hath always said goes nicely with my eyes. I have convinced her to wear her yellow silk, for the neckline is flattering, and she insists I wear her sapphire pendant.
“Wherefore art thou so quiet, cousin?” I ask, just as her maid lifts the gown’s heavy skirt up and over my head. I disappear for a moment into the mass of midnight fabric and cannot hear Juliet’s reply. The heavy dress falls into place upon my person with a rustling swish. The narrow waistline dips low, and I especially like the sleeves,
which are slit from the wrist to the shoulder and laced with gold cording to match the golden rope that swags from hip to hip.
Juliet turns from the mirror and smiles. “Perfect,” she announces.
“A little snug in the bodice perhaps,” I admit, sucking in my breath to allow the maid to fasten the gown in back. I thank her for the loan of it. In turn, she thanks me for the slippers I have brought for her to wear. They are dyed-yellow kid to match her gown, and they are only the slightest bit too large for her.
“You have said little since my arrival.”
“Aye.” She props her elbow on the vanity table and drops her chin into her hand. “I have been mulling over something my mother imparted to me earlier.”
“And what might that be?” I twirl, watching the blue skirts of her exquisite gown bell at my ankles. “That you are to curtsy and say buona sera to all of your guests, and that you are not to taste the wine should Tybalt offer you a sip?”
Juliet gives me a look, and I know she is remembering last Christmastide, when Tybalt dared us both to drain huge goblets of burgundy. Juliet had three small tastes and fell promptly asleep. I drank my portion and hers, and later Tybalt graciously held my hair back as I retched in the orchard. “Wine is the least of my concerns.”
I cross to the vanity to retrieve the sapphire necklace,
which I fasten round my throat. Then I pick up my peacock-plumed mask by its ribboned stick and hold it before my face. It covers my forehead and cheekbones, and my eyes are clearly visible through the almond-shaped slits. I wonder if Benvolio is on his way. Mayhap he has already arrived (and is anonymously partaking of Capulet hospitality) … with Mercutio at his side!
“Well, with or without drink, Jules, when the gentlemen take to fawning o’er you, I suggest you fawn right back at them.”
“What mean you?” Juliet cocks her head as she takes her own mask from the marble-topped bedside table. Then she understands. “You are advising me to flirt this night!”
“Aye, and heavily. Flirt with every lucky beau who falls within your line of vision. Dance with any boy who asks, and if the opportunity presents for you to be kissed, by all means, Juliet Capulet, get thyself kissed.”
I turn away from the glass and smile at her blush. She quickly attempts to conceal it behind her mask, which is similar to mine except that hers is bordered not with feathers but rows of large pearls.
“Kisses are sins,” she states. “You should know that, being as you are a fierce advocate of chastity! Did you not, this very morn, hotly denounce the state of love and all romantic actions associated with it?”
’Tis my turn to blush. “Ah. Well. As to that, I have recently undergone, as they say, a change of heart.”
“A change of heart?”
“Oh, Jules, it happened just today. I have met someone!”
“Met someone?” Her mouth becomes a dainty O of wonder. “Tell me!”
I fall back upon her pillows, feeling suddenly girlish and light. “He is the most gallant, most brave, most handsome man in all of Verona.”
“Am I acquainted with him?”
“’Tis very doubtful,” I admit, biting my lip. She understands at once.
“Oh, Roz, another Montague? First Romeo, now … what is this one called?”
I hesitate. “Mercutio.”
“You jest!”
“Nay.
“Mercutio!” Jules shakes her head.
“I am hoping he will come here tonight,” I confide, “so I may tell him of my feelings.”
“A Montague here? Now I have heard it all.” She sighs. “Well, at least you picked him for yourself.” She grins. “Like a fig. Forbidden fruit. Could that be the source of Mercutio’s allure?”
“It could. But it is not.” I narrow my eyes. “What dost thou mean by saying I have picked him for myself?”
“I mean that you chose him.” Juliet’s eyes turn serious. “I have learned tonight that Count Paris does request
my hand and that my lord and lady would have me accept.”
I open my mouth and stare at her.
Juliet grins. “Could it be I have finally found a way to render Rosaline speechless?”
“Paris?” I gasp at last. “Wishes to marry thee?”
“Aye. As I told my lady mother, that certain sacrament has, until this day, been an honor I have dreamed not of.” She shrugs. “But then what else would I do besides marry?”
I drop to the bed in a puff of blue brocade, nothing short of stunned.
“But Paris? I did not even know you knew him!”
