“I killed two of your brother’s men just now,” I said. “They would have killed me.” Why I said it, I do not know; I simply needed to do it, and her head bowed just a little more, as if from the weight of my admission. “It never ends, does it?”

“No,” she said softly. “Pray God it does, someday, but it will not end today, nor likely tomorrow.”

She did not say it, but my actions had certainly rolled the cycle forward, postponing that day of peace. And, looking at it squarely, I saw it had been my own fault. If I had not been so angry at Romeo, if I had not stormed out looking for a brawl, then I would not have found one.

I crossed myself, rose, and retreated to where Balthasar was fidgeting nervously from foot to foot. He breathed a sigh of relief when I took my place beside him. He didn’t say it, but I read the stiff disapproval in his body language.

I nodded to him and headed toward the exit, just as one young lady emerged from the confessional, and another took her place.

“Sir?” he asked, startled, and hurried to catch up. “Were you not here to be shrived?”

“I’ve confessed as much as I need,” I said. “The rest can wait.” In truth, in my most heretical heart, I thought there was no real forgiveness for taking a life, in this world or the next, regardless of what the priests might say.

I wished I’d been able to see her face, but I knew that witnessing the bruises and cuts again would have given me no peace, only ignited another round of fury at Tybalt. Perhaps she had known it, too. Or perhaps I only imagined the friendship between us, fragile and unspoken and as deadly to us both as a cup of poison.

Who’s the foolish one now? I asked myself, and vowed that I would apologize to my cousin.

Soon.

• • •

The rest of the day went as uneventfully as most. . . . Mercutio eventually appeared, looking content and tormented at the same time, and with Romeo (and supported by our own crew of hired blades, among them the fierce Abraham and slender, grim Alessandro) we went to wander the market square. It was the vital, vivid center of the town, a place where all classes mingled, and today, as most days, it was full of color, noise, and music. Our small band of young men—yes, swaggering, no doubt—kept together, a tight-knit group of blue and black, which in Mercutio’s case was slashed with the vivid orange of his own house. I had been asked to find a new silk merchant for my mother, in a note from her to my rooms, and so I led the men on that very domestic chore, from stall to stall, looking over the goods and the honesty of the sellers.

It was at the third stall that I encountered my sister, Veronica, dressed in extravagant finery and closely attended by her pinch-mouthed nurse, who looked hard put upon. Veronica was buying—at too dear a price—a length of rich gold-and-green damask. She ignored me until I was at her elbow.

“You ought to let me haggle for you,” I said. “That’s half again as much as it’s worth.”

“It’s for my wedding gown,” she said loftily. “If I’m to marry the old goat, at least I will do it in the best.” She sent me a sly glance as the merchant folded the fabric and went to wrap it in a linen package. “There’s talk of dead Capulet men this day.”

“Is there?”

“Talk of a Montague who killed them,” she said. “Might that be you, brother?”

“No.” I was in no mood to confess to my sister. She’d never met a secret she liked to keep, save her own. “Perhaps it was footpads.”

“Footpads who made the survivor rip away his Capulet colors? No one will believe it. I hear the Prince is going to summon Montague and Capulet both, again, to put a stop to the brawling. Questions will be asked.”

I shrugged. “You should go home,” I said. “If Capulet blood is up, you have no business wandering alone.”

“I’m not alone,” she said. “I’m with my attendant, as is any decent woman.”

“Tell me you’re not off to an assignation.”

“Brother!”

That called for a second shrug; the outrage in her voice was far too obvious. Veronica was up to something, but what, I could not say; nor did I truly care. I’d warned her. If she insisted on putting herself in danger—or in a dalliance that could ruin her marriage, at the very least—then it was no business of mine. Though no doubt my grandmother would blame me for that, too.

On the strength of that, though, I sent two of the bravos as escorts for her and the old woman. Whatever mischief Veronica was intending, the men would keep the secret; they were well paid to do that, and they knew that my uncle took a very dark view of betrayal. She’d be as safe as might be—at least from any enemies.

From herself . . . that was another matter altogether, and one to which I was not inclined to give much worry.

Romeo was moody, and before long slipped away. I dispatched another of our followers to cover his back. Mercutio tried to talk to him, but Romeo was—as seemed to be usual for the day—unwilling to speak, and our friend came back to me shaking his head. “He’s off to brood,” he said. “Love does some men no favors, Benvolio.”

