The Tragedy of Mirialdo Montague and Lucrezia Capuleti

serena_noin@yahoo.com

Author’s note: I have no pretense to retell the story of Romeo and Juliet by mimicking the play itself. I believe "The Bard" did a wonderful job, and far be it from me to mess with it. So I will attempt to retell the legend from which the play was born. Since there is no ‘official version’ of any story that is only transmitted orally, then I will not feel particularly bound to any of the details that we are familiar with through Shakespeare’s play.

**************** Act 1 Scene 1**************************

The beauty of Verona in the summer. Its narrow, windy streets. The buildings made of stone that had been there for longer than his own name had existed. The balconies from which blood-red geraniums cascaded. The smell of fresh-baked bread, mixed with the whiffs of rosemary and basil coming from Piazza delle Erbe. The market square, where every day the women of Verona gathered to buy vegetables from the local farmers. The colors. Of glorious vine-ripened tomatoes, and watermelon halves, and apricots like the scorching summer sun. Mixed with the bright green of the fresh and dried herbs. Verona’s vegetable market was remarkable for its colors year round. Grapes the color of gold and amethyst in the fall… ruby-red pomegranates in winter. But it was during the summer that it reached its peak.

And it was during the summer that he particularly enjoyed living there. He was mesmerized by the bright days… so different from the land he came from. From the endlessly long winters, and the brisk summers, and the stormy oceans he had grown up with. At first he had objected to the move. He still found Italian winters quite boring, compared to the fierce Scandinavian ones he was used to. But the summers… It had taken that little for him to fall in love. With the scents, and the colors, and the bustling life of Verona. With the dark-eyed Italian maidens sitting on their balconies, embroidering and chatting with each other, or selling fresh-cut flowers in the Piazza.

He would go there often, just to watch the people, despite his father’s disapproval. He would watch them come and go in small groups. Girls holding each other’s hands as they passed by, giggling and talking a mile a minute. Glancing at him, sometimes even turning around. He would wonder whether they were making comments about him. He could never quite make out their sentences. A few words, here and there, maybe, but it would be a while longer before he could understand the language.

Yet, despite the language barrier, he had never managed to get lost in Verona. He always seemed to know where he was. Even though he was quite intrigued with the idea of losing his sense of direction and having to wander around aimlessly for the rest of the day. Maybe even asking for directions… letting some young lady lead him back to the familiar Piazza. But it was practically impossible to get lost in Verona. No matter where you were, you could always find your way back to the Roman amphitheater, The Arena. It just towered above the houses. It was not fair.

Sometimes he wondered why his father could not understand. That there was nothing shameful in him disguising himself in ordinary clothes just so he could wander around undisturbed. Taking in the culture and the language and the identity of this city that one day he would be the lord of. Just like his father was now. Lord Montague, the Swede who had single-handedly led his mercenary army to victory against the nearby city of Mantova, then dethroned Verona’s ruling family. Quite the strategic master mind, his father. Winning Lord Capuleti’s trust, then turning against him once the immediate danger was removed.

He had always been told that the Capuleti family deserved its own misfortune. That the head of the dynasty was fundamentally a weak leader, with little political savvy and even poorer military skills. More interested in literature than in running his own domain. And no male heir, either. Just one daughter. In a word, doomed.

One day, he would be expected to take over. That’s why his father insisted that he undergo military training. He would have to be just as able as he was. Just as skilled in battle. Just as decisive when it came to commanding his people. And just as cynical, he thought. He wasn’t any of that, and often disapproved of his father’s tyrannical ways. Once he was lord, he would do things differently. He would actually make an effort to know his city and his subjects, for one thing. And he would speak their language fluently. He’d be like one of them, and understand their culture. Not some foreign invader who didn’t even bother learning a word of Italian.

The masked ball was to be held that night. He walked home, his hands in his pockets, conjuring up images of his mother nagging him to make more of an effort to pretend that he was enjoying himself. When everyone knew he had a very low tolerance for stuffy celebrations and other such nonsense. The kissing up, the pretending, the meaningless rituals… his parents just thrived on that. And what was the point of putting on a disguise if everyone was supposed to know who he was anyway? Silly. When they frowned on him if he actually dressed like someone else for a reason. And now they wanted him to dress like some… whatever… roman emperor… something or other, just for fun. Him, who anyone could spot from a mile away as being as Scandinavian-looking as they come. A Roman emperor with long, blonde hair and ice blue eyes… who’d ever seen anything like that?

