He asked no questions, and I offered no details; the ferocious old harpy had all but accused me of collusion in Romeo’s folly, and I bore the mark of her cane in forming bruises on my back. Only the fact that she was so ancient had spared me from far worse. But she’d not tell my uncle; I knew that; my defeat was also hers. She had no cause to spread the word of our humiliation.

Only to dole such misery out to me.

Balthasar pinned a Montague badge to my chest and said, “You look very well, sir. I trust you will take care in the confines of the church, and along the way? I worry that I won’t be there to watch after you.”

“I will have to look out for myself.” I clapped my hand to his shoulder, and he looked away. “You’ve been a good servant and a better friend.”

He nodded without speaking, and slipped a jeweled dagger in its sheath at my side. Though decorative, it had a keen edge, and so did my rapier, which he belted on as well. It might give offense to the bridegroom, but I cared little what the greedy old man thought of me.

I cared about living through the morning.

Balthasar took his leave, and I joined my mother in the hall; my aunt and uncle descended the stairs a moment later, dressed in heavy velvets. Montague, too, was armed, but only with a dagger. I did not doubt the ladies were likewise encumbered, but those blades were concealed in sleeves, boots, or bodices. My mother seemed cool and distant, and she held a rosary that she had brought with her from England; I recognized the well-worn beads.

Veronica came last, and in a cloud of cooing attendants. My sister wore her wealth stitched densely on the gold-chased fabric of her bridal gown—pearls and sapphires, with the flash of rubies and diamonds at her throat and ears. She seemed much satisfied with herself, I thought, and I fell in at the front of the party with Montague swords before my uncle dragged me back by his side, to a safer position. Of course. I was now his heir, though he liked that fact as little as I.

The procession to the cathedral was made under the hot sun, and two days’ rain had become a miserably humid morning; the cobbles steamed, and so did I, inside my fine clothes. Veronica’s face turned pink from the heat, a fact that displeased her enough to demand fans and shade from her attendants as we walked in a block down the narrow streets. Gawkers had turned out, of course. Some wished us well, and tossed flowers; some only stared, and some spit and made curse signs when they thought they could do it unobserved. Near the piazza—busy as always—I spotted Capulet bullies massed in a clot of red, and they broke loose and pushed through toward us.