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In fair Verona’s streets, the sun was hot.
Late summer was upon the city, and the sun, oh, it beat. It dazzled off the cobblestones so the beggars groaned and burnt their bare dirty feet. It poured down on the merchants so the sweat trickled down their necks on market day. And the great families--well, they were safe in their cool stone houses, cellars deep enough to hold a bit of chill in, but when they did emerge after sunset, the air was still hot and thick.
Yes, the heat hung heavy on Verona. Was it this that bowed its citizens’ heads? That quieted the normally bustling city, leaving its people whispering in twos and threes before disappearing in shadowed doorways?
Or was it death?
It had been a bloody summer. Night after night, the streets echoed with the pounding of feet, the scrape of steel. The names of the dead passed from hoarse throats to disbelieving ears. Mercutio. Tybalt. Paris. Romeo. Juliet.
A fortnight and odd days had passed since the flowers of the city’s youth had finished cutting each other down. Shaken by the loss of so many of their own, the great houses of Montague and Capulet had sworn to end the bloodshed. Great Montague, to prove his offer of friendship, had just three days before unveiled his gift to his ancient enemy.
The statue portrayed a beautiful young woman just a breath past girlhood. Fashioned in pure gold, it stood over the grave of a lady to whom Montague had never spoken a word in life. His greatest enemy’s only child. His son’s five-day wife. Juliet of Capulet.
It was a pretty piece of work, Montague’s tribute to his dead daughter-in-law. On this Verona morn, the sunrise glittered off her golden face. The cemetery was empty, but had there been any visitors at that moment, they would have noted the skillfully wrought expression of sadness as she gazed on her love Romeo’s statue on the other side of the gate. They would note the pretty poem at the base, mourning her untimely death.
And as the first rays of the sun kissed fair Juliet’s frozen form, they’d see the word harlot scrawled in black paint across her face.

“Just don the gown, I prithee, Livia.”
Lady Rosaline blew a brown curl out of her face. She shook the black gown toward her younger sister for what seemed the hundredth time.
Livia wrinkled her nose in disgust and danced out of Rosaline’s grasp. “Must we really keep our mourning weeds on, Rosaline? I am sure cousin Juliet would not wish it.”
Rosaline gave up trying to catch Livia and plumped down on her sister’s bed. “She told thee so, did she? Her shade whispered it from the crypt?”
Livia laughed and snatched the black dress. She threw it on the ground and began to dance on it. Livia never walked when she could instead practice the latest twirl and dip from court. “Aye. I passed by the Capulet tomb and her ghost whispered, ‘Cousin, do not put on ugly black mourning for me, for I had rather be remembered with joy than with ugly black that will leave every man and woman of Capulet sweating in the summer heat. Also, I wish thee to have my coral bracelet.’ ”
“A talkative shade, our cousin.” Rosaline picked up the dress, smoothing its wrinkles. “Of course, so she was in life.”
The sisters’ eyes met in the mirror. Livia, caught mid-twirl, paused. For a moment her gaiety faltered and gave way, like a veil tossed back in the wind.
The orphaned daughters of Niccolo Tirimo did not weep much. It was one of the few traits they shared. Fifteen-year-old Livia had laughed a great deal these last weeks. A stranger might have thought her unfeeling, but her sister knew better. Livia laughed most when she was frightened.
As for Rosaline, the elder at seventeen, her head had not ceased to ache since the bloodbath began. Her temples throbbed anew as she looked at Livia’s wide eyes, filled with unshed tears, in the mirror, and the names of the dead began to filter through her mind: Merry Mercutio, sighed over by half the ladies of Verona, slain by Tybalt’s sword. Cousin Tybalt himself, so protective of his Capulet kinswomen, fallen to Romeo’s blade. Count Paris, kin to the prince, spilling out his lifeblood at the door of his beloved’s tomb. Romeo, Montague lordling. And Juliet, flower of the Capulets.
