She ignored the dismissal. “I am sorry for Mercutio,” she said. “He was a loyal friend, if sometimes a loose one.” I waited. She had not come to see me to give me her regrets. After a moment’s silence, she came to it. “Your cousin Romeo is ruined in Verona. No one faults him; he was right to kill the Capulet villain for Mercutio’s death. But without him, Montague has no male heir to take hold of its fortunes. Your uncle must name you, Benvolio.”

“Me?” I said. It was fool’s work to be surprised, but yet I was. I had not thought of it, and now that I had, it disgusted me. I had never wanted such a role, and never at the cost of Romeo’s future and fortune. “My uncle does not favor me, Mother. He never has.” I did not say, Because I am a half-blood. The English in me was a matter of constant suspicion, however much I looked or acted the part of a true Veronese. I would always be seen as an alien, either here or in my mother’s home of London.

“Needs must he favor you now,” she said, and looked down to fuss with a fold of her skirts. “Have you seen your poor cousin since the brawl?”

“Not since he fled, as I urged him to do,” I said. “Should I seek him out?”

“Under no account should you be seen to involve yourself in his troubles. He has done Montague a good turn, there is no doubt of it, but be careful, my son, lest you share his fate.”

The phrasing, I realized, was deliberate; I should not be seen to involve myself; she meant I should be careful. It was a masterful piece of misdirection. My mother gave nothing away in either her posture or her voice, but there was a slight tightening around her eyes that told me she was worried—worried to be sending me this message, which doubtless had not come from her. She was only the helpless messenger.

I sensed my grandmother’s palsied, iron-strong grip was behind it.

I nodded to show I understood, and my mother rose to go. She took a step, then stopped, and without turning said, “Do you grieve, my son?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

She shook her head silently, and a little color burned in her cheeks. “I liked the boy,” she said. “He had a love of life, and a careless grace that was good for you, I think. I hope he taught you some of that joy.”

“You taught me to be cautious,” I told her. “And that lesson, at least, I’ve learned well.”

She turned and looked at me, and her light green eyes met my darker ones. She was still lovely, my mother, though her beauty had faded like a painting kept too long in the sun. I wondered what hopes she had once held for her life, and what dreams. She was far too practical to harbor anything so useless now. “Then be practical now. Guard yourself,” she said. “There’s a fey darkness in the air. I fear the bloodshed is not done, and as Montague’s heir, you will be at even more risk.”