“I do not know him, other than by reputation,” she says in her sensible way. “But ’tis not as though the practice is uncommon. Girls are married off to strangers every day. At least I have clapped eyes on Paris.”
“You have clapped eyes upon the village idiot, as well,” I remind her. “But no one expects you to marry him!”
“Paris is not an idiot,” she says evenly.
I scowl, crossing my arms across the bodice of the gown. “So that is your measure for marrying a man?” I snap. “If he is not classified as a halfwit, then he is husband material?”
“He is a nobleman. Kin to the prince.”
“That is his pedigree. What of his personality?”
“I suspect he has one.”
“Aye, and it is very much lacking.” I shake my head at her. “A nun’s confession is less boring than Paris!”
Juliet looks only somewhat discouraged. “He is handsome,” she states. “In fact, Mother spoke at length of his beauteous looks.”
“Likely because that is all there is to speak of. Paris dazzles the eye, aye, until he opens his mouth! Marry him? Oh, Juliet. How could you?”
Juliet sighs. “How could I not?”
There, of course, is the meat of it. I take her hand. “I am sorry,” I say softly. “I did not mean to scold you. They have commanded it, then? They’ve left you no choice but to marry him?”
“On the contrary, they have left it mostly to me. My lady mother asked, ‘Can you like of Paris’s love?’ I am to look him over this evening and decide if I am able to love him.”
“Based upon what? The cut of his tunic? The color of his hair?”
“I shall look to like,” says Juliet. “’Tis that simple.”
I glower at her. “There is nothing simple in considering a man for a husband!”
“Husband,” Juliet repeats with a slight shiver. “Oh, Roz, hath any word e’er sounded at once so goodly and so grave? Paris, seen from afar, is the very model of masculine worthiness. He would surely devote himself in full to she who would become his wife.”
“Wife!” I cry. “What dost thou know of being a wife? You are only just learning to be Juliet.”
“Aye, and in so learning I have learned that to deny all
that is Juliet is what Juliet is most. Juliet listens. She obeys, and she smiles and thinks only what she is allowed to think … unless I am in your company, Rosaline, for then I am free to be some other Juliet, one who ingests figs that were ne‘er intended for her to taste.” She shrugs. “Whoever Juliet is, ’tis possible that she—I—will please Paris. Of course, ’tis also possible my ways will enrage him. Or confuse him. Mayhap he will laugh at me.”
Juliet speaks as calmly as though she is telling me she believes it will rain. I spring up from the bed and commence to pace.
“And were he to laugh—at you, with you—pray, what sound would it have? A gusty, easy noise? A raspy bark? Heartfelt or forced? Could there come a day when Paris’s laughter might be a joy to you, a thing you long to hear? Is his touch tender? Are his eyes gentle? What dreams did he dream when he was a child and does he prefer the heat of summer to winter’s chill? Can he carry a tune? Does he favor his left hand or his right when he fences or holds his cup of wine, and how many babes will he wish you to bear for him? Is he forgiving by nature? Generous? Given to dark moods? Can he eat strawberries without swelling?” I turn to Juliet and throw my arms wide. “They ask, ‘Can you like of Paris’s love?’ How in the name of all God’s saints are you to determine that in a glance?”
“I know not.” Juliet squirms ’neath my demanding gaze, then narrows a glare of her own at me. “Mayhap
the same way in which you, this very day, determined you could like Mercutio.”
She doth make good sense with that barb, and I look away, embarrassed.
“I know only that ’tis my duty as a daughter to consider it,” she continues. “For as I have been honor-bound to hate whom they hate, now I must try to love he whom they find deserving of my love.”
“And when are you to shackle yourself to this stranger?” I inquire. “This very evening? Before the ale barrels have been tapped, or will it be a long betrothal, lasting until after the honeyed cakes have been served?”
“Two summers hence.”
I freeze where I stand. So this was the matter my uncle discussed so indifferently with Paris this morn. His daughter’s future. Her very life.
“You will do what your parents ask?”
Juliet lifts her chin slightly. “Nothing more. And nothing less. I’ll look to like, if looking liking move. Whate’er truly means Juliet, mayhap this night I’ll chance to prove.”
Now Juliet’s nurse, Angelica, hollers for us to join the feast. We exchange a glance that is part panic and part glee as we rush from the room.
The great hall smells of slow-melting beeswax and heavy perfumes, roasted doves and sauces of cheese and parsley. Wine and ale and apricots. The minstrels on their mandolinos wear puffy velvet hats embellished with ostrich
feathers, and the guests seem golden in the gracious glow of glittering chandeliers.