The Juliet Rosaline mourned was not the lovely maiden Verona wept for. The city grieved for a wealthy, beautiful young heiress; Rosaline, however, remembered a sticky hand in hers, a piping voice ordering her to wait so Juliet’s shorter legs could catch up, the awed mirth in Juliet’s eyes when they accomplished some particularly naughty bit of mischief. When Rosaline was small, she’d been much in the company of her uncle Capulet’s only daughter. Though Juliet had been several years younger than Rosaline, Capulet’s imperious little heir had preferred the company of the older girls, and Rosaline could not say her nay. Luckily, Juliet had been a witty, openhearted child, so her company was no burden. Rosaline’s mother, Lady Katherina, had served Verona’s Princess Maria as a lady-in-waiting, and she often took her daughters and niece with her to the palace, where she spent her days. Juliet, Livia, Rosaline, and the princess’s daughter, Isabella, had made the palace their playground.
Those days of romping throughout the palace and House Capulet, teasing Isabella’s older brother, Escalus, and driving Juliet’s nurse to distraction, had been the happiest of Rosaline’s life. Her parents had still been alive then. Her mother was a sister to Lord Capulet, and her father a nobleman from the Western coast; she and Livia were not so grand as their little cousin Juliet, but they were assured of their place in Verona.
But when Rosaline was eleven her father died, and everything began to change. All the misfortune she had been spared during her happy childhood seemed to arrive in the space of the next few years. As their father had no son, most of his lands and fortunes had gone to a distant relative, leaving the girls and their mother in greatly reduced circumstances. Princess Maria died giving birth to a stillborn babe not long after, and Isabella was sent away to be fostered with the royal family of Sicilia, ending their family’s close association with the palace. Rosaline’s mother had never recovered from the shock of her husband’s loss, and had followed him into death not two years later. Gone were the days when Rosaline and her family lived in a fine house in the center of town, and counted the richest and noblest young ladies in the city as their dearest companions. Instead, Rosaline and Livia had come to live with Lady Capulet’s mother, Rosaline’s great-aunt by marriage. The Duchess of Vitruvio’s estate was on the edge of the city, but it sometimes felt as though they’d moved to another continent. The ambitious Lord and Lady Capulet no longer considered them fit playmates for their daughter, and had all but banished their nieces from their house. Thereafter, they’d seen Juliet only at feasts a few times a year, and then usually at a distance.
It was in those terrible years that Rosaline had grieved for Juliet. Then that she’d weathered the anger and loneliness as she’d learned to comfort a crying Livia, too young to understand why their friend no longer invited them to call. And so now what pierced Rosaline’s heart was that she no longer knew the young lady who’d slain herself in the Capulet tomb at all.
Rosaline sighed, running her fingers over the window’s sill, allowing the vision of the sweet, spoiled child Juliet had been to fade from her mind. Despite all her and Livia’s misfortunes, their current state was well enough. They shared a small, modest cottage toward the back of her great-aunt’s property, and the duchess, who had little interest in the doings of her poor wards, left them mostly to their own devices. If they were ignored by their Capulet kin, Rosaline was not sorry--the summer’s events had surely shown that being a member of the Capulets’ circle was as much a curse as a blessing. And after their mother’s death a rich merchant from Messina had rented their house for a surprisingly generous amount, allowing Livia and Rosaline enough to live on, and to wed when the time came. Well, for Livia to wed, at least. Rosaline’s plans for herself were somewhat different.
Rosaline would never breathe a word of it to her family, but her grief for Juliet was no greater than that she felt for Juliet’s Montague lover. Every time Rosaline thought of Romeo, she was engulfed in a wave of guilt so great she half wished it could wash her away altogether.
Stop it, she told herself angrily. Thou knowest that thou couldst not have saved him. Saved any of them.
But it wasn’t true. All Verona knew that there was at least one man she could have saved. For before he loved Juliet, Romeo had loved her. And now the sweet, lovesick boy was dead.

Prince Escalus rode swiftly out from town.
His doublet was stuck to his back with sweat and he could feel his stallion, Venitio, straining beneath him, but he neither stopped nor slowed as Verona’s walls receded behind him. His daily ride outside the city was the one pleasure he allowed himself in these troubled times, and of late it seemed he had to ride farther and farther afield to escape the sensation that the city would suffocate him.
