He appeared a moment later, frowning down at me. I gave him an innocent look and held out the bag, which he snatched away with righteous haste. “Up, you sinner,” he said. “And keep your mouth well shut on the lady’s presence here, mark me.”

I hobbled up. “I swear,” I said, “your amorous trysts are safe with me.”

I heard her gasp again, but this time it sounded less fear than fury, and though she had her hood up and face turned down, she could not resist an angry glare in my direction.

And the candlelight showed me just a small glimpse of sweetly familiar lines and flashing dark eyes, and I knew who she was, just as from the same glimpse she marked my face, and her lips parted in shock.

Rosaline Capulet rose, threw back her hood, and hastened to my side. “You’re hurt!” she said. I could not take my gaze from her. The beating’s effects had long passed, and though there was a thin scar near her hairline where she’d been cut, she looked as lovely as ever. I’d never thought to see her again, nor to be so close if I did, and the smell of pressed roses and oranges washed through me like warm rain.

And then she touched me, gentle fingers on my arm, and in flinching I almost fell. “Your face,” I said stupidly. I couldn’t stop drinking in the sight, the miracle of it. I controlled myself with an effort of sheer will. “I am glad you’re well healed.”

“You are not!”

“I’m well enough,” I said. Her presence was too overwhelming, and the implications were beyond me. “Why are you here, at such an hour, without escort?”

She looked quickly past me, at Friar Lawrence, who firmly took hold of my shoulders and steered me toward the confessional. “Now, now, sir, you’ve spoiled my efforts to keep fire and fuel apart, by which I mean Montague and Capulet, but you must mind your own affairs. The lady’s are none of yours.”

“But—” Surely she was not here for an assignation with this fat old man. The thought burned holes in me. “She should have taken her vows by now!”