Juliet and I watch a moment from the stairs. Tybalt appears and begins to taunt us. He is dressed, as always, to perfection, in dark hose of the softest knit and a purple satin coat, finely tailored. His rugged chin is scraped smooth, and his hair, the same raven shade as Juliet’s, falls perfectly behind his ears to swing o’er his shoulders at a fashionable length.
“Why, if it isn’t Ros-malign and Ghoul-iet!” he barks playfully, giving Jules’s braid a tug. “Those masks become you, brats! For they conceal your hideous faces.”
Juliet smiles and slams her yellow-slippered foot down hard upon his toe. He yelps, but behind his plaster mask his eyes twinkle.
“I shall take thee over my knee, urchin,” he threatens.
“Thou wouldst have to catch me first,” Juliet replies.
“Was that you I spied dancing with yon maiden, Tybalt?” I tease, nodding at a mean-spirited girl called Dorothea. She is exceedingly plump with dull, frizzled hair and thin, frowning lips. “Why, she’s far prettier than your last paramour. Only, when you partake of her kisses, how dost thou manage to get thine arms around her girth?”
Tybalt sneers. “Dorothea is a maiden who requires two sacks,” he reports.
“Two sacks?” Juliet repeats. “What mean you?”
“I mean,” says Tybalt, “that were a man to escort her in public, he would needs bring along two sacks—one to
place o’er her face and a second to hide his own, in the event that hers gets torn!”
Juliet cannot help but giggle at his icy wit.
“Tybalt!” I scold, slapping his arm. “You are wicked.”
“‘Twas you who pointed her out, Roz.” He grows suddenly serious toward me in that way that older cousins have. “A lady blessed with beauty such as yours should ne’er mock one less fortunate.”
He is right, of course, and I feel a rush of guilt. At times I believe that, for all his sauciness, there is kindness in Tybalt. I only wish that he would display it more readily—e’en to himself.
“O!” cries Juliet happily, noticing a recent arrival. “’Tis my old spinetta instructor. I must say buona sera!” She hurries off to do so.
Across the room, an elegant lady with a delicately curvaceous figure lifts her wine goblet to Tybalt.
“Now, there is a maid to my liking,” he says, nudging his elbow into my side. “If I have not returned by Tuesday next”—he smiles—“be glad for me!”
He strides across the marble hall to claim his prize; I find myself free to search the crowd, praying that Benvolio has indeed come in costume and brought Mercutio along. Holding my feathered mask in place, I make my way round the room. Thinking unwelcome guests such as they would wisely keep to the shadows, I move toward the perimeter of the hall.
Let him be here, O, please let me find Mercutio …
“Benvolio!”
My new friend steps into my path, nearly causing me to collide with his broad chest.
“How is it thou knowst me,” he asks, in a pleased but puzzled voice, “behind this mask?”
How, indeed? His visor is a full facade, covering his face completely from hairline to chin. And yet I recognized him immediately, for I sensed an aura that spoke Benvolio to me. Not to mention that luxurious, wavy mass of shining hair, and his sturdy shoulders. And a particular, manly aroma that is his alone—fresh air, strong soap, spearmint and cedar and clean warmth.
“Uh, ’twas … your boots,” I fib, stammering. “Aye, your boots—there is a rather bad scuff near the ankle of the right one. I noticed it this afternoon.
Benvolio laughs behind his disguise. “She remembers my boots,” he announces triumphantly to a fellow in a half mask who has just come up beside him.
“I would not be too proud of that,” the masked newcomer slurs.
I expect my knees to waver—oddly, they do not. My pulse quickens, however, and I note a frantic fluttering sensation in my belly. “Mercutio!”
“None other.” He sways slightly as he leans in close to me. “And, pray, what dost the lady recall of me?”
“Everything,” I blurt. (That too is a fib, for ’twas actually his smug tone that gave him away. In truth, I did not know him until he spoke.) “Your eyes. Also your smile.”
Mercutio chuckles. “’Tis better than boots, nay?”
I cannot see Benvolio’s face, but methinks I see his shoulders stiffen, then slump. Surely he finds such lovesick prattle most disgusting.
I now spy another familiar figure across the room leaning forlornly against a wall and cannot stop myself from gasping his name. “Romeo.”
“Seems she knows us all,” Mercutio says, and I fear he means it as an insult.
Benvolio’s spine goes rigid. “I will thank you not to tease the lady,” he says in a level voice.
