I turned on the boy, hauled him upright, and shoved him hard against the wall with my dagger aimed for his eye. “Why?” I shouted. He looked as smooth skinned as my sister; surely he was even younger than she, hardly allowed out of his schoolroom. His Capulet colors fit him badly, as if he had not had time to be measured for them. We pull children from their nurses to fight our battles, I thought, and it was eerily clear and cold in my mind. The boy was afraid, and so he should have been.

“I did not mean . . .” He licked pale lips. There were tears in his eyes. “Sir, please, I did not mean to hurt her, but she stabbed at me. . . .”

I did not move. Kill him, my grandmother’s voice shouted in the back of my mind. Why do you hesitate? Your sister’s blood is on his hands, struck down before the church on her wedding day! No one will judge you wrong!

I lowered the dagger, though I kept hold of his throat. “No more,” I said. “Tybalt is dead. Romeo is gone. My young sister lies dying. It is enough. Go and tell your war-making uncle that before I write it in your own blood.”

His eyes widened. “You . . . you mean to let me go?”

“Swear to lay down arms against my family, and go free.”

Suddenly his young, pale face twisted into a wolf’s smile. “Coward,” he spat. “Unnatural brother, who loves his sister so little. I spit on your family, and I spit on your coward’s oaths!” He was still afraid, but he knew there were Capulets watching, Capulets who would carry tales of him back. Like me, he was trapped by Verona itself, in the web of our ancient hates.

But I let him loose, and pushed him into the arms of the captain of the watch. He frowned beneath his shining helmet, and said, “You give him to me?”

“For hanging,” I said. “For murder of my sister. I stand witness, and so is my mother and all these here. Let Capulets be seen for the villains they are.”

“Coward!” the boy cried. His voice cracked, though, and his eyes were wild now. “You will not even avenge her! Coward!”

I raised my blade to eye level. “This crimson stain on me is Capulet blood,” I said. “Blood of honest and brave men, though they be enemies. I would not sully it with yours, boy.”

He shrieked as they led him off. There was no doubt of his guilt, and though the Capulets roared in protest, and would hasten to the prince for appeal, the boy would swing, and justice would be done.

I did not care.