************* Scene 2 ****************

"Lucrezia, are you sure this is a good idea?" a young woman with honey-colored hair gathered in two twists asked her friend as they stood in the darkness before the gates to the Montague palace.

"Of course it’s a good idea," the other young woman replied, "what better occasion than a masked ball? No one will have a clue who I am." Her dark blue eyes twinkled and her lips stretched in a mischievous smile as she tugged her friend along the perimeter of the palace, looking for the perfect spot to infiltrate.

"I don’t know about this." the long-haired girl repeated hesitantly, "If we get caught we’re as good as dead," she continued, trying to talk some sense into her dark-eyed friend. "Not to mention that IF you make it out alive and IF nobody recognizes us, we’ll still be dead once your uncle finds out!" she sentenced.

Lucrezia looked at her and mused, "Sally, relax… nobody’s gonna find out." Her dark eyes had spotted the perfect entrance. "Besides," she said absent-mindedly as she proceeded to examine the wall, "I just want to see him; just a quick peek. It’ll take no more than five minutes."

Sally still felt very uneasy about her friend’s plan to infiltrate the Montagues’ masked ball. "Why would you want to see him, anyway?" she asked.

"I just want to know what the pig who killed my father looks like," Lucrezia replied, her voice taking on a tone of repressed anger. "No reason," she then continued, almost melancholically, "other than I want to put a face to the man I hate…"

They had never let her get involved. Her father had never wanted for her to have anything to do with the unstable politics of Verona. And had died hoping for a male heir to take over; stating that is was too much to handle for a woman. But she had always known he did it out of love, in an effort to protect her. She loved her father very much. Upon learning of his death her mother had miscarried. So, in a way, it was as though the Swede had taken everything away from her at once. Her father, her home, her future, her unborn brother and her mother’s sanity. Now she had to live like a stranger in her own city, relying on her uncle’s generosity. Thank God he never got mixed up with politics and stuck to being a silk merchant, or he would have been dead too.

Sally knew all that. She had been with Lucrezia’s uncle’s family ever since she was born. And she had wanted to be her friend from the moment she saw her seek refuge in her uncle’s home. Fifteen years old, but so strong already. Her cheeks marked with tears, but a hardened expression in her eyes. She wasn’t going to cry in front of others. Supporting her mother with her arm, Lady Capuleti, who looked so pale, almost ethereal. Mourning her husband’s death, yet still beautiful. She looked like she was going to faint, and no doubt could not have kept on her feet if it hadn’t been for her daughter. She had felt for them right away, despite the difference in rank. And it did not take long before Lucrezia sought her as a friend and a confidante.

"Lucrezia, I just don’t want you to be in danger," she protested once more as her friend got ready to climb the wall.

Lucrezia turned around and gave her one reproachful look before stating, "Alessandra Po, I’m going in. Now, are you with me or are you against me?"

Sally felt herself shrink under her stare and could no longer object. She could only utter, "Just promise me you won’t do anything crazy, alright?" Lucrezia cocked her head and frowned, unsure of what her friend meant. "Promise me you won’t do anything to reveal who you are… like pulling a sword on someone… especially Lord Montague," Sally continued, her voice taking on a more decided tone.

Lucrezia backed up, surprised. "Sally, no, I told you… I just want to take a look at him. That’s all," she reassured her.

"Then say you promise," Sally replied.

Lucrezia smiled and took her friend’s hand. "I promise," she whispered.

"Cross your heart and hope to die?" Sally asked, her eyes searching her friend’s.

"Cross my heart and hope to die… well, not quite that," she joked. Then she turned around to face the wall, placed her hands securely on two protruding stones, and began to climb. Once she reached the top, she straddled the wall, looked back at her friend, and instructed, "I’ll make it quick. But if I’m not back in ten minutes, I want you to run home anyway. You know nothing of this, ok? Nothing."