I wondered whether he was speaking of himself for a moment, but he flashed me a broken, mad grin. “I know where he’s bound. I followed him yesterday,” he said. “His love’s a thick wine, and his mornings are hangovers . . . he climbs a tree beyond the wall and writes more poems. At least now he has the sense to tear them up when he’s done.”

I wasn’t much satisfied with that, but I let it pass. Hunting Romeo down wouldn’t make him any less moody. He had to find that balance for himself.

I found the silk merchant for my mother, and told him that he’d be called upon soon; Mercutio fancied a pair of fine leather gloves, but they came from a stall that featured a Capulet banner, and the vendor sneered at us.

I stole them for him, a deft and quiet lift that was done in a moment as the merchant’s eye roamed elsewhere. I tossed them over as we walked, and Mercutio clucked and wagged a shaming finger, but only after he’d put them on.

We purchased meat rolls from a handcart, and had free wine from a vendor hoping to supply House Montague. A street performer fresh from Fiorenza produced doves from his dirty beard, to the screaming amusement of a group of children; he had a wild-man look that made me think he put his thrown coins into the purchase of a bottle rather than food, but his hands were steady and clever enough. A mountebank sang nonsense songs and juggled while balanced on a pole, and mocked the passersby with hurled insults, all in good fun . . . until he chose to mock a Capulet who’d stopped to stare.

It was not Tybalt—it was some lesser, vacuous cousin—but he was quick enough to anger, and his shouts of, “Capulet, to me!” quickly drew a knot of red and black around him, which ranged out to surround the jester. The jester’s painted face took on an anxious look, and his eyes darted around for escape, or rescue, and found neither. Someone kicked the pole from under him, and he went tumbling, but tumbling is a mountebank’s trade, and he came up unhurt—until another Capulet punched him squarely in the mouth.

“Churls,” Mercutio said. He was gripping the hilt of his sword. “Clowns beating clowns—it’s unseemly. We should take a hand, Ben.”

“No,” I said. “Two Capulets were killed this morning, and Montague blamed. No more brawling today.”

Mercutio’s sympathies were with the jester, or at least against the Capulets now joining in the beating. “We can’t let them trounce him without an answer! We look like cowards!”

“He’s no kin or oath to us,” I said. I winced, though, when I saw a boot drive deep, and the jester’s head snap back. “Balthasar, run for the city watch. Bring them.”

“Sir,” he said, and dashed away.

It took too long, but he did return with the prince’s liveried men; the Capulets were warned by shouts, and melted into the thick crowds, leaving behind the huddled body of the mountebank and his broken pole. He wasn’t dead, at least.

And it proved to me that the Capulets were raw-nerved today, and ready for any kind of insult to be avenged. Not a good day to be abroad in Montague colors.

I’d taken note of the Capulet cousin who’d started the trouble. Close personal note.

And so, when the bells rang to summon the faithful to mass, I said, “Off to the chapel with us, then, you scruffy pagans. You could all do with a sermon or two.” Such a visit served two good purposes—it would ease the gossip about my missed morning mass, and it protected us from Capulet wrath for a time. In the heat of the afternoon, after mass, no one would be so eager to fight.

“Not I!” Mercutio said with such alarm he might have been the devil himself. “I’m fresh-shrived just this morning, I assure you. I’ve no desire to have a double blessing.”

He winked at me, just a quick and fleeting expression that made me think his shriving was less of the spirit than the flesh . . . and had come from the hands of his Tomasso, who was studying for the priesthood. I cleared my throat in uncomfortable realization, and nodded, and Mercutio darted off through the crowd, cheerful and mad. He made it a point to flirt with a young, comely shopgirl. He often did such things, though I did not think he appreciated her beauty for anything more than what was visible. Safer for him to be thought a rake.

“The rest of you,” I said to the men, who looked sadly resigned, “off to the church.”

Balthasar and Abraham ranged ahead, while I accepted the cordial greetings of allies and neighbors on our way through the crowds, with Alessandro and two others trailing behind. By the time I caught up to them, Balthasar and Abraham had found trouble.

Capulet trouble, in the narrow street that led off the square. As I found them, Abraham said, in a pleasant enough tone, “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” A common enough insult, one that would at least occasion a challenge.

The Capulet smirked. “I do bite my thumb, sir.”