by Lisa Fiedler
My fellows arrive, calling for me without. I don my mask, a clever, gilded affair of thin plaster that scowls on my behalf with thin, crimson-painted lips.
On my path to the door, I pass my father sitting alone beside the unlit hearth, and I see in his eyes that he will pass this eve, as he hath passed many others, with missing my mother. I touch his slumped shoulder, startling him. When he sees me in the garish mask, he almost smiles.
“Art thou well, my lord?”
“Ah, I am fine,” he lies. “Please do not worry after me, my son. Go on to your celebration. ’Tis a masquerade, I take it?”
I nod; the mask bumps my chin.
A glint of humor softens my father’s eyes. “Enjoy thyself, but take good care. And shouldst thou expect to be returning home at an exceedingly late hour—”
“Aye, Father,” I assure him. “I will send a messenger round to let thee know.”
“To whose dwelling place dost thou go?”
I evade the question, not wishing to reveal my destination, as I am certain my lord would forbid me to go. Instead, I squeeze his shoulder.
“I will be most cautious, and polite,” I promise.
“What a fine man you’ve grown into, Benvolio. Your lady mother would be proud.”
I do not reply, fearing my voice would catch. “God ye good night, Father.”
“Fare thee well.”
I hurry to exit, joining my fellow maskers in the street. Their torch flames burn like warnings in the unsteady hands of five or six scalawags invited by Mercutio. They are already deep into their cups and reeking of ale. I press my lonesome father from my thoughts and greet Romeo with a solid punch to his arm.
“To Capulet’s,” he declares behind his bejeweled disguise.
“Aye, to Capulet’s! And may God have mercy on our roguish souls!”
The night is a swirl of stars and darkness and warm breeze, and my memory of the nameless girl. What mask will she wear, I wonder? Mayhap a nymph’s. Or a goddess’s? Some celestial caricature, sewn with flowing silk for hair like moonbeams?
As our procession makes its way to Capulet’s home, glum Romeo, as expected, waxes on about the burden of his unanswered affection for Rosaline.
Mercutio, in fine, angry spirits, teases our friend, and does so with bold, randy humor—some windy speech about the fairy’s midwife, the mythical Queen Mab. He wreaks his poetry upon us, casting a wordy spell as he chants on and on so that even the night listens. “Dreams, and chariots. Cricket’s bones. Elflocks, prayers, and ready maids … .”
I will give him this, the boy can talk!
Turning my attention away from Mercutio’s theatric ranting, I find myself wanting harder than ever to cross Capulet’s threshold. I can see the house in the distance, glowing in the deep night. The music drifts from its windows, beckoning me, inviting me to hurry.
I whirl on Mercutio. “This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves,” I shout, more harshly than I mean to. “Supper is done, and we shall come too late!”
Mercutio growls at me, then chuckles and rolls his eyes. He snaps me a bow of acquiescence, then strides off in the direction of the feast.
But Romeo stays me, with a heavy hand upon my forearm. His voice goes soft. “Some consequence yet hanging in the stars shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night’s revels … .”
I do as Mercutio did. I roll my eyes and laugh aloud, tugging good Romeo toward the party, ignoring his next words. Methinks I hear him speak of untimely death, but I will not abide such dark prophecy. Not this night, not when I am so close to finding love.
“Strike, drum,” I cry in a voice of hope, marching on after Mercutio.
Sighing heavily, Romeo falls into step beside me.
ROSALINE
I dress for the feast in my cousin’s chamber.
Juliet sits before the looking glass as though she does not recognize the face she sees there. I am elbow-deep in her best blue brocade, which she hath always said goes nicely with my eyes. I have convinced her to wear her yellow silk, for the neckline is flattering, and she insists I wear her sapphire pendant.
“Wherefore art thou so quiet, cousin?” I ask, just as her maid lifts the gown’s heavy skirt up and over my head. I disappear for a moment into the mass of midnight fabric and cannot hear Juliet’s reply. The heavy dress falls into place upon my person with a rustling swish. The narrow waistline dips low, and I especially like the sleeves, which are slit from the wrist to the shoulder and laced with gold cording to match the golden rope that swags from hip to hip.
