“Fool!” she hissed, and elbowed me aside from the door. “You should have asked me to come with you. You’ll not have a key for the lady’s rooms, and mind you, in and out; no conversing with her. Those were Master Tybalt’s orders, but I’d not ignore them just yet, for my life.” She twisted a key from her ring and unlocked the door, and stiff-armed it open. “Hurry, then; deliver your sheets. I must lock it after.”

Inside, Rosaline started up to her feet. She was fully dressed, I saw, in a rich black velvet gown; her hair was up in a style too severe for her face. She was pallid, and her eyes were red, but as her gaze fell on me, she grew even paler. For an instant I had a sick, terrible conviction she would betray me, but she finally pointed at a table close to her curtained bed. “Put them there,” she said. I carried the tray over and settled it there. “Bide a moment; I have things for you.” She quickly set a plate, a glass, and a bowl upon another tray on the table where the candle burned—dinner things, still crusted with uneaten food.

“Mistress, the boy has duties,” the servant at the door called. “I’ll send another to fetch those.”

I quickly grabbed the tray and bent closer to Rosaline. “I need your help,” I whispered. I made a show of fumbling things, while I waited for her response.

It did not come. She gazed at me for too long, and then finally whispered back, “Why should I help a Montague? This night, of all nights?”

“For your cousin,” I said.

I had no chance for anything else. The servant at the door was clearing her throat impatiently. Rosaline had said nothing in reply, and I could not be certain of her, not at all. My position here became more dangerous with every heartbeat.

I bowed and backed toward the door with the tray. As I did, I managed to tilt an uneaten piece of bread toward the edge, catch it between two fingers, and knead out a thick ball of the soft interior. As I backed through the door, I fumbled the tray again, the better to give the senior servant something to criticize, as with my other hand I pressed the dough in place to block the tongue of the lock.

“You’ll not last in this house, you clouted, beetle-headed dotard!” My shrewish superior followed that with a blow of her open hand to the back of my head, and this time the tray threatened to tumble free of its own accord. She pulled the door closed with a bare curtsy to Rosaline, turned the key, and put it back on her ring.