“You,” the newcomer said, fixing her beady dark eyes on the large woman next to me. “Downstairs to the kitchen. There are dishes to wash.” She glanced at me, still bent over the tray. “Take those with you, Maria. You, boy. Chamber pots. Quickly.”

She did not wait to see that she was obeyed; she only swept past us with majestic, eerie quiet, and in her wake, my companion—Maria—irritably snatched the tray from my hands. “Well?” She probably would have cuffed me again, if her hands had been idle. “Go about it, then! And quietly!”

I bowed again, as clumsily as I could, and she hurried toward the back steps with the tray.

I stepped back against Rosaline’s door. The dough had done its work, and the lock had not closed. It slid open, and I stepped through and swung it closed after me.

When I turned, Rosaline was standing not two feet from me, and she had a shining dagger pointed at my throat.

“You dare,” she said softly. “You dare come here, with my brother’s blood on your hands.”

“I had Mercutio’s blood on them, not Tybalt’s,” I said. “A man your brother killed without cause. My friend.” My hand flashed out and gripped her wrist, but I did not try to take away the knife. I focused instead on her face, her eyes, the fragile strength and grief in her. “You know I did not love your brother. For your sake, I am sorry, but for your sake, I also hated him. For every blow he gave you, I hated him, Rosaline.”

She caught her breath, and I saw her bite her lip; tears started in her eyes, and I would not have seen her cry, not for my life. “He was my brother.” Her voice broke on the word.

“Brother or not, he had no right. I cannot forgive him.” What was my treacherous hand doing? It had moved from her wrist, glided up her arm, and now it touched her cheek. The skin there was warm and silken, and suddenly I was aware of the scent of her, roses and spice and candle wax and tears, and the danger of the dagger in her hand meant nothing, nothing at all. I felt drugged with the tingles of pleasure of my skin on hers, even in so small a measure. My fingers trailed down, traced the tight line of her jaw, and I felt the fast beat of her pulse. She raised her chin, but did not step back. The point of the knife wavered a bare thread from my throat. It was good it was there, I thought absently, because the pull to go closer to her had the pulse and depth of the ocean.