She found herself in an isolated part of the Montagues’ garden. Just as she had planned. She circled around the palace. There it was. The ball. The colorful lights, the musicians playing on the porch in front of the main entrance. The couples dancing in the well-kept garden. Sumptuous dresses flowing and twirling. She instinctively placed a hand on her dagger as she took a few steps towards the crowd. "Soon," she thought, her eyes scanning for the Swede. "As soon as Sally’s gone…"

She found herself wandering aimlessly, waiting for the right time, making her way among the other guests. She could recognize most of them, even behind their lacy masks. She could remember them visiting that same palace when her father was still the master. They were part of his entourage. And she was probably ten, maybe eleven when she was allowed to catch her first glimpse of her parents’ formal dinners and balls. And now… She shook her head, despising everyone in there… "Traitors." They did nothing to prevent the Swede from taking her father’s place. And now they were dancing in his garden and praising his magnificence.

His garden. His home. His domain. Not her family’s any more. She owned nothing. Not even her identity, forced to pretend to be just a silk merchant’s apprentice. And a boy, at that. Luca. They would have never taken a woman seriously, so she had to. No, she chose to. So she would not live off her uncle. So she could learn all those things that women were not usually allowed to. Like bargaining with other merchants twice her age. Like running a business. Like riding horses. And fencing. That, she was very good at.

They would never recognize her like that. And she felt safe, sliding among them. Nameless. Among people that had seen her when she was just a baby. She was nothing like the shy girl they had known as little Miss Lucrezia Capuleti. She was no longer that young girl. Had chopped her long, raven-black hair a long time ago. Her wide, child-like dark blue eyes had grown disillusioned. She had become an adult the day her father died. And she had traded her embroidered damask gowns for men’s clothes. She adjusted the black lace mask that was shielding her eyes, then went and stood by the porch. Observing the dancing couples. Looking for a sign that would identify one as Lord and Lady Montague.

She found them very easy to spot. Felt her blood rush to her head as her eyes registered the features of the tall, bearded Swedish warrior. A mighty individual. Broad-shouldered, with hands that could snap the life out of a human being like it was no big deal. And probably did, several times. Fierce blue eyes, almost as fierce as the fiery-red colour of his long hair and beard. Almost Celtic-looking.

"Eccolo, il porcello," her lips let out. "There goes the pig." Unaware, as though she wasn’t in control of herself. Oblivious of the other guests standing nearby. Guests who could understand Italian. Suddenly she started shaking, and prayed that no one had overheard her whisper. "Not now. Let them not find me out now," she thought, and closed her eyes for a second. ‘After it’s done, I don’t care. But not before I kill him."

She took in a deep breath, then opened her eyes again. Another dancing couple was standing now in the spot that had previously been occupied by her target. Curtsying, then entwining their hands, stepping away, then close to each other. To the rhythm of the music and of the other dancing couples. They looked alike. Both with long, blond hair, paler than the moon itself. She overheard a comment about Miss Dorothy looking lovely that night, and how everyone expected Lord Montague to announce his son’s engagement to her. She shuddered at the thought of anyone being so unlucky as to having to marry the son of that brute. Probably just as brutish as he.

She did not realize that her eyes had been drawn astray by the dancing couple. The gentleman was dressed in a Roman emperor’s toga. His hair so long and pale, like she had never seen before. She blushed as a thought ran through her head. "What would it feel like to the touch?" Her eyes unable to let go. Even more so when he turned around and she saw his face. His gentle features. His slightly parted lips. Strands of his blonde hair cascading on his forehead from underneath the laurel crown. His eyes partly concealed, but she could see their icy blue colour. Lost. Oblivious of the beautiful maiden whose hands he kept holding. She, dancing in her white angel costume. White feathery wings and all. Yet he did not see her. He did not see anybody.

She lost sense of time. How long had she been watching him? She did not know. But she wanted to be sure Sally would be gone before she carried on her plan. So she might as well let herself linger on his beautiful features for a while longer. She felt silly. Being so taken by a man… a complete stranger… on the night when she would have to do something much more important than developing a crush on anyone. She was there to avenge her father and her unborn brother, not to fall in love. The reminder hurt like a slap in the face. "Lucrezia, what on earth are you thinking, you dimwit?" she scolded herself.

