Only a few rain-drenched beggars and disheartened curs watched my slow, cautious progress, and then only in the brief flashes of lightning. The murky dark was my friend, at least; if the watch dared to be about, they’d not easily spot me. My gray, cloaked figure was easily mistaken for a chimney pot, in the flash of a second.

The Capulet garden was silent. No fair maids haunted their balconies this evening; they would be sensibly tucked away from the storms. I paused on the wall, staring at the dark, shut doors of Rosaline’s room; she would still be within, sealed up on Tybalt’s orders, awaiting her quick dismissal to the convent. Perhaps—

No. I had more frightening business tonight. She was in no more danger from her brother, at least.

The Capulet household was silent without, but when I found an open window in the servants’ attic the room was empty. No servants were abed, which meant that the Capulets were still well awake themselves. I found an extra set of livery that fit me well enough, and left my wet clothes behind; my hair was dry, as it had been concealed beneath the hood. I could do little about my hose, or my shoes, but I hoped no one would look closely. The Capulets kept a large household, and I quickly gathered up a heaping armload of linens, the better to conceal my face. The servants’ stairs were narrow and hot, large enough for only one, and as I descended, a fat, red-faced wench waited impatiently at the bottom for her turn. “Be off with you!” she snapped, and shoved my shoulder as I edged past. “No dawdling tonight, you fool; they’re in shorter temper than ever, what with that young beast dead!”

I mumbled something from behind my laundry and hurried on. Clearly, Tybalt had no mourners among the servants, if she could speak so freely—and with such contempt and relief. I descended stairs to the next floor, where the rough, cramped confines changed to the fine stone, wood, and carpet of the family portion of the palazzo. My damp shoes were silent on the covered floors, and I paused to take my bearings. From the direction of the wide staircase at the end I heard the hum of voices, and low cries and sobs, no doubt from Lady Capulet and her attendants. Here, all was quiet. I tested the door on my left and found it locked; when I bent to peer through the lock, I saw a glint of candles on the other side. The key had been used and taken away.

Rosaline was locked within, as much a nun now as when she would be taken to her holy cell in mere days.

I could sense her lively, restless presence beyond that door, and I felt an impulse to speak with her, tell her what had occurred, ask her what might be done. As I stood indecisive, I realized that another had come upon me, footsteps also muffled by the carpets—the stout red-faced woman who’d braced me upstairs.