But perhaps I’d never really loved at all.

The heat had finally broken with a sharp snap, and clouds boiled the skies overhead. Winds stirred the torrents of darkness, and lightning seared and thunder rumbled. It covered any sound of my light-footed passage over roof tiles as I took to the heights, but the risk for me was worse. I felt the sizzling fury in the air, and any fool knew that lightning struck down those who stood tallest in its way. That was dangerous enough, but with the wind came the fat, still-hot drops of rain . . . a patter first, and then a torrent, making slick the tiles and bidding fair to send me tumbling. I lost my balance twice, and caught onto the leaded roof peaks in time to stop my slide. Once, as I neared the Capulets’ quarter, a white-hot bolt of God’s purest fury hit the top of the Lamberti Tower, and rattled the tiles under my feet. I heard the muffled cries and prayers of those in the house on whose roof I stood; someone clapped shut a window’s wooden doors.

Only a few rain-drenched beggars and disheartened curs watched my slow, cautious progress, and then only in the brief flashes of lightning. The murky dark was my friend, at least; if the watch dared to be about, they’d not easily spot me. My gray, cloaked figure was easily mistaken for a chimney pot, in the flash of a second.

The Capulet garden was silent. No fair maids haunted their balconies this evening; they would be sensibly tucked away from the storms. I paused on the wall, staring at the dark, shut doors of Rosaline’s room; she would still be within, sealed up on Tybalt’s orders, awaiting her quick dismissal to the convent. Perhaps—

No. I had more frightening business tonight. She was in no more danger from her brother, at least.

The Capulet household was silent without, but when I found an open window in the servants’ attic the room was empty. No servants were abed, which meant that the Capulets were still well awake themselves. I found an extra set of livery that fit me well enough, and left my wet clothes behind; my hair was dry, as it had been concealed beneath the hood. I could do little about my hose, or my shoes, but I hoped no one would look closely. The Capulets kept a large household, and I quickly gathered up a heaping armload of linens, the better to conceal my face. The servants’ stairs were narrow and hot, large enough for only one, and as I descended, a fat, red-faced wench waited impatiently at the bottom for her turn. “Be off with you!” she snapped, and shoved my shoulder as I edged past. “No dawdling tonight, you fool; they’re in shorter temper than ever, what with that young beast dead!”

I mumbled something from behind my laundry and hurried on. Clearly, Tybalt had no mourners among the servants, if she could speak so freely—and with such contempt and relief. I descended stairs to the next floor, where the rough, cramped confines changed to the fine stone, wood, and carpet of the family portion of the palazzo. My damp shoes were silent on the covered floors, and I paused to take my bearings. From the direction of the wide staircase at the end I heard the hum of voices, and low cries and sobs, no doubt from Lady Capulet and her attendants. Here, all was quiet. I tested the door on my left and found it locked; when I bent to peer through the lock, I saw a glint of candles on the other side. The key had been used and taken away.

Rosaline was locked within, as much a nun now as when she would be taken to her holy cell in mere days.

I could sense her lively, restless presence beyond that door, and I felt an impulse to speak with her, tell her what had occurred, ask her what might be done. As I stood indecisive, I realized that another had come upon me, footsteps also muffled by the carpets—the stout red-faced woman who’d braced me upstairs.

“Fool!” she hissed, and elbowed me aside from the door. “You should have asked me to come with you. You’ll not have a key for the lady’s rooms, and mind you, in and out; no conversing with her. Those were Master Tybalt’s orders, but I’d not ignore them just yet, for my life.” She twisted a key from her ring and unlocked the door, and stiff-armed it open. “Hurry, then; deliver your sheets. I must lock it after.”

Inside, Rosaline started up to her feet. She was fully dressed, I saw, in a rich black velvet gown; her hair was up in a style too severe for her face. She was pallid, and her eyes were red, but as her gaze fell on me, she grew even paler. For an instant I had a sick, terrible conviction she would betray me, but she finally pointed at a table close to her curtained bed. “Put them there,” she said. I carried the tray over and settled it there. “Bide a moment; I have things for you.” She quickly set a plate, a glass, and a bowl upon another tray on the table where the candle burned—dinner things, still crusted with uneaten food.

“Mistress, the boy has duties,” the servant at the door called. “I’ll send another to fetch those.”

I quickly grabbed the tray and bent closer to Rosaline. “I need your help,” I whispered. I made a show of fumbling things, while I waited for her response.

