Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  “Thanks,” said Rosaline. Livia’s dress was askew from sitting in various unladylike positions all afternoon. Rosaline reached out to straighten it. “But really, Livia, thou need’st not involve thyself—”

  “Nonsense,” Livia said, tugging her dress away from Rosaline’s helping hands. “After all, you are soon to take holy orders. Your thoughts should be with God.” She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, lifting her hem to examine the loose thread she had been worrying at before. “Your family should not be such a distraction.” She broke the thread off with a snap.

  Escalus thought that Capulet might die.

  The man’s face was as red as Mars and sweat was pouring off him in rivers. His horse, unused to such a nervous rider—or perhaps not used to one that weighed the same as at least two normal men—danced sideways, and Capulet’s bulk jiggled in time.

  “Are you well, sir?” Escalus asked.

  Capulet nodded as he waved off the prince’s concern with one hand and mopped his streaming face with the other. “Oh yes, sire. ’Tis very—” He had to pause for a racking cough. “Very invigorating.”

  Escalus hid a smile. It was considered a great honor to accompany the prince on his daily ride outside the palace walls. Capulet would never have dreamed of turning down the invitation, nor would he dream of complaining now. He had no choice but to endure his discomfort as long as the prince wished.

  Which was exactly why the prince had invited the man in the first place. He was not well pleased with the head of the Capulets.

  “I am glad you are enjoying yourself,” he said. “Trot on, Venitio.” He heard a deep sigh behind him as Capulet urged his horse to follow. “Now,” Escalus said, “I believe you were telling me you have no idea who hung that Montague dummy in the town square.”

  Capulet shook his head. “My lord,” he said, “upon my life, ’twas no man of my family. Or if it was, I have been unable to discover it. And I’ve tried.”

  “Mmm. Capulets are not known for their willingness to bring their guilty before me for justice.”

  “ ’Tis this sort of villainy that slew my child,” Capulet said. “If this poison lives on in my house, I would cast it before Your Grace the instant I found it.”

  “Good,” said the prince. “I assume that means you are still making all efforts to see your niece married to Benvolio.”

  His companion groaned. “As Your Grace well knows, she will not leave her house! What am I to do, marry them through the window?”

  The prince frowned. “Her door is yet barred?”

  “Aye. She claims she is sick. And old lady Vitruvio is no help.” Capulet’s face managed to go even redder at the thought of his mother-in-law. “She says if we mean to make her ward a match without consulting her, then surely we do not need her aid to accomplish it.” He dropped his handkerchief, and his horse promptly trod it into the dirt. He cast a longing glance at the road back toward Verona’s gates. “This very day did I once more command her to come to my house. I ought to go back, in case she has obeyed at last.”

  Not likely, but the prince had tortured his vassal long enough. “Go on back,” said Escalus. “I do not wish our pleasure to keep you from your duties.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Capulet’s voice held the first real gratitude Escalus had heard all afternoon. He turned his horse back to the city.

  Escalus thought about following. It was time he returned—Penlet was surely making little coughs of distress at his absence. But on impulse, he turned Venitio in the opposite direction, spurring him into a run away from Verona’s walls.

  A good hard ride usually cleared his head. Vineyards and houses and streams flew by as his horse’s hooves thundered under him. But run though he might, the cares of his city followed him.

  What was he to do about Rosaline?

  He could go into her house and drag her out, of course. But dragging a screaming girl to the altar was hardly likely to cool tempers on either side.

  And, he was reminded by the part of himself that was still allowed to care for things other than the city’s best interests, it would make him a right bastard.

  There was her sister. Livia was just as much a Capulet as Rosaline. But Escalus had meant what he told Rosaline: He had chosen her to marry into the Montagues because he knew she was up to the task. Even when they were children, she was by far the cleverest of them. Since then he’d seen little of her, but he’d found himself listening closely whenever she was mentioned. When Verona society spoke of the eldest lady of Tirimo, after her misfortunes and her beauty, it was her wit they mentioned. Besides, the steady hand with which she’d kept herself and Livia free of entanglements in the feud spoke for itself. His valet’s niece served the Duchess of Vitruvio, and the servants gossiped that before Romeo had fallen under Juliet’s thrall, he had nursed a brief passion for Rosaline. But unlike her cousin, she had refused him. Young Rosaline hid more wisdom behind those assessing eyes than most graybeards. Livia was clever too, but all Verona knew she had absolutely no rein on her tongue. Juliet had caused a bloodbath; Livia would start a war.

