“Aye, mistress, but I hear the prince is fair-minded and generous.”

“What does it matter if he has the condition of a saint, when he hath the complexion of a devil? Would you have me surrender my charms to his most dusky affections, even as my sister beslutted herself with Othello?”

“Rest easy, lady, no matter his choice, the prince shall be bound by bad luck, I’m sure.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” said Nerissa as she braided Portia’s hair, preparing to fit it into a tiara for her appearance before the prince. While she worked, she mused, “Of course, if the fool had done the slaughter, I no doubt would be the one washing the body and scrubbing the blood out of the bedding, as the staff is composed of nothing but cowards and catch-farts, so perhaps the fool has done me service by leaving breath in your scrawny bellows.”

Nerissa knew that as long as Portia fretted over her own fate, which was most of the time, she heard only the tones of her maid’s voice and not the words, so Nerissa liked to take these opportunities to croon her resentment in a manner most melodious.

Portia said, “Perhaps we should fix my hair askew, muss my gown, taint my breath with garlic so the prince will find me unpleasant and go away without taking his chance at the caskets.”

“Dear Portia, don’t be silly, to thine own self be true; the prince will see through to your unpleasantness without the taint on your breath.”

Before Portia could formulate a retort, a fanfare played from the dock and the two women looked at each other, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“He travels with his own trumpeter?” said Nerissa. “Perhaps you should reconsider, lady.”

Portia led the way down the grand staircase to the foyer, where they were met by two of Brabantio’s lawyers—bent-backed graybeards in black robes and mortarboard hats—escorting the Prince of Morocco and an entourage of six soldiers, all wrapped in white robes from head to toe, their faces as black as polished ebony, each wearing a scimitar in his sash, the prince’s in a jeweled scabbard. The prince bowed, then held his bow so Portia might glide down the staircase as if presenting herself upon the stage before him, where she returned his bow. Nerissa, having played this scene out many times before, came bouncing down behind her mistress with such enthusiasm that her bosoms nearly escaped the top of her gown. The Moors were captivated.

The prince tore his gaze from Nerissa’s décolletage and addressed Portia. “Lady, you are more beautiful than the stories that precede you. It is no wonder that the seas fill with ships bringing suitors from all the corners of the world.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” said Portia. She betrayed a sneer, which did not pass the prince unnoticed.