Yet he wouldn’t let go of her mind. It winced, then surrendered to the sight of him, unable to draw her eyes away from his face. "Just a little longer, then I’ll do it," she thought, her hand brushing against the dagger again, as though she needed to have a tangible reminder of her purpose. Suddenly her heart jumped to her throat. She felt her blood pound in her temples and her lips part in astonishment. He was looking back. He was looking at her. No, it must be her imagination… Yet… He kept dancing, but his eyes would follow her even when he had to turn his back to the porch. "No, this is crazy," she thought to herself, "He can’t… I’m disguised as a boy… and nobody knows I’m… And the maiden in the angel dress, so pretty…" She closed her eyes. Maybe when she opened them again she’d be thinking straight. And there would be some other couple standing in their place.

She realized it a while later. That she was running. Must have turned her back around and fled the scene. Shoved whoever got in her way, and retreated to the back of the Montagues’ garden. The silent part. No lights. No music. No guests. Just trees. And darkness. But she wasn’t scared. In fact, she felt safer there than in the middle of the crowd. Her garden. Once upon a time, when her father was still alive. When she was still a child. She scanned through the darkness to find the spot where her swing used to be. A long time ago. Been forever. Maybe it wasn’t even there anymore… why should it still be there? So much had changed. And she was now an intruder. A trespasser in her own past life.

But it was still there. She felt a knot in her throat as she walked towards it. She stood there, underneath the chestnut tree, hesitant. Her hand gripping the rope. Then she sat down. Silly. She wasn’t a child any more. Hadn’t been for a long time. Her knees raised. She was a lot shorter, back then. She took a deep breath, and tilted her head upwards. Stared at the sky through the branches. The dark sky. The stars just as bright as they had always been. Oblivious of her. She stretched her arms, and her body arched backwards. She had always liked to look at the sky like that. It felt like she wasn’t even on earth any more. Like she was flying. She swallowed hard as the thought of her father flashed through her mind again. She closed her eyes and let the swing rock gently. "Soon," she thought.

She lifted herself up again and placed her elbows on her laps. Resting her forehead on her hands, clasped together. The verses of a song spinning through her head like a pinwheel. She found herself humming that vaguely familiar song. "C’era una volta la mia vita… c’era una volta la mia casa… c’era una volta e voglio che sia ancora." Once upon a time, my life. Once upon a time, my home. Once upon a time, and I want it to be again. "It’s time," she thought, "Now."

She raised her eyes, ready to accomplish what had led her to the Montagues’ palace in the first place. She gasped and almost fell off the swing as her eyes registered the tall, elegant figure of the young man in the roman emperor’s toga. Standing right in front of her. Did he know who she was? Was he there to kill her before she could hurt Lord Montague? She looked at him, trying to see the expression on his face, despite the darkness. Her heart pounding and her hands quivering.

A smile. He was smiling. Not smirking in a threatening way… A gentle smile, as though he could see through her fear. As though he did not feel threatened by her. "I don’t blame you for running," he spoke first. "I don’t like balls, either… the noise, the crowd, the pretending…" He offered his hand to her. She could not make sense of his strange comment, but instinctively placed her hand on his and let him help her up. Her head started spinning as she realized that he wasn’t letting go. He kept holding it, so gently. And she had no desire to pull back.

"Why did you disguise yourself as a man?" he asked, his eyes gazing upon her face.

She was speechless. Could only utter, "I… How could you tell?"

His smile grew wider as he clumsily looked away for a second. "Your lips betray you, and definitely your voice" he mumbled, then raised his hand, still holding hers, and observed her long, slender fingers. "Your hands, too," he continued, "too elegant to belong to a man." His fingers slowly trailing along hers. His eyes shifting back to her face, paralyzing her every muscle. "And your eyes," he whispered, as he placed his hands on her temples and slowly lifted the black lace mask from her face. He dropped it to the ground. Her eyes followed its twirling fall, like a feather. Unable to meet his gaze. Too intense for words.