  Which left him right where he’d been for the last fortnight. With a Montague groom and no Capulet bride to wed him.

  It was then that he remembered Isabella’s injunction: “You must hold a feast for me.”

  Livia did not try to hide her scowl.

  How could Uncle Capulet be so rude? She’d come all this way to see him at his request, and then he wasn’t even here!

  Of course, she was not the lady he’d asked to see. But he didn’t know that. Because he wasn’t here.

  “The master should be back from his ride soon, lady,” a nervous little chambermaid assured her.

  “Hmph,” said Livia. “I’m not angry at you, you know. ’Tis not your fault you have a discourteous lump for a master.”

  The chambermaid, perhaps determining that there was no safe response to this, merely bobbed a curtsy and departed. Livia turned her scowl toward the window to watch the setting sun.

  How could Rosaline be going into a convent? They’d been taught by nuns when they were small. The nuns had beat them with switches and their food had tasted like stewed bricks. How could her sister choose to live like that forever? They were supposed to marry impossibly handsome, disgustingly rich young men who swore they would die if the beauteous ladies of Tirimo refused their hands.

  Of course, Rosaline had already refused at least one such young man. And then he had in fact died.

  Livia shuddered. In truth, she could understand Rosaline’s wish to escape what had happened with Romeo. But surely the solution was to get married herself, not to run away from everything.

  And that, Livia realized, was the real reason Rosaline’s plan made an ache grow in her chest. Livia had always had her sister at her side. Since their parents had died and they’d gone to live with their aggressively indifferent great-aunt, Rosaline was all she had. But that was enough. They were young, they were beautiful, and they had Rosaline’s strong will and fierce wit to make everything come out right. When she’d given any thought to their future, she had assumed that they would make good marriages to fine Verona men and these degrading years of poverty would be naught but an ugly memory. Little had she known that Rosaline had been plotting all along to escape her.

  Perhaps she should have known. Now that she thought of it, she could see how precarious their future truly was. She could not rely on her sister for everything. Livia would die before she followed Rosaline to a nunnery, though, which meant it was time to consider her own path.

  A noise startled her. She turned her sunset-dazzled eyes back inside the house. It took her a few blinks to make out the figure hurrying up the back stairs at the end of the corridor, but even in the shadows it was impossible to mistake the nurse’s girth. Bored, Livia decided to follow. Perhaps the nurse had a potion that would cause Rosaline to fall madly in love with the first man she saw. She could never be a nun then. Of course, the nurse’s medicines only sometimes wor
ked, but at least it would taste bad, which was the least Rosaline deserved.

  Livia was about to call out to her when the nurse paused at the top of the stair. Looking around, she went into a cupboard, from whence she took a lantern. After lighting it, she looked around again and, not seeing Livia in the shadows, she carefully opened a heavy door and slipped inside.

  Livia frowned. She had never once seen that door opened before. It led to a wing of the house that had been unused for a generation. What was the nurse doing in there now? Surely the Capulets had not had reason to reopen that wing—sadly, the house had fewer occupants now, not more. Livia was dying to know, and never having been one to deny herself what she wanted, she slipped through the door and followed.

  Livia kept her eyes on the nurse’s light bobbing ahead of her as she followed on silent feet. Though the sun had not yet set, it was pitch-black in the long corridor. The windows of all the rooms must be covered, leaving the nurse’s lantern the only source of light.

  No—not the only source.

  For Livia could see now that the nurse’s goal was a room at the very end of the corridor. Faint light crept from beneath its door. As she drew closer, she could hear voices within. One, a man’s, was crying out in pain; the other voice, a woman’s, was quieter.