Juliet turns from the mirror and smiles. “Perfect,” she announces.
“A little snug in the bodice perhaps,” I admit, sucking in my breath to allow the maid to fasten the gown in back. I thank her for the loan of it. In turn, she thanks me for the slippers I have brought for her to wear. They are dyed-yellow kid to match her gown, and they are only the slightest bit too large for her.
“You have said little since my arrival.”
“Aye.” She props her elbow on the vanity table and drops her chin into her hand. “I have been mulling over something my mother imparted to me earlier.”
“And what might that be?” I twirl, watching the blue skirts of her exquisite gown bell at my ankles. “That you are to curtsy and say buona sera to all of your guests, and that you are not to taste the wine should Tybalt offer you a sip?”
Juliet gives me a look, and I know she is remembering last Christmastide, when Tybalt dared us both to drain huge goblets of burgundy. Juliet had three small tastes and fell promptly asleep. I drank my portion and hers, and later Tybalt graciously held my hair back as I retched in the orchard. “Wine is the least of my concerns.”
I cross to the vanity to retrieve the sapphire necklace, which I fasten round my throat. Then I pick up my peacock-plumed mask by its ribboned stick and hold it before my face. It covers my forehead and cheekbones, and my eyes are clearly visible through the almond-shaped slits. I wonder if Benvolio is on his way. Mayhap he has already arrived (and is anonymously partaking of Capulet hospitality) … with Mercutio at his side!
“Well, with or without drink, Jules, when the gentlemen take to fawning o’er you, I suggest you fawn right back at them.”
“What mean you?” Juliet cocks her head as she takes her own mask from the marble-topped bedside table. Then she understands. “You are advising me to flirt this night!”
“Aye, and heavily. Flirt with every lucky beau who falls within your line of vision. Dance with any boy who asks, and if the opportunity presents for you to be kissed, by all means, Juliet Capulet, get thyself kissed.”
I turn away from the glass and smile at her blush. She quickly attempts to conceal it behind her mask, which is similar to mine except that hers is bordered not with feathers but rows of large pearls.
“Kisses are sins,” she states. “You should know that, being as you are a fierce advocate of chastity! Did you not, this very morn, hotly denounce the state of love and all romantic actions associated with it?”
’Tis my turn to blush. “Ah. Well. As to that, I have recently undergone, as they say, a change of heart.”
“A change of heart?”
“Oh, Jules, it happened just today. I have met someone!”
“Met someone?” Her mouth becomes a dainty O of wonder. “Tell me!”
I fall back upon her pillows, feeling suddenly girlish and light. “He is the most gallant, most brave, most handsome man in all of Verona.”
“Am I acquainted with him?”
“’Tis very doubtful,” I admit, biting my lip. She understands at once.
“Oh, Roz, another Montague? First Romeo, now … what is this one called?”
I hesitate. “Mercutio.”
“You jest!”
“Nay.
“Mercutio!” Jules shakes her head.
“I am hoping he will come here tonight,” I confide, “so I may tell him of my feelings.”
“A Montague here? Now I have h
eard it all.” She sighs. “Well, at least you picked him for yourself.” She grins. “Like a fig. Forbidden fruit. Could that be the source of Mercutio’s allure?”
“It could. But it is not.” I narrow my eyes. “What dost thou mean by saying I have picked him for myself?”
“I mean that you chose him.” Juliet’s eyes turn serious. “I have learned tonight that Count Paris does request my hand and that my lord and lady would have me accept.”
I open my mouth and stare at her.
Juliet grins. “Could it be I have finally found a way to render Rosaline speechless?”
“Paris?” I gasp at last. “Wishes to marry thee?”
“Aye. As I told my lady mother, that certain sacrament has, until this day, been an honor I have dreamed not of.” She shrugs. “But then what else would I do besides marry?”
I drop to the bed in a puff of blue brocade, nothing short of stunned.
“But Paris? I did not even know you knew him!”
“I do not know him, other than by reputation,” she says in her sensible way. “But ’tis not as though the practice is uncommon. Girls are married off to strangers every day. At least I have clapped eyes on Paris.”