It did not come. She gazed at me for too long, and then finally whispered back, “Why should I help a Montague? This night, of all nights?”

“For your cousin,” I said.

I had no chance for anything else. The servant at the door was clearing her throat impatiently. Rosaline had said nothing in reply, and I could not be certain of her, not at all. My position here became more dangerous with every heartbeat.

I bowed and backed toward the door with the tray. As I did, I managed to tilt an uneaten piece of bread toward the edge, catch it between two fingers, and knead out a thick ball of the soft interior. As I backed through the door, I fumbled the tray again, the better to give the senior servant something to criticize, as with my other hand I pressed the dough in place to block the tongue of the lock.

“You’ll not last in this house, you clouted, beetle-headed dotard!” My shrewish superior followed that with a blow of her open hand to the back of my head, and this time the tray threatened to tumble free of its own accord. She pulled the door closed with a bare curtsy to Rosaline, turned the key, and put it back on her ring.

I quickly raised the tray to distract her from my face, but she ignored me as thoroughly as her noble masters would have done. I was far below her own social station. “Drop that and I’ll see you whipped, boy. I don’t need Lady Capulet boxing my ears for your incompetence—” She would have continued berating me, but suddenly she paled. Coming up the steps was a pinch-faced matron in better clothes—still not one of the Capulets, but a high order of servant, and, from the look she gave us, one in charge of our worthless hides. My tormentor quickly curtsied, and I bowed over the tray.

“You,” the newcomer said, fixing her beady dark eyes on the large woman next to me. “Downstairs to the kitchen. There are dishes to wash.” She glanced at me, still bent over the tray. “Take those with you, Maria. You, boy. Chamber pots. Quickly.”

She did not wait to see that she was obeyed; she only swept past us with majestic, eerie quiet, and in her wake, my companion—Maria—irritably snatched the tray from my hands. “Well?” She probably would have cuffed me again, if her hands had been idle. “Go about it, then! And quietly!”

I bowed again, as clumsily as I could, and she hurried toward the back steps with the tray.

I stepped back against Rosaline’s door. The dough had done its work, and the lock had not closed. It slid open, and I stepped through and swung it closed after me.

When I turned, Rosaline was standing not two feet from me, and she had a shining dagger pointed at my throat.

“You dare,” she said softly. “You dare come here, with my brother’s blood on your hands.”

“I had Mercutio’s blood on them, not Tybalt’s,” I said. “A man your brother killed without cause. My friend.” My hand flashed out and gripped her wrist, but I did not try to take away the knife. I focused instead on her face, her eyes, the fragile strength and grief in her. “You know I did not love your brother. For your sake, I am sorry, but for your sake, I also hated him. For every blow he gave you, I hated him, Rosaline.”

She caught her breath, and I saw her bite her lip; tears started in her eyes, and I would not have seen her cry, not for my life. “He was my brother.” Her voice broke on the word.

“Brother or not, he had no right. I cannot forgive him.” What was my treacherous hand doing? It had moved from her wrist, glided up her arm, and now it touched her cheek. The skin there was warm and silken, and suddenly I was aware of the scent of her, roses and spice and candle wax and tears, and the danger of the dagger in her hand meant nothing, nothing at all. I felt drugged with the tingles of pleasure of my skin on hers, even in so small a measure. My fingers trailed down, traced the tight line of her jaw, and I felt the fast beat of her pulse. She raised her chin, but did not step back. The point of the knife wavered a bare thread from my throat. It was good it was there, I thought absently, because the pull to go closer to her had the pulse and depth of the ocean.

She suddenly pulled in a trembling breath and saved me from courting my own murder by stepping away. She dropped the dagger as if it had burned her hand, then wrapped her arms around her body, bent her head, and turned away. A curl of dark hair shook loose and fell against the graceful curve of her neck, and I ached to ease it back . . . no, to take out the pins that held her hair, see it tumble loose and silky around her white shoulders.

“Why are you here?” she whispered. “Jesu, Benvolio, do you not know they will cut you to pieces?”

I snapped back to my purpose, but it was an effort; I had gone a great distance away, it seemed, and what I’d come to do had faded in proportion. I turned away from her, stared hard at a candle’s flame, and tried to clear my mind. “Your cousin,” I said. “She slipped her escorts this afternoon. She’s exchanged vows with Romeo.”

“What?” Rosaline whirled. “How? How could she— What folly is that? Does he not know my family would destroy them both?”

“Mine too,” I said. “My grandmother would sooner see them dead.”