I was suffocating in the folds of my disguise, and wished desperately to free myself of it, but Friar Lawrence’s hand closed hard on my arm as I tugged at the ropes holding it closed. “Not here,” he said. “You were right to fear for her, but with God’s grace we may have saved her life. Her lady aunt will not wish to have Rosaline murdered this night; they might be within their rights to so dispose of a rebellious girl-child, but they have not the liver for questions the Church might bring. She’s safe enough, for now. But our pressing concern must be intercepting the message she will send on to the abbess.”

“I will see to that,” I said. At least it was something to which my skills were well suited, unlike miming a biddable young postulant. “But what reply should we send in its place?”

“If you don’t wish to damage my newly minted reputation as a prophet, I would suggest it say that I am selected to be the one to escort the lady Rosaline to her joyous union with Christ. You might mention a saint and a vision or two, as well.”

I did not want Rosaline to be sent within the walls of a cloister, and I never to see her again, but perhaps it was the best for her; it was undoubtedly the safest. Here, in Verona, she risked her brother’s wrath, which might lead to worse than we’d seen tonight.

Jesu, I wanted him dead.

But I nodded beneath the suffocating weight of the robes, rounded my shoulders in submission I did not feel, and followed Friar Lawrence across the silent, dangerous city.

    
FROM THE PEN OF ROSALINE CAPULET, WRITTEN AND BURNED IN THE SAME NIGHT.

I have lied not only once, but many times now.

On the morning following the first visit from the strange and legendary Prince of Shadows, when he took my brother’s sword, I faced the question like all who slept beneath the Capulet roof: What did we know of the robber? There is secret power in being thought weak, and a fool, as women are so often seen; when I lied, I did so without a quiver, and no one looked more closely—save my wretched brother, who found the footprints below my balcony, and the broken flowers that showed someone had jumped there.

I had managed to convince him—or so I had thought—of my innocence then, and the punishment had been vicious, but brief.