“You have clapped eyes upon the village idiot, as well,” I remind her. “But no one expects you to marry him!”
“Paris is not an idiot,” she says evenly.
I scowl, crossing my arms across the bodice of the gown. “So that is your measure for marrying a man?” I snap. “If he is not classified as a halfwit, then he is husband material?”
“He is a nobleman. Kin to the prince.”
“That is his pedigree. What of his personality?”
“I suspect he has one.”
“Aye, and it is very much lacking.” I shake my head at her. “A nun’s confession is less boring than Paris!”
Juliet looks only somewhat discouraged. “He is handsome,” she states. “In fact, Mother spoke at length of his beauteous looks.”
“Likely because that is all there is to speak of. Paris dazzles the eye, aye, until he opens his mouth! Marry him? Oh, Juliet. How could you?”
Juliet sighs. “How could I not?”
There, of course, is the meat of it. I take her hand. “I am sorry,” I say softly. “I did not mean to scold you. They have commanded it, then? They’ve left you no choice but to marry him?”
“On the contrary, they have left it mostly to me. My lady mother asked, ‘Can you like of Paris’s love?’ I am to look him over this evening and decide if I am able to love him.”
“Based upon what? The cut of his tunic? The color of his hair?”
“I shall look to like,” says Juliet. “’Tis that simple.”
I glower at her. “There is nothing simple in considering a man for a husband!”
“Husband,” Juliet repeats with a slight shiver. “Oh, Roz, hath any word e’er sounded at once so goodly and so grave? Paris, seen from afar, is the very model of masculine worthiness. He would surely devote himself in full to she who would become his wife.”
“Wife!” I cry. “What dost thou know of being a wife? You are only just learning to be Juliet.”
“Aye, and in so learning I have learned that to deny all that is Juliet is what Juliet is most. Juliet listens. She obeys, and she smiles and thinks only what she is allowed to think … unless I am in your company, Rosaline, for then I am free to be some other Juliet, one who ingests figs that were ne‘er intended for her to taste.” She shrugs. “Whoever Juliet is, ’tis possible that she—I—will please Paris. Of course, ’tis also possible my ways will enrage him. Or confuse him. Mayhap he will laugh at me.”
Juliet speaks as calmly as though she is telling me she believes it will rain. I spring up from the bed and commence to pace.
“And were he to laugh—at you, with you—pray, what sound would it have? A gusty, easy noise? A raspy bark? Heartfelt or forced? Could there come a day when Paris’s laughter might be a joy to you, a thing you long to hear? Is his touch tender? Are his eyes gentle? What dreams did he dream when he was a child and does he prefer the heat of summer to winter’s chill? Can he carry a tune? Does he favor his left hand or his right when he fences or holds his cup of wine, and how many babes will he wish you to bear for him? Is he forgiving by nature? Generous? Given to dark moods? Can he eat strawberries without swelling?” I turn to Juliet and throw my arms wide. “They ask, ‘Can you like of Paris’s love?’ How in the name of all God’s saints are you to determine that in a glance?”
“I know not.” Juliet squirms ’neath my demanding gaze, then narrows a glare of her own at me. “Mayhap the same way in which you, this very day, determined you could like Mercutio.”
She doth make good sense with that barb, and I look away, embarrassed.
“I know only that ’tis my duty as a daughter to consider it,” she continues. “For as I have been honor-bound to hate whom they hate, now I must try to love he whom they find deserving of my love.”
“And when are you to shackle yourself to this stranger?” I inquire. “This very evening? Before the ale barrels have been tapped, or will it be a long betrothal, lasting until after the honeyed cakes have been served?”
“Two summers hence.”
I freeze where I stand. So this was the matter my uncle discussed so indifferently with Paris this morn. His daughter’s future. Her very life.
“You will do what your parents ask?”
Juliet lifts her chin slightly. “Nothing more. And nothing less. I’ll look to like, if looking liking move. Whate’er truly means Juliet, mayhap this night I’ll chance to prove.”
Now Juliet’s nurse, Angelica, hollers for us to join the feast. We exchange a glance that is part panic and part glee as we rush from the room.