  “There, there, lie still—”

  “It hurts—oh God, lady, it hurts!”

  The door flew open as the nurse hurried into the room. Back in the shadows of the corridor, Livia stared at the scene before her.

  Most of the room was what she had expected of this wing—a long-abandoned bedchamber, windows swathed in dark curtains, a few pieces of furniture covered with sheets. A corner, however, had been cleared of dust and transformed into a makeshift sickroom. A shelf stood full of poultices, bandages, and some of what Livia recognized as the nurse’s medicines. She watched as the nurse moved aside, revealing a cot. And on the cot was a man.

  Livia caught her breath as she looked at him. The man was shirtless, tangled in the sheets, his chest covered in sweat. His long light hair was splayed against the pillow. A large, bloody bandage was tied round his stomach. As she watched, he cried out again, his back arching in pain as the nurse tried to check his bandage.

  He was, quite simply, the handsomest man she’d ever seen in her life.

  “There, there, dear,” the nurse said, trying with a combination of anxious fluttering and brute strength to settle the man back against the pillows. “You mustn’t sit up—your wound—”

  “Romeo,” the man was muttering as he desperately fought the nurse’s hold. “Romeo.”

  “Shh, he’s gone, duck, he can’t hurt you.”

  “No—no!” The man thrashed harder. “Juliet! Juliet! My love, where are you? Juliet!”

  The nurse made futile shushing noises, then called, “My lady,” in an urgent voice.

  Another figure hurried toward the bed. Livia frowned, creeping closer. The figure was shrouded head to toe in black, so ’twas difficult in the flickering lamplight to see who it was, but—surely ’twas not—

  “Shh,” said Lady Capulet, pushing back the scarf covering her hair as she stepped into the circle of candlelight.

  Upon spying her, the man sank back into the pillows. “Juliet,” he croaked, eyes glued to Lady Capulet’s form. “My angel.”

  Lady Capulet hummed and brushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead. “Rest now, gentle Paris.”

  He turned his head into her soothing touch, at last allowing his eyes to close, though the rapid rise and fall of his chest grew no slower. And the nurse and Lady Capulet relaxed slightly.

  Which was when they noticed Livia, standing in the doorway in shock.

  As her aunt surged from the bedside and hurried toward her, hand already stretching toward the door to slam it in Livia’s face, Livia came to a decision in rather a hurry.

  She knew not how Count Paris, mourned as dead by all Verona, came to be alive and hidden away in her uncle’s house. Nor did she know why Lady Capulet, said to be bedridden with grief over Juliet’s death, was instead whole and well and impersonating Juliet for the man’s delirium.

  But what she did know was that if she allowed that door to close, she might never see the man in the bed again.

  So instead of demanding answers, she said, “I can help,” and ducked under her aunt’s arm into the room.

  The nurse was wringing her hands. “Livia, Livia, you must not be here—”

  “Come,” said Livia, hurrying to the bed. “His bandages want changing, do they not? Another pair of hands is what you need.”

  Before they could object, she was kneeling on the bed, reaching for the knots on his bandages. Though her fingers were gentle, Paris began to groan; after exchanging a glance, the nurse and Lady Capulet hurried forward. While Lady Capulet held his face in her hands, murmuring soothing, motherly nothings, the nurse and Livia swiftly removed the sodden bandages and replaced them with soft, clean ones. Afterward, the nurse gave him a few drops of medicine and, finally, the pain-racked tension that knotted his body seemed to unwind a bit. He twisted his face against Lady Capulet’s hand, fixed half-lidded eyes on her face, and after breathing one final “Juliet,” fell at last to sleep.

  Livia tore her gaze from the way his face relaxed in slumber to find her aunt glaring at her. “Niece,” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”

  Livia shrugged. “I followed the nurse. Aunt, what are you doing here?”

  “That’s none of your concern, child.”

  “And I suppose you’ll say the same when I ask what he’s doing here.”

  Her aunt pressed her lips together in a tight line and looked away. Livia followed her eyes to Paris’s face. Even in sleep, his breath hitched fitfully in pain.

