CHAPTER1
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene
Are you romantic? Have you found your One True Love? Do you imagine living happily ever after entwined in his passionate embrace?
Good luck with that.
Even a woman as savvy as me can get her tit caught in the wringer of true love. Let me tell you, when you’ve spent a lifetime congratulating yourself on your cleverness and good sense, and you discover in a moment of nighttime and lit torches that you’ve won the throne of the land of Humiliatia by being the biggest fool in the history of Suckerdom—that’s a moment thatshouldcause a moment of thoughtful reflection.
But no. Not me. That night, my temper flamed so hot I could have rendered fat off Old Serpent himself, and even now I lived my sorrow’s rage!
The morning after my disgrace, I fled into the garden of Casa Montague to escape the avid and interested gazes that followed me everywhere. My parents, my siblings, the servants, the dogs, the cats, the mice . . .
All right. Maybe not the mice, but only because the cats had recently grown fat and we all know what that means.
Our garden is located behind the house, which was wrapped around an atrium that is so typically Verona. The spacious grounds include a maze, a fountain that included the requisite statue of a little boy gleefully peeing, gravel walks, massive hedges growing along the very high and defensive back wall—defensive because Verona is still, and always, a city-state at war with other city-states, and all noble Verona families jockeyed for position—and little alcoves perfect for assignations, if you’re into that kind of thing. Which may I point out that until last night I have never been, and look howthatturned out. You would think that the woman who, only months ago, single-handedly tracked down and disarmed Verona’s first serial killer would be more intelligent than to get herself into such a mess.
Before we go further and I get more cranky, I should introduce myself.
I’m the daughter of Romeo and Juliet.
Yes, that Romeo and Juliet. To quote a future wise man, the rumors of their deaths were greatly exaggerated. The rest is essentially true: the potion, the poison, the self-stabbing, all those theatrics, and those events have been thrillingly repeated around countless Montague and Capulet festivities.
Consequently, our family reeks of melodrama like a badger reeks of musk. But unlike a badger, our family’s monologues and diatribes and histrionics have enthralled all of Verona for more than twenty years.
I know this for sure. Except for the first nine months, I’ve been there for all of it. I’m the oldest child, and for twenty years I’ve avoided the fights and moaning and madness of passion and marriage. My name is Rosie (formal name Rosaline). I was named for my father’s former girlfriend because he admired her chastity and wished that for his newborn baby daughter and, as Mamma repeatedly points out, that name had doomed me to maidenhood. Or I should sayformerlydoomed me to maidenhood, and technically I wasn’t doomed. I clung to my maidenhood through machinations that would have impressed every scheming politician who ever lived.
I still can’t believe that I . . . and the prince of Verona . . . almost. . .
Deep breath. Back to the facts.
I have five younger sisters and one brother, and Mamma is expecting again. With such wildly romantic, and may I point out, fertile parents, someone has to be practical.
I wish I could still lay claim to that title, but . . . see the opening paragraphs.
Betrothed to the wrong man.Catchy. I could compose a dramatic play with that title. Or a comedy. I’m sure someone would laugh.
Me, Rosie Montague, who has arranged marriages for all the men to whom my parents betrothed me, two of them to my younger sisters . . .
Now, as I recline on a bench and stare at the heartlessly cheerful blue sky, I hear the crunch of gravel on the walk. Someone approaches my private alcove.
Can’t everyone leave me alone to brood in peace?
Apparently not, because the footsteps stop. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a male figure. Not Prince Escalus, thank God. This guy is blond. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.” With so many younger siblings, I know how to utilize a crushing tone when I wish, but this guy doesn’t take the hint.
Slowly I turn my head and—
“Lysander!” I sat up.
Yes. It was he, my One True Love.
I had really hoped this moment would not occur for, well, never.
Lysander is, as always, as glorious as the sun. His straight, dark blond hair is streaked with strawberry, his complexion fair and unmarked by pox. But today, unlike previous moments, his full, soft lips did not smile as if the sight of me filled his soul, and his large green eyes examined me as if seeing the stain of sin.
That air of judgment reeking from a man who had previously regarded me with awe, affection, even love, may have contributed to my inappropriately jocular comment. “You’re late!”
He didn’t laugh.
