He said nothing, and merely led me toward the palace’s massive doors of walnut and worked bronze. At our approach, two footmen in livery flung wide the entrance, and once inside, Prince Escalus waved an encompassing hand.
No one spoke a word, our reticence not because of ennui, as in the garden, but because this place, this home, this monument to beauty conquered us with parts equally glowing and impressive. The high ceilings, the wooden floors, the long carpets, the statues, the framed paintings, the murals, the gilding, the candles, the fresh flowers . . . the rich, warm colors of the tapestries threaded with gold and the velvet curtains.
Each breath felt alive with color, as if I was standing inside a sunset, and for the first time in days, my humbled soul eased.
Mamma broke the silence. “My prince, who decorated this?”
“My mother, Princess Eleanor,” Prince Escalus answered.
“I knew it!” Mamma’s eyes sparkled with joy. “When Eleanor walked into a room, she lit the very air with warmth.”
“You knew my mother?” Prince Escalus asked without expression.
“I did. She was my dear friend. Her death robbed the world of light.” Suddenly Mamma looked tired, and she gripped Papà’s arm.
At once, Papà said, “Prince Escalus, the wife of my heart needs rest before our meal. Where may I take her?”
“This way.” Prince Escalus gestured the Montague offspring to the right along the great walk. “If you like, you may preview the works and I’ll be along later to help you understand them.”
While Prince Escalus escorted my parents into a quiet room close by, I noted a great many maids dusting, and a footman or two hovered to give advice. Such a display seemed excessive to me, but it wasn’t yet any of my business how the prince ran his household. What was my business was my doleful siblings, who stood eyeing each other and me.
“This is nice,” Emilia said, “but—”
“Art . . .” Imogene moaned softly.
Cesario wasn’t a whiny boy, but he whined now. “Do we have to? Look at the pictures and the statues?”
“Don’t worry, the prince will be ‘along later,’ ” Imogene imitated Escalus’s superior tone, “ ‘to help you understand them.’ ”
The art tour stretched before us in excruciating boredom, and without Mamma’s diplomacy, we had no chance of escaping.
“Psst!” I heard. “Psst! Emilia!”
In unison, we looked around. Princess Isabella stood behind a heavy velvet curtain, beckoning to my youngest sister.
It took only a moment for us to realize Princess Isabella offered escape, and Emilia leaped toward her and vanished into the folds.
Cesario started to rush toward concealment, but Princess Isabella held up a hand. “Wait. You’re the boy. My brother will immediately realize you’re missing. You must stay until almost the end.”
Cesario sagged. “Noooo!”
Emilia stuck her head out. “You get to be the youngest. You get to be the boy. You get to do all the fun stuff. Balls up, kid!” She disappeared again.
Princess Isabella blew him a kiss, and she followed Emilia.
Cesario looked around at Katherina, Imogene, and me, and we nodded. “She’s right,” I told him.
He sagged and with dragging feet wandered toward me.
Prince Escalus stepped into the great walk and made a shooing gesture with his fingers. The servants vanished and my sisters scattered as if admiring the works of art; in fact, they had placed themselves in such a manner to make it difficult for him to realize we had lost a sibling. I pointed toward the ornate mosaic that covered part of one wall and projected my voice to fill the space. “You’re right, Cesario, youcansee the Moorish influence in the brightly colored tiles and elaborate design.”
The prince joined us. “Did you recognize the Moorish influence, Cesario?”
Cesario fixed his gaze firmly on the prince’s chin and lied like a trouper. “Uh-huh.”
“Do you know the two reasons we have a Moorish influence in Verona?” Prince Escalus asked in an instructional tone.
“Nuh-huh.”