The great hall smells of slow-melting beeswax and heavy perfumes, roasted doves and sauces of cheese and parsley. Wine and ale and apricots. The minstrels on their mandolinos wear puffy velvet hats embellished with ostrich feathers, and the guests seem golden in the gracious glow of glittering chandeliers.
Juliet and I watch a moment from the stairs. Tybalt appears and begins to taunt us. He is dressed, as always, to perfection, in dark hose of the softest knit and a purple satin coat, finely tailored. His rugged chin is scraped smooth, and his hair, the same raven shade as Juliet’s, falls perfectly behind his ears to swing o’er his shoulders at a fashionable length.
“Why, if it isn’t Ros-malign and Ghoul-iet!” he barks playfully, giving Jules’s braid a tug. “Those masks become you, brats! For they conceal your hideous faces.”
Juliet smiles and slams her yellow-slippered foot down hard upon his toe. He yelps, but behind his plaster mask his eyes twinkle.
“I shall take thee over my knee, urchin,” he threatens.
“Thou wouldst have to catch me first,” Juliet replies.
“Was that you I spied dancing with yon maiden, Tybalt?” I tease, nodding at a mean-spirited girl called Dorothea. She is exceedingly plump with dull, frizzled hair and thin, frowning lips. “Why, she’s far prettier than your last paramour. Only, when you partake of her kisses, how dost thou manage to get thine arms around her girth?”
Tybalt sneers. “Dorothea is a maiden who requires two sacks,” he reports.
“Two sacks?” Juliet repeats. “What mean you?”
“I mean,” says Tybalt, “that were a man to escort her in public, he would needs bring along two sacks—one to place o’er her face and a second to hide his own, in the event that hers gets torn!”
Juliet cannot help but giggle at his icy wit.
“Tybalt!” I scold, slapping his arm. “You are wicked.”
“‘Twas you who pointed her out, Roz.” He grows suddenly serious toward me in that way that older cousins have. “A lady blessed with beauty such as yours should ne’er mock one less fortunate.”
He is right, of course, and I feel a rush of guilt. At times I believe that, for all his sauciness, there is kindness in Tybalt. I only wish that he wou
ld display it more readily—e’en to himself.
“O!” cries Juliet happily, noticing a recent arrival. “’Tis my old spinetta instructor. I must say buona sera!” She hurries off to do so.
Across the room, an elegant lady with a delicately curvaceous figure lifts her wine goblet to Tybalt.
“Now, there is a maid to my liking,” he says, nudging his elbow into my side. “If I have not returned by Tuesday next”—he smiles—“be glad for me!”
He strides across the marble hall to claim his prize; I find myself free to search the crowd, praying that Benvolio has indeed come in costume and brought Mercutio along. Holding my feathered mask in place, I make my way round the room. Thinking unwelcome guests such as they would wisely keep to the shadows, I move toward the perimeter of the hall.
Let him be here, O, please let me find Mercutio …
“Benvolio!”
My new friend steps into my path, nearly causing me to collide with his broad chest.
“How is it thou knowst me,” he asks, in a pleased but puzzled voice, “behind this mask?”
How, indeed? His visor is a full facade, covering his face completely from hairline to chin. And yet I recognized him immediately, for I sensed an aura that spoke Benvolio to me. Not to mention that luxurious, wavy mass of shining hair, and his sturdy shoulders. And a particular, manly aroma that is his alone—fresh air, strong soap, spearmint and cedar and clean warmth.
“Uh, ’twas … your boots,” I fib, stammering. “Aye, your boots—there is a rather bad scuff near the ankle of the right one. I noticed it this afternoon.
Benvolio laughs behind his disguise. “She remembers my boots,” he announces triumphantly to a fellow in a half mask who has just come up beside him.
“I would not be too proud of that,” the masked newcomer slurs.
I expect my knees to waver—oddly, they do not. My pulse quickens, however, and I note a frantic fluttering sensation in my belly. “Mercutio!”
“None other.” He sways slightly as he leans in close to me. “And, pray, what dost the lady recall of me?”
“Everything,” I blurt. (That too is a fib, for ’twas actually his smug tone that gave him away. In truth, I did not know him until he spoke.) “Your eyes. Also your smile.”