He’d awoken that morning shaking from a nightmare in which the former monarchs of the city gathered at his bedside to condemn his failure to prevent the slaughter of Verona’s youth. All day it had stayed with him, his mind reflexively mounting counterarguments for his accusing ancestors. I tried to stop them. Their animosity was too deeply rooted. I have ended it at last. He tried to bring his mind to bear on that--how he’d induced House Montague and House Capulet to raise statues in memory of each other’s children. He’d been there three days prior when the two lords had unveiled them, in an uneasy but determined show of public unity--Romeo and Juliet, golden and beautiful and together forever. Lammas Day, it was, the first of August, and her father’s voice kept breaking as he gazed on Juliet’s likeness, for it would have been her fourteenth birthday, had she lived. But he’d promised peace as loudly as he could, as had old Montague. None of it seemed to prevent Escalus from imagining his father’s disappointed frown.
Well. There was no time for regrets. Both houses had promised an end to the violence; he would do whatever it took to make them keep to their vows, especially since some vicious vandal had already defaced Juliet’s memorial. He had a duty to his city.
However much he might currently long to keep riding and riding and leave it behind for good.
With a sigh, he reined Venitio down to a walk at last. The horse complied with a nicker of complaint--his appetite for speed outpaced Escalus’s own. The trees threw long shadows on the road, whose orange dust was darkened to a deep bloodred by the late afternoon sun. It was nearly sunset; time to return to the city. But just as he was about to turn around, he spotted a cloud of dust fast approaching down the road. What in the world--
Oh!
Escalus urged an eager Venitio back to a gallop. As they approached the cloud of dust, it resolved itself into a carriage, surrounded by half a dozen well-armed horsemen. The driver shouted a command to halt as he approached.
“Stand down!” the captain of the horsemen called to him. “Are you friend or foe?”
The man must be a foreigner. Escalus dressed simply for his daily rides, but his subjects in and around the city knew his face. He was about to tell the stranger who he was when the door of the coach opened, and a tall, slim lady emerged. Her gown was rich and her golden hair wound about her head in braids in a style unknown in Verona, but her grin was as familiar as his own face in the mirror.
“Peace, good Captain,” she said. “’Tis only my brother. Well met, Escalus.”
“Well met indeed, Isabella.” He moved to help her down from the carriage and embrace her, feeling a smile spread across his own face--an unaccustomed sensation of late. “I had not expected your party to arrive for several days yet.”
“We made good time from Messina, once my husband’s friends could be persuaded to let me depart. But I could wait no longer to come home.” She laughed in delight. “Verona! How I’ve longed for it in the years since my departure. You must hold a feast for me, Escalus, so I may reacquaint myself with all our old friends.” Escalus smiled but made no reply, and Isabella looked at him quizzically. “I hope I have not arrived in advance of my welcome.”
Escalus shook his head. “Not at all. Your visit is the only good news I have had this fortnight.”
Isabella frowned. “Why? What has passed in our fair city?”
Escalus looked away. “’Tis too heavy a tale for one weary from travel. How doth His Grace your husband?”
“Don Pedro is all things mild and kind and virtuous. He stayed in Messina to visit friends. Pray do not try to change the subject. What is it, Escalus?”
He winced. His sister might be a woman grown and a princess in her own right, but she still had an uncanny ability to demand he speak of topics he most wished to avoid. “’Tis something touching the Montagues and Capulets.”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Another street brawl?”
Escalus choked back a grim laugh at that description of the death toll. “Among other things. Come, ride with me and I shall tell you of it.”
Her men brought her a mount. He helped her a-horseback and they made for the city slowly, her guards and carriage trailing behind. “Sister, do you remember young Juliet?” he asked.
She nodded. “Rosaline’s little cousin, mean you? Old Capulet’s child.”
Few people would describe the flower of the Capulets as “Rosaline’s cousin,” but of course Rosaline had been Isabella’s particular friend when they were children and Rosaline of Tirimo’s mother was a lady-in-waiting in the palace. Escalus himself had spent most days in Rosaline’s company, before he’d been sent away to be fostered--his father had thought it best that both his children live and study in other courts, to be better acquainted with the world outside Verona. Except for one or two short visits, Isabella had been absent from Verona for the past six years, and thus had been spared the worst of the feud. He scarcely saw Rosaline now; four years ago when his father died and he’d come home to be crowned, the merry, clever child had been replaced by a solemn, orphaned young maid, and he himself had been too consumed with royal duties to pass the time with childhood playfellows. “Aye, she was. Juliet is dead.”