I knew I should confess all these things, but I did not trust the slick, bland-faced priest who often occupied the booth in the cathedral; I knew he was an ambitious man, political, and it would be well within his interests to drop a word to the bishop I’d relieved of his precious ring. Better to let my sins fester in my heart and damn me in heaven’s eyes, rather than Verona’s.

My real confession came at an odd time, and in an odd way.

It was inevitable that my obsession would see me caught, sooner or later; I was a great thief, but not invisible, nor invincible. It was a very late Thursday eve when I burgled a fat purse of jewels from the shop of a Capulet goldsmith who beat his apprentices, and who’d blinded one with hot metals; all well and good, but I’d been surprised by a vicious dog, and as I limped away with ill-got goods weighing me down, I also left a bright red trail of blood from my badly bitten leg. It was not a graceful escape, nor an effective one, as the goldsmith roused his household and guards and sent them beating after me, with the vicious dog howling on its leash.

I had just enough time to make it to the small, shopworn chapel, where Friar Lawrence dozed near the altar in an untidy heap. He woke with a snort, glared at me, and then saw the blood trail I’d tracked inside. “What’s this?” he said, and started to his feet to waddle his way to me. “You cannot be here!”

“Trouble,” I said in a gasp. I’d doffed the mask—no point in straining our friendship—and I showed him the bloody gouge in my calf beneath the ripped hose. “They’re after me, Friar.”

“For what crime?”

“Being tasty to their pet?” I said, but my heart was not in the humor. “Later, later—for now, I stand well set to be hanged if you do nothing. I beg you for sanctuary.”

He frowned. “You must touch the altar for that.”

I limped forward, gritting my teeth against the burn, and laid my palm flat on the velvet-covered marble. The suffering Christ looked down on me with a severe expression, and I quickly crossed myself. “In all humility, I ask for sanctuary from those who would see me killed,” I said. “And best if they know not who they’re really hunting, Friar.”

He spied the bag I held in the other hand, and nodded toward it. “What carry you there?”

I tossed it to him. “A gift, for the Church,” I said. “Imagine the poor that might be fed from such a beneficence.”

He gazed at me for a moment, then opened the bag and made a gulping sound. “Stolen goods!” he thundered. I could hear the howling of the dog drawing nearer. “How dare you, boy!”