Capulet had argued that our bravos had started the brawl, and Montague argued otherwise, and my uncle presented his dead niece and grieving sister to the distempered prince of Verona, who levied a harsh fine on both and hanged the Capulet boy who’d delivered the death blow. It was done swiftly before dark in the piazza, so that justice could be seen to be done. I took no pleasure in the death of another child, but my grandmother had bestirred herself for the occasion, and she smiled an awful smile as she watched, and clapped her palsied hands in delight as he danced on the rope. I found myself standing next to my uncle as the old crone was loaded into her litter.

“Malicious old woman,” my uncle said. He sounded as disgusted and weary as I felt, and he leaned heavily on the silver-headed cane he carried against the debility of his gout. “This business is done. Come. We have much to discuss.”

“My mother—”

“Women grieve,” he said, and fixed me with a sharp, dark gaze. “It is women’s work. Men must be about men’s business, and now that Romeo has failed us, you must be my strong right hand. You did well, giving up the boy to the prince’s justice; a less canny man would have simply killed him, but you showed sense, and cast the blame squarely on Capulet. You’re no hotheaded fool, like my son.” He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Come, boy. There are plans to be made to take advantage of Capulet disarray. They have bloodied their noses finely today, and their coffers grow empty; Juliet’s marriage to Paris in two days will seal their fortunes more securely, but first they must lay on the feast tomorrow for the betrothal. We will need to speak to the greengrocers, the butchers, the spice merchants—any who owe us favors must be made to understand that Capulet should be offered the worst of their wares, at the best of prices.” He smiled and squeezed my shoulder. “Foolish games, foolish games, but it is the life we lead. Walk with me.”

I would have done, but just then, a fat old woman came huffing through the crowd—a nurse, and one I recognized. Behind her trailed a tall, mournful beanpole servant. I watched the woman’s progress, and realized with a shock, as her gaze fixed upon me, that she meant to upbraid me in the presence of my uncle.

“A moment,” I said quickly, and sketched a quick bow for him. “I will follow directly.”

He saw the nurse, and his brows drew together, then rose upward. “Who comes there?”

A lie would be the only course open. “She is of the Ordelaffi house. A moment, sir?”

“Good Mercutio is not yet decently buried,” he said, and nodded. “See to her needs, then. I move slowly enough; you may catch up as you wish.”