Mercutio snorts, plucks two goblets of burgundy from the tray of a passing servant, and hands one to Benvolio.
“To honor,” he sneers, lifting the cup.
“To honor,” echoes Benvolio.
“To honor!” Mercutio slants me a wicked grin. “Get on her and stay on her!”
Benvolio cringes at the crude toast. “Damn you,” he mutters, ignoring his wine.
Mercutio yawns loudly. I fear he is growing bored and will take his leave of us, so I speak quickly.
“How dost thou, Mercutio?” I ask sweetly.
“I do well, lady,” he replies, after a lusty sip of wine. His gaze creeps slowly o’er me. He takes another sip.
“My lady,” Benvolio begins, “it occurs to me that I still do not know your name.”
At this, Mercutio nearly chokes on his mouthful of drink. “By the blood of the devil, Benvolio! You know not
who she is?” He laughs, his eyes steely. “O, this is rich, verily. Comic and tragic and sickening and delightful.” He laughs again. “You wish to know her name! Marry, I have a notion—wherefore dos’t thou not ask Romeo? I’d wager he will be able to tell you her name. He may e’en sing it for you!”
“I would be honored to learn her name by any means necessary,” Benvolio replies, “but would much prefer she give it to me from her own sweet lips.”
Before I can answer, Mercutio catches hold of Benvolio’s chin and shakes it.
“She is Rosaline, you fool! Romeo’s Rosaline! The goddess, the epitome of feminine perfection. The chaste one who has no use for him and yet causes him to weep and whine and waste away. She is that Rosaline! The one, the only!”
Benvolio freezes in his place; then, after a lengthy moment, he tips his mask so only I can see his face. “Rosaline?”
“Aye.”
“Romeo’s Rosaline?”
I frown. “Hardly.”
“He is in love with you,” Benvolio reports grimly.
“So I have heard.”
Benvolio’s eyes go dark. He looks at odds with himself, conflicted. Or perhaps just sad. “Why didst thou not tell me?” he queries.
“Because, if you’ll recall, I had only just overheard you
callously assert to Romeo that I was surely no better than any other maiden in Verona.”
“I was most incorrect,” he whispers.
“O, Benvolio.” Rashly, I take his hands in mine and squeeze them. “Please do not be angry. We had such a lovely time—”
“Lovely time,” Mercutio snickers.
“And I feared you would want nothing to do with me had you known I was the cause of your cousin’s heartache.”
“Nonsense,” drawls Mercutio. “Any man with eyes in his head would want badly to have something to do with thee!” He snorts again, rudely. “And I can tell thee just what that something is!”
Benvolio sends Mercutio a searing look, then turns and stomps away—I suspect to keep from killing him.
I remove my mask. My eyes sting and my heart aches, but I will not cry.
“Why, Mercutio, dost thou say such hateful things to me? You must know the depth of my feelings—”
“Deep feelings are of no interest to me, lady,” he says curtly, taking another goblet from an attendant’s tray. “However, should you wish to reveal to me certain other, more intimate ’depths’ of your person—”
I believe I turn the color of the wine in his glass! “’Tis a most inappropriate thing to say!”
“Aye, and yet you are still standing here.”
I find myself wanting to crumple to the marble floor.
Or slap him. ’Tis difficult to believe that he is the same gentle hero I met earlier this day.
“You have drunk too much wine,” I surmise. “That is the reason for your boldness.”
“The reason for my boldness is that I am bold,” he says easily, downing the beverage in one gulp. “I thought ’twas what you liked about me. But then, what dost thou know of me, other than that this afternoon when you opened your pretty eyes I was near to thee?” He wipes his wine-stained lips with the back of his hand. “You interpret me badly, my lady.”
“Then show me the truth of you,” I challenge, stepping forward to brazenly place my palm against his chest.
He starts as though I’ve branded him with a hot iron.
“You play with flame, Rosaline,” he warns in a thick voice.
“I shall take my chances, sir.”
His eyes bore into mine. I wish I could say I see affection there. With a slow and measured breath, he grasps my wrist and roughly shoves my hand away, then whirls, a bit unsteadily given the extent of his intoxication. He takes two clumsy steps before turning back to glare at me once more.
“Wouldst thou join me, if I invited thee?” he asks with contempt.
“I would join thee, e’en if you didn’t,” I say, attempting a smile.
Something flickers in his eyes, and I imagine it might be regret. He turns again and lurches away down the shadowy hall. Despite the terror tumbling in my guts, I follow. But when I round the corner, I stop at the sound of voices. Voices I know well.