  “He’s dying,” said Livia.

  Her aunt turned back to her, eyes wide with outrage in her pale face. “Thou foolish girl. Thou knowest not whereof thou speak’st.”

  Livia shrugged. “Perhaps not. He’s still dying. Even a fool could see that. If you are to have any hope of saving him, you’ll need help.” She drew a deep breath. “I’ve a steady pair of hands. I know how to tend the sick. I nursed my mother through her months of illness. Let me help him.”

  Her aunt was watching her. Livia was struck, suddenly, with how much she did look like Juliet. It was no wonder the feverish Paris confused them. Lady Capulet had borne Juliet very young, and was not yet thirty years old herself. They could have been sisters instead of mother and daughter. But Juliet’s face had never worn such a look as her mother’s wore now. It was as though she’d turned to stone. Livia swallowed. Perhaps it was best if she left after all.

  But it seemed she had made her case. “Very well, niece,” Lady Capulet said. “If thou’lt do my bidding, thou may’st remain. But only if thou swearest on thy life not to breathe a word of this to any soul.”

  Livia hesitated. “Even my sister?”

  “Even thy sister.”

  She’d never had a secret from Rosaline in her life.

  Rosaline, who had planned for God knew how long to leave Livia behind. Rosaline had no problem keeping secrets from Livia.

  “I swear,” said Livia.

  “I thank you, mistress, but we need no beets.”

  Rosaline was growing desperate. Though the cottage she and Livia shared was tucked at the rear of her aunt’s estate, the persistent vegetable seller encamped on her doorstep had rather a carrying voice, and Rosaline worried she would wake her aunt’s household. Where the devil was Livia? Though the sun was scarcely up, her sister, hardly an early riser by habit, was nowhere to be found. Two nights ago she had come home late from House Capulet, and when Rosaline asked her how things went with their uncle, she had mumbled something about how he was too busy to see her, and gone off to bed. The following morning she vanished once more on some vague errand and was gone all day. And when Rosaline woke this morning, Livia was gone yet again. There was a nearly illegible note on the kitchen table in Livia’s hasty scr
awl that explained that she’d gone to nurse their aunt Capulet, to give the duchess a respite. This seemed slightly improbable, since Livia had never before shown any interest in the comfort of either their aunt Capulet or great-aunt the duchess. Rosaline supposed she was being punished for her plan to take holy orders. She hoped Livia stopped sulking soon. She missed her.

  “Come, mistress,” the old woman called from deep inside her cloak. “If you’ll none of my fine beets, then some fat lovely turnips for your house, sweet mistress?” She waved the aforementioned vegetable up toward Rosaline.

  Oh for the love of heaven. “Very well,” Rosaline sighed. “We’ll buy some turnips, then.”

  The woman and her turnips bobbed her a curtsy. “And wise you are to do it, lady,” she said. “ ’Twould be foolishness itself to refuse turnips pressed upon you by royal decree.”

  Rosaline blinked. “By royal …?”

  The cloak looked left, then right. The city was still awakening; no one else was to be seen on Rosaline’s street. Just for a moment, the woman pushed back her hood. Rosaline’s eyes went wide. Instead of an old peasant woman, the turnip seller revealed herself to be a grinning young lady, her head wrapped in golden braids.

  “Isabella?”

  “The same. Now will you have some turnips?”

  Rosaline slammed the shutters closed, then leaned against them, a hand to her mouth. Since her marriage to the Prince of Arragon, Isabella was at least as grand in stature as her brother; what was she doing here alone, and in that absurd garb?

  Rosaline’s shoulders began to shake with laughter. She grinned into her hand. Then again, why should she have expected Isabella to suddenly stop doing exactly as she liked once she was married to a prince of her own?

  Regardless, she could hardly leave the Princess of Arragon outside with a turnip cart. Her quarantine would have to be breached.

  She found herself flying eagerly toward the door. If Escalus was using his sister to get to her, at least she would be able to see her friend. When she opened the door a crack, Isabella pushed it wide, bringing both herself and her turnip cart into Rosaline’s front hall.