“Best you do, before something worse happens. Is he still on about that Rosaline girl?”

“No,” I said, which was the perfect truth. “He sees the wisdom of leaving Rosaline alone now.”

“Good,” Veronica said primly. “Loose-tongued viper that she is, she’d betray poor Romeo in a second. Look what came of her last gossip.”

My grandmother glanced her way, and Veronica shut her mouth, quick enough for her teeth to click together. “Did I seek your opinions, girl?” Veronica, I thought, had best watch herself. The temporary diversion did not last, because Grandmother’s attention turned back to me with the force of a shove. “Is it some other girl, then?”

I risked a lie. “I don’t know.”

“Pray God it is, and someone suitable,” she said. “You’ve been little use to me in the matter of Romeo, Benvolio. I am most displeased. Tell me, what do you believe your future is in this house?”

“Why, Grandmother,” I said, “I believe that it is whatever you decree it will be. But you have need of someone to avenge your wrongs and be your strong right hand.”

“Is that what you are, then? My strong right hand? The scriptures tell us, ‘If thy hand offend thee, cut it off.’ I warn you, boy: Bring your cousin to heel and make him comport himself as befits the true heir of Montague, or there will be consequences. Grave consequences.”

My mother was uncharacteristically worried; I could see it in her normally unreadable face. She feared for me, and that meant more than Grandmother’s threats.

I bowed my head. “I will find him,” I said. “May I have your leave to—”

“Go,” my grandmother said, and pointed her cane at me with an unsteady hand. “Find the boy. Tybalt Capulet sent a much distempered letter here complaining of Romeo’s behavior at the feast, and I think he means to scrape a duel if he can. Prevent that at all costs. We cannot lose Romeo.”

She burst into wet, red coughs, and I escaped quickly. But I was not the only one. My mother rose and followed, and so did Veronica.

“Bide a moment,” my mother said, once we were without the doors. She took a dainty linen square from her sleeve and dabbed at her forehead. “I am sorry, my son, but she is in earnest in her anger. Romeo’s betrothal will be announced soon, and his behavior must be seen as above reproach. His promised bride is of excellent family, and far wealthier than we are. You understand the politics of this.”

I did. Children of such houses were bought and sold for favors and profits, all under the cloak of the Church and tradition. Romeo and Mercutio, my sister . . . all affianced without consent, and I dangled on the precipice, fighting the drop. Rosaline alone had escaped that customary fate, but she was soon to wed Christ. Maybe that’s your escape, part of me whispered. Take on that suffocating robe for good. Priests may claim celibacy, but it’s the exception, not the rule. Yet taking the cloth would not free me from the family; far from it. They would expect preferment, and push me from priest to monsignor to bishop to pope, if they could. At least Rosaline could look to a future of prayer and study, if lucky.

“I understand,” I said. “But the old woman will be on her deathbed soon, at the rate she coughs up her blood.”

“She’ll die in that chair, ordering us about,” my sister said sourly. “Doubt that not. And she’s got venom enough to poison us all if she’s roused to bite. So be quick about your work, Ben. I have only a few days until I’m free of all this. Don’t spoil it for me!”

“What motive could I have for that?” I asked her, in too-honeyed tones, and she frowned. She knew all too well what motive I harbored. And what hatred I concealed under the smile. “Mother.” I bowed to her, ignored Veronica, and walked away with fast, hard hits of my heel on the floor. My uncle was walking the other way across the atrium, head bent as he listened to one of the five or six rich men gaggled around him; he looked gravely interested in what they were saying, though I doubted he was. The masks that duty pressed upon us . . . He seemed not to note my passage at all, and I hastened my pace, went quickly up the stairs and into my rooms, where Balthasar nearly stumbled into me in hurrying to open the door.

I said nothing at all to him, changing to clothes that would best reflect the might and power of Montague; besides, the ones I had worn were stinking already, and I wanted the smell of the old woman’s room off of me. Balthasar silently presented me with sword and dagger, which I added, and donned his own before topping it with a half cloak, and then the two of us slipped away, out through the hallways and a little-used door that creaked when we opened it onto the back garden. It was a pleasant enough day, sunny and mild, and the flowers rioted in their colors among the sharply trimmed topiary trees. Like the Capulets, we had bravos in our pay, and some loitered in the sunny space; Balthasar summoned two of them, and we left through the side gate.