One is Juliet’s. And he to whom she speaks is Romeo!
Oh, this cannot be good! Juliet and Romeo …
… Romeo and Juliet.
They have concealed themselves in a curtained alcove near the chapel. The crimson velvet of the draperies shadows Juliet’s pale gown with a bright, bloody hue. As I press myself to the wall and steal a look within, I see that she is removing her pearl-trimmed visor.
And Romeo doth remove his mask as well.
And I see them see each other for the very first time.
Silence explodes around them, and they gaze upon each other as angels might, angels who have ne’er seen another of their kind. God’s truth, I can almost feel the heat that springs from them!
My first thought is to rush in, collar Juliet, and drag her as far away from here as ’tis possible to go. My second thought is this: So much for liking Paris.
Now they whisper something, and in the next moment, he has taken her chin upon his thumb and tilted up her face to his.
Hell’s teeth! They kiss!
And whisper more.
And kiss again.
Oh, this is bad; this is very bad, indeed!
A hand upon my shoulder startles me. I whirl to find Benvolio. For a moment, I actually forget that nearby my cousin is kissing her sworn enemy.
“I believed you had departed,” I say, smiling.
“I was about to, until I recollected that you promised me a dance.”
“Then you are no longer angry with me?”
“I am many things with you, dear Rosaline,” he says, “but angered is not one of them.” He touches my cheek. “You offer me friendship, and I am honored to accept it.”
“We shall dance then,” I announce, deciding to leave Juliet to her own devices for the present. Romeo is not dangerous. He is just … nauseating.
Benvolio guides me to the dance floor and we take our place in the formation as the minstrels strike up.
The dance is formal and complicated, and twice I near lose Benvolio in the shifting circles. He is not the most graceful of men, but his persistence is to be commended. At one point, he is required to raise his arm in order that the lady to his left may skip beneath it to join her partner on the other side. But he is looking only at me and miscalculates, thus catching the unsuspecting lady with both his arms around her waist. He apologizes from behind
the mask. The lady giggles, and I think perhaps she was not entirely unhappy to be wrapped, however briefly, in Benvolio strong embrace.
When the dance has done, Benvolio and I take a seat upon the stairs and watch with amusement as the elders in attendance bicker o’er who, in their day, was the better dancer, heartier drinker, and most successful lover. And with no amusement whatsoever, we watch Tybalt skulking round the room, his hand upon his sword.
“Perhaps he knows there are Montagues present,” I whisper to Benvolio.
“Aye, ’tis likely the case.” He stands, pressing a kiss to my wrist. “Much as I hate to leave you, lady, I must remove Romeo from the gathering danger of this place.”
“Wait!” I wring my hands. “Could you … might I …” Closing my eyes, I take a fortifying breath. “Will you tell me where later I might find Mercutio?”
Again that rigid spine and no reply.
“Never mind it, then,” I say, forcing a smile. “I shall find him myself I thank thee for your most delightful company this night … .”
Before I e’en finish the thought, he has turned and stalked away. I am finding that he does that often. I suppose if we are to be friends I will simply have to become used to it.
Glancing toward the chapel hall, I spot Juliet, who has at last seen fit to return to the feast—this due only to the
fact that her stout nurse has captured her firmly by the arm and is all but dragging her along.
Romeo follows them several paces after. When Juliet scurries away to join her mother’s table, I see him approach the nurse and ask a question. ‘Tis clear he does not receive an answer to his liking, for his entire stance goes slack, as though he’s been soundly socked, and e’en at this distance, I believe I see him tremble. The nurse goes to join Juliet, and I watch as Benvolio arrives at Romeo’s side, urging their departure. As they make for the door, the nurse comes swooping back toward them. She inquires something of Romeo. He answers and exits quickly. Benvolio glances back at me and waves, then he too is gone.
Of a sudden, I feel inexplicably lonely.
As the hall empties of guests, my eyes dart round the room in search of Juliet. She is leaving with her nurse and looking utterly distraught. I surmise that her nurse has discovered Romeo’s identity and has reported as much to Juliet. If she did not know him to be a Montague whilst she kissed him, she most certainly knows it now! With a hasty good night to those departing friends who call to me, I hurry up the stairs to meet Juliet in her room.
After the truth she’s just been told, I am certain she will need me!
I find Jules sobbing on the bed. Her gown is bunched into a yellow knot around her legs, and her hair is a cloud of darkness sprawled o’er the satin pillow cover.
