I should have hit her, but I did not have time. She had wasted enough of it already.

I dashed out after Romeo, caught up, and said, “He’s in the trees.” We both knew the place; it was a trysting spot that we’d seen Mercutio go before, to meet Tomasso.

I prayed God he was not meeting him this morning.

•   •   •

God does answer all prayers, but sometimes, he answers with a cold and remorseless denial . . . and I knew, as I came through the gates and started running down the path, that there would be no miracle for us today. There was a knot of men already there, most in Ordelaffi colors, though a few onlookers had already gathered to see whatever show was being staged for their benefit . . . and then I saw Tomasso.

The young man was thin and serious, as befitted a would-be religious man, and he still wore the sort of postulant robes that I’d swathed myself in when I’d gone out with Friar Lawrence. His hood was thrown back, and his face was set and pale, but tranquil as a martyr’s.

He was on his knees, with his hands bound roughly behind his back, and a circle of armed men surrounded him.

They were having a good deal more trouble with Mercutio. I heard the ring of steel, and saw him darting between the trees, graceful and full of fury as he tried to win the way to his prisoned lover.

He failed, but not from any lack of skill; he gave up on his own accord when Lord Ordelaffi, burly and crimson faced, shoved aside the soldiers and stalked up to his son bare-handed. Even enraged, Mercutio could not wound his father. He dropped the point of his sword, and his father took it from him and flung it viciously away, then followed that with a closed-fisted blow so mighty it laid Mercutio in the dirt.

Romeo lunged forward. I grabbed him and held him still. My grip was too tight, and would leave bruises, but I could not care about that just now. I burned, as Romeo did, to go to the help of our friend, but there was no help now.

We could do nothing but stand and watch.

The beating his father gave Mercutio was brutal, and it went on a long time. It was not quite the death of him. He was breathing yet, and capable of lifting his head from the ground of his own accord, though I was not sure that he could see through the torrents of blood that obscured his face. His father made sure of clear vision, though, by having servants wipe the crimson from his eyes and hold him in a wavering, kneeling position for the rest that came.

Lord Ordelaffi left him there and turned toward his men. “Finish it,” he said in a rough, disgusted voice. “Quickly. Let us be done with this unpleasant business.”