It is the year of our Lord 1599, autumn.
My years in Padua have been well spent. I have not been formally graduated. I fear ’twill be decades before the university, enlightened as it is, will have the courage to bestow a degree upon a lady. But I am well taught and confident. And I am at peace in my soul.
I arrive in Verona in the late afternoon. So different it is from the city I knew. Montagues and Capulets walk in pairs, conversing politely. No one insults his neighbor, and no angry flash of steel catches the last light of the soft, setting sun.
A crimson leaf, the first of autumn, floats by on a cool breeze. My thoughts turn backward briefly to Mercutio,
and I understand for the first time that he, more than any of us, would have cherished this peace.
Two households, both alike in dignity in fair Verona …
Four years away have made me nostalgic for the place. I meander in the square although the day’s commerce has long since ceased. The Healer’s cottage stands unchanged. I shall visit her tomorrow, for there is much I want to share with her. At last I shall be able to repay her for all the things she taught me, by teaching her in return.
My mother is away, staying with friends in Venice. In her last letter, she did hint that she had met a most charming gentleman. Mayhap they will marry. I should like that.
I come now to the golden statues of Romeo and Juliet. God’s truth, seeing them angers me—better they were alive than fashioned of gold. I look upon them only long enough to note that the nose on Juliet’s statue is a bit too narrow, and Romeo’s chin, though golden, is not nearly as handsome as was the real thing.’ Tis a mediocre effort, I conclude. Sighing, I walk on.
As twilight comes, I make my way to Benvolio’s house. I find him in his father’s garden. He stands in profile, admiring a prolific grapevine that swags o’er the wooden arbor.
How beautiful he is, how manly now, e’en more so than when I took my leave of him four years past. The strength I remember is unaltered, the fine structure of his face and the broadness of his shoulders (which I did look upon in
my memory every day of my absence) remain. My heart swells.
He does not notice me until Crab, the darling, begins to bark. Benvolio turns.
“I am home,” I say foolishly, but it is all I can think of. His eyes are distracting me. I reach down to scratch the dog’s ears but cannot remove my gaze from Benvolio. He smiles now. O, but it is the sweetest thing I’ve ever witnessed, and so sincere. He lifts his hand and gives me a small wave, as though I had departed only days before.
I take one dainty step and then I run, at full speed, to be collected into his arms. He crushes me to him, and I do not mind it a bit.
“I am home,” I say again.
“Aye,” he agrees softly.
As darkness falls, the rippling peals of church bells from the tower of Saint Peter’s seem to welcome the first stars to the sky. Glistening constellations. Stars, aligned at long last, and perfect in the heavens.
Stars to light our way.