“How did I not know it? When I heard him speak, ’twas the voice from the garden. Yet I refused to believe it could be Romeo.”
I sit down beside her.
“Doff thy gown, cousin,” I say softly. “You will surely ruin it, rumpling it this way.”
“What care I for a silly gown?” she asks into the feathery pillow. “I would much prefer to doff my name.”
I sigh. “The word Capulet is offensive to thee now, is it?”
“If it be offensive to sweet Romeo,” she wails, “then aye, it is repulsive to me as well.” She sits up, pushing aside her tousled locks so I might see her tear-stained face. “’Tis almost comical, is it not?” she asks on a laugh that is near hysteria. “You and I, who, in all modesty, could likely have our choice of any men in Italy, doomed to love two Montagues.”
I allow a small smile. “I take this to mean that Paris is now out of the running.”
“Do not tease me, cousin,” she begs.
“Forgive me.” I touch her cheek. “But, Jules, you do realize the Romeo for whom you weep tonight is the same Romeo at whom you laughed this morning? I will admit, he is handsome, but dost thou not remember those hopeless, hollow declarations of love he showered upon me?”
“He spoke quite differently to me,” she whispers. “I felt the truth of it, Roz. Every word came from his heart with full honesty.”
“How can you be certain?”
She shrugs, looking impossibly young. “I just am.”
“O, Juliet. I do not wish to hurt you, but I must speak my mind to thee, whom I love like a sister.” I fold my hands in my lap, praying for the harsh words to come gently. “Dost thou truly believe that the boy can be genuinely in love with thee, when just this very morning he professed to be eternally devoted to me?”
Her eyes narrow. “You are jealous!”
“Because of Romeo?”
“Aye, Roz, you are jealous. For all you spurned and scorned him, you are jealous that he has transferred his attentions to me!”
“No, Jules,” I assure her. “I am merely wary. He loves me when the sun is up and adores thee after moonrise. He is too fickle by half!”
“Is it not possible,” she says pointedly, meeting my gaze, “that he’s merely experienced a change of heart?”
My words. She uses them against me, and I cannot help but think she makes a worthy point. Just this morn I believed myself immune to love, and now …
Again, she drops face first into the pillow and cries. Absently, I rub her arm, thinking long and hard before I speak again.
“If ’tis Romeo you love, then I shall do all in my
power to help you have him.” Before she can react, I add, “But know you this, cousin. I am deeply worried for this match. You are both so very young, and unknown to one another. One kiss, for all the magic it carries, is little to go on. As I warned thee earlier with regard to Paris—”
“Who?” she asks from the depths of her pillow.
“My point precisely,” I mutter, then sigh. “I ask only that you move slowly, Jules. Take the time to know Romeo and allow him the privilege of getting to know thee in return. Will you promise?”
She turns to me sharply. “I shall, if you agree to follow the same course with Mercutio.”
I laugh. “Tybalt is right, you are an urchin!”
“An urchin in love,” she croons with feigned drama.
I rise from the bed, removing the sapphire necklace and placing it on the night table before heading for the door that leads to her balcony.
“Should my mother send a servant round inquiring as to my whereabouts, have your nurse report that I am here with you, asleep, and shall spend the night.”
I step out onto the balcony, which overlooks the orchard. Juliet follows me out there.
“What are you going to do?” she asks in a nervous tone. “Jump?”
“No, I am not going to jump.” I hoist up the skirt of my gown and throw my leg o’er the side of the wall. “I am going to climb.”
“Roz! You will break your neck for sure.”
“No chance of that,” I assure her. “Why, Tybalt taught me to scale this wall when I was but nine in years. We did it all the time. Did you not ever wonder how you came to awaken on the morning of your eighth birthday with half your hair cut short?”
She gasps. “You?”
“No, Tybalt. He was angry with thee for setting free his pet frog.”
She plants her hands on her hips and glowers. “He told me my hair was sheared by minions of Satan as payment for the wicked beauty their dark lord had bestowed upon me!”
“And thou boughtest it?”
“I was but eight,” she grumbles.
I hug her. “’Tis a most beautiful night. Why don’t you remain here on the balcony awhile and enjoy it? Mayhap some stargazing will take your mind off Romeo.”
“Perhaps I will.”
“Where are you going?”
“I must speak to Mercutio.”
Lowering myself over the side of the balcony, I find familiar footholds in the rough surface of the wall. The trick still comes easily to me, and soon I drop deftly into an adjacent tree. In moments, I am on the ground and running for the gate, into the street in search of Mercutio.