“Dare I ask?” he said then, as we walked through the square with pigeons exploding upward from our path. A child’s choir was singing near the fountain, and we avoided a loose chicken being chased by a red-faced servant. The market was still busy up ahead, full of movement and color, though it was late in the day to be buying anything but livestock or dry goods. I headed for the market, not knowing where else to stop; we could inquire among the stall merchants and malingering wealthy and see whether Romeo had been spotted. Someone would have seen him, most certainly. No one could hide for long in Verona.

I gave courteous, though brief, greetings to acquaintances as we entered the outskirts of the market, and sent Balthasar to ask after Romeo at various merchants friendly to the Montagues—they sometimes wrapped our house’s color into their shades, or flew it in a banner, though that was a risky venture in a city so polarized as ours was becoming. Capulet colors were also in evidence, in approximately the same numbers. I saw a few of their paid men sauntering through, but they seemed at ease, and one even escorted a plump woman I took to be his wife, trailed by two small children. Well, then, even the Capulet adherents were human.

I was not happy to know it, since it made hating them more difficult.

A stall haunted by a sinister-looking old woman proffering vials of oils and concoctions made me slow my steps, and Balthasar sent me a curious look. “Master? Are we not seeking Master Romeo? I don’t think you’ll find him in this old witch’s quarters.”

“Not this old witch,” I said, and turned on him. “There’s word of a witch doing business in Verona. Mercutio is said to have sought her out. What know you?”

“Little,” he said, and looked away at a grubby child running past carrying a struggling, squawking chicken, with a butcher wielding a cleaver in wrathful pursuit. “She’s said to be new to the city. Purveyor of potions and charms, telling of fortunes, the usual thing.”

“Why would Mercutio seek her out?”

“Perhaps his wife has been to see her. A husband’s well advised to see what a wife’s been up to, visiting those old hags. They’re known for their poisons.”

I hadn’t thought of it, but poison was a common weapon among all the classes in Verona—rich and poor, high and low. It was more often used by women than men, but politics was a dirty business, and poison a tool of the trade.

But not Mercutio, surely. As much as he hated those he saw as enemies, he would kill with close, personal violence. Not some subtle and cold design.

But if he did, some evil angel whispered, if he did, whom would he choose?

Not me, even if he blamed me. Not Romeo, for similar reasons . . . he loved us enough to kill us quick and clean, face to honest face.

But the Capulets . . . perhaps. A poisoned drink for a poisoned tongue. I went cold considering how easily Rosaline might be touched by such a thing . . . an innocent, struck down by one who was avenging an innocent. He might also be turning that cold hate on his own father, a thing that would surely damn his soul to eternal flames.

“Find her for me,” I told Balthasar. “Do it quietly.”

He looked gravely doubtful, now. “Your grandmother will take it ill if you make visits to such heretical company. . . .”

“I care not,” I said irritably, although of course I did care, and his warning was well-spoken. “It will not be Benvolio Montague who visits her, be assured. Find her; our secret friend will go in my place.”

“Ah,” he said, and looked much cheered. “You might tell our secret friend that these evil creatures are well used to threats. They generally require silver to loosen their tongues.”

“He is in funds.” Actually, the Prince of Shadows had been bent too much on revenge recently, and not enough upon profit; I would need to begin to remedy it soon. The thought of the remaining loot dangling below the jakes was tempting, but all that was left were pieces that would be easily recognized if traded in Verona; I needed to find a jeweler I could trust to cut the rubies that I’d stolen, and a trustworthy sword maker to refit the very fine blade to a new handle. But I had enough to bribe some low witch, certainly.

“Sir,” Balthasar said, and jerked his chin in the direction he wished me to look. I turned toward the cathedral and saw that Count Paris—accompanied, of course, by half an army of hangers-on—was making his leisurely way through the square in our direction. It was slow progress, because he paused every few steps to exchange politenesses, bow to ladies, inspect vendors’ wares. He spotted us, and corrected his wandering course to move in our direction.

Ever the dutiful servant of my family, I pasted on a smile and sketched a bow to him as he approached. “My lord Paris,” I said, and waited until he granted me a gracious, minimal gesture of his hand to straighten. “I trust this day finds you in fine health.”

“Tolerable, Benvolio. I hear your sister’s wedding day approaches. I anticipate the day.”

“As do I,” I said, with much feeling. The faster Veronica’s shadow left my door, the better life would seem. “My congratulations on your own recent match.”