Romeo had brought home the rumor that Rosaline had been the hot tongue who’d betrayed Mercutio’s secret; he mourned, but he forgave her this feminine weakness, which undoubtedly did not run true to my grandmother’s plans. I kept him from writing poetry, or going anywhere near her, but it seemed to me that he would never lose his infatuation. Romeo had never been so constant in love, and it worried me to think that he might have truly set his heart on something so massively unwise.

I stole.

I suppose I could claim that the pressure of knowing of my sister’s cruel betrayal, and Mercutio’s misaimed bitterness, was to blame for the Prince of Shadows’ thieving rampage in Verona; I made a list, sitting in the stillness of my rooms, and in the evenings, almost every evening, I escaped the claustrophobic pull of my guilt to bring misery to someone who deserved it more.

I stole the diary of the wife of the Ordelaffi servant, in which she confessed her horror of her husband’s fondness for unnatural acts, and—more damningly—the pilfering he’d done from his master’s coffers. The diary found its way into the chambers of the Ordelaffis’ busybody cook, who soon presented it to Lord Ordelaffi.

The servant was driven out into the streets, stripped and beaten. I watched from the safety of a nearby wine shop. It was a sour sort of victory, because with him went his innocent wife and children, now reduced to beggars.

I remedied my wrong by visiting the jakes late the next evening, and retrieving the stinking bag of gold and jewels that I’d hidden there. The jewels and the sword were too easily known, but the gold I transferred to a clean cloth bag. I found the sad little family huddled in a sour alley, shivering in the chill; the father, already weak, seemed likely to die. I could not bring myself to care overmuch. But the haunted terror of the wife, and the children . . .

I knew they could not see my face in the shadow of the gray hood, and even if they did make it out, the silk mask would tell them to seek no more.

“Sir,” the wife said, staring up at me from where she knelt on the cobbles beside a very meager little brazier, cooking what seemed to be a skinned rat for her frightened family. “Sir, I beg you, in God’s name, leave us be. . . .”

I threw the bag down on the cobbles beside her. It broke open, and coins scattered like dreams over her dirty skirts. She gasped and pulled back, as if the coins might turn to serpents . . . but when they did not, she looked up again, still openmouthed. Tears glittered in her widened eyes.

“Not for him,” I said. “He deserves his fate for what he’s done. Take your children and flee.”

She shook her head, but I knew, as she clawed the coins back into the bag and tied it shut, that she would do as I said. Her husband was dying. She might linger long enough to see him gone, but I’d read her diary; there was no love between them, and his death would free her.

Widows had more power than wives.

As far as the other villains, Tybalt Capulet still swaggered, cock o’ the walk, through the streets, ever more arrogant and overweening, and I badly itched to take him down, this time hard enough to leave scars, if not a corpse. My sister, Veronica’s, wedding drew near, a happy event that meant we would be shut of her forever, and I’d rarely have to spy her cruel, smiling face again. I wanted to avenge Tomasso’s death upon her, but her blood, if not her sex, protected her from my rage.

Fortunate for her.

As for Romeo, he was hopelessly entangled in family politics. I doubted he even bothered to learn whom it was they intended for him to wed. It would hardly matter what he thought about it, and so he plunged himself headlong into his empty worship of Rosaline, a girl he’d never so much as met, an impossible match that was a safe indulgence of his lovesick notions.

We were each gone mad, in our ways.

I continued to steal, relentlessly. I came near to getting caught several nights, as the prince’s men had become furious at my success and doubled their patrols; my likely targets also made it more difficult for me, and on two occasions I had been trapped in the house, hiding, until the stir had died and I’d been able to creep away with my ill-gotten goods. And a curious lot of things they were: the treasured riding whip from Lord Ordelaffi, with which he’d often lashed his son; the hoarded savings of two of the Ordelaffi men who’d pulled on the rope; the jeweled ring of the bishop himself, who had written a sermon praising the moral outrage of the people of Verona over the sinful perversions of sodomites, adulterers, and witches.

He’d delivered it at Mercutio’s wedding. A very pointed commentary indeed.

In my own small way, I continued to exact vengeance, though I knew the sin really flowered from the root of my own house.

I knew I should confess all these things, but I did not trust the slick, bland-faced priest who often occupied the booth in the cathedral; I knew he was an ambitious man, political, and it would be well within his interests to drop a word to the bishop I’d relieved of his precious ring. Better to let my sins fester in my heart and damn me in heaven’s eyes, rather than Verona’s.

My real confession came at an odd time, and in an odd way.

It was inevitable that my obsession would see me caught, sooner or later; I was a great thief, but not invisible, nor invincible. It was a very late Thursday eve when I burgled a fat purse of jewels from the shop of a Capulet goldsmith who beat his apprentices, and who’d blinded one with hot metals; all well and good, but I’d been surprised by a vicious dog, and as I limped away with ill-got goods weighing me down, I also left a bright red trail of blood from my badly bitten leg. It was not a graceful escape, nor an effective one, as the goldsmith roused his household and guards and sent them beating after me, with the vicious dog howling on its leash.

I had just enough time to make it to the small, shopworn chapel, where Friar Lawrence dozed near the altar in an untidy heap. He woke with a snort, glared at me, and then saw the blood trail I’d tracked inside. “What’s this?” he said, and started to his feet to waddle his way to me. “You cannot be here!”

“Trouble,” I said in a gasp. I’d doffed the mask—no point in straining our friendship—and I showed him the bloody gouge in my calf beneath the ripped hose. “They’re after me, Friar.”

“For what crime?”

“Being tasty to their pet?” I said, but my heart was not in the humor. “Later, later—for now, I stand well set to be hanged if you do nothing. I beg you for sanctuary.”

He frowned. “You must touch the altar for that.”

I limped forward, gritting my teeth against the burn, and laid my palm flat on the velvet-covered marble. The suffering Christ looked down on me with a severe expression, and I quickly crossed myself. “In all humility, I ask for sanctuary from those who would see me killed,” I said. “And best if they know not who they’re really hunting, Friar.”

He spied the bag I held in the other hand, and nodded toward it. “What carry you there?”

I tossed it to him. “A gift, for the Church,” I said. “Imagine the poor that might be fed from such a beneficence.”

He gazed at me for a moment, then opened the bag and made a gulping sound. “Stolen goods!” he thundered. I could hear the howling of the dog drawing nearer. “How dare you, boy!”

“I keep none of it,” I said. “I give it freely to the Church. May Christ himself witness my sincerity.”

Friar Lawrence was caught in a dilemma, and if the situation had been less dire it might have been amusing. He considered for far too long before he said, “Quickly, go behind the altar.” He tossed the heavy bag behind with me, tore the cloak from my shoulders, and used it to mop up the spots of blood, all the way to the door of the chapel, and then out to the street to confuse the trail. “Stay here and quiet, for the love of God and your mortal flesh!”

I eased back against the wall and took the respite to pull pieces from my linen shirt to bind up the wound tightly. The bleeding had slowed, which was lucky, but the limp would be difficult to conceal, and a nasty betrayal should anyone put out word to look for such to the guard. One problem at a time, I told myself. First, you must get home alive.

I heard the dog come nearer . . . nearer . . . and the shouts of the men, with the high-pitched, anxious tone of the goldsmith riding over all.

Then it all swept past, without a pause.

I collapsed in sweet relief for a few moments, and was about to rise when I heard the chapel door swing open. I thought it would be the friar returning, but instead, it was someone else. I heard the light tread, the quick, nervous breathing, and the rustle of stiff fabrics as someone knelt before the altar. I risked a quick glance over and saw a hooded figure—but not the figure of a monk, or a man.

Those were the skirts of a woman.

She began to raise her head, and I quickly ducked down again, silently swearing at the ill luck. “Friar?” Her voice was low, and a little uncertain. I heard her rise to her feet. “Friar Lawrence? Are you here? I’ve come at the appointed time. . . .”

All was clear, then; the friar’s vows of chastity were well lapsed, and this was some girl come for an assignation. I’d ruined the holy man’s night in many ways, it seemed—but then the chapel door opened and closed again, and I heard the hasty slap of sandals and the heavy, labored breaths of the monk. “My lady,” he said, “I am sorry; please sit. It’s been a . . . surprising night. I’ve another wayward lamb to tend, so if you would not mind—”

“Another . . .” She gasped. “There’s someone here! I knew it! I could hear him move!”

“Another with as little reason to be known as you, my lady, so please console yourself. He will not see your face, nor you his. Wait here, in the shadows, while I fetch him to the confessional.”

He appeared a moment later, frowning down at me. I gave him an innocent look and held out the bag, which he snatched away with righteous haste. “Up, you sinner,” he said. “And keep your mouth well shut on the lady’s presence here, mark me.”