"Would you dance with me?" he asked her as he reached for her hand again. She snapped back and looked up at him, her eyes wide with incredulity. She tugged on her arm to loosen herself from him. "Just this once…" he whispered softly, his voice so enticing… his arm following her movement, yet not letting go of her. "Would you please do me the honor of dancing with me?" he repeated, moving closer to her. She took a deep breath and let him lead her. She felt his arm slide around her waist as they walked away from the tree. Together. On the grass, right under the moon. "I hope you don’t mind if we dance here, instead of in the middle of the crowd," he said. She shook her head, then curtsied and placed her palm against his.

She had no clue what she was doing or why. She had to complete her plan; she couldn’t afford to be swayed. Not even by this stranger, handsome as a dream. His hands leading her, as they danced in the garden, the music far off in the distance. So far that they could barely hear it, over the noise of the guests. But it didn’t matter. They could have danced all night without any music at all. The mission… her own mission, her secret. God, why did it have to be so hard, she thought. "Did you make me meet him so I wouldn’t?" she questioned him in her head. "So I would not stain my hands with another man’s blood?" He stopped. Abruptly.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked. She yelped in surprise. Did he have any clue what she was thinking? "You look… absent," he commented. He let go of her, his eyes scrutinizing her face. "Would you like me to leave?" he whispered, with concern in his voice. She ran a hand on her forehead and through her hair. Then the tail of her eyes caught sight of a glimmer, coming from her waist. The dagger’s handle. The mission. Dad. She closed her eyes and almost screamed as the image of Lord Montague, his throat slit, his blood gushing all over her hands, came before her. "I can’t…" she cried out, so low that he did not hear and had to ask her to repeat. His arm supporting her as her body started quivering, her knees about to give way.

"No," she said, as she raised her eyes to his face, "let’s not stop just yet." He cocked his head and smiled, then proceeded to slide his arm around her waist again. His other hand holding hers. She felt him pull her closer, his chest almost touching hers. His fingers trailing up her backbone, so gently that her skin tingled underneath her clothes. Her hand burning inside his… her cheeks on fire every time she felt his breath on them. "Why now? Why did you make me fall in love now?" she kept questioning God, her head spinning and her heart racing. "Because he’s the one," she answered her own question, "because he won’t let me do anything stupid tonight." His shoulder so close to her face. "Then I should just let him sway me?" The thought so tempting. Slowly, almost imperceptibly she moved closer to him. Her head tilting slightly until her forehead brushed against the fabric. Her heart jumped to her throat. He closed his arm around her tighter, as though he had wanted her to. She felt her muscles relax as her cheek rested against him, his long hair tickling her face and her neck.

He lowered his face on hers until his chin touched her hair. Who was she? He had never seen her before, he knew that. Or he would have remembered for sure… someone so strikingly, unconventionally… intensely beautiful. Her eyes, the colour of the stormy Swedish ocean he had left behind. And her hair like the long winter’s nights without stars. So dark and so cold, and yet so mesmerizing to him. But her skin… soft, warm amber… sun. He stared at her, his eyes losing themselves in her neck, so elegantly bent. Her collarbone, barely peeking through her masculine outfit… pure perfection. Why hadn’t he met her before? Why hadn’t they been introduced? Before anyone started all that ado about how he was to marry his cousin. Poor Dorothy, who, to him, had neither her beauty, nor her grace…

"Will you tell me your name?" he asked, hesitantly. He wanted to know all about her. He wanted to introduce her to his parents as the woman he had chosen for a bride, if she would have him. But she pulled back and bit her lips instead. Staring at the ground, in silence. She would not. He felt a sharp pain in his rib cage as he breathed in. She was not feeling the same. She did not feel it. But how could she not have known it, right from the first moment their hands touched, that they were made for each other?

"I have to go," she said instead. "I’m sorry…" Almost as if she knew she was breaking his heart. "Don’t apologize, just stay," he would have wanted to say. Stay tonight, tomorrow, forever. Be my days and my nights till I die. But her hand had already slipped away.

"Master," a servant called to him, just as he was about to reach out for her again, "His majesty your father requests your presence, my lord." He suddenly felt like replying that his father could damn well wait, and that next time his servants interrupted him, he would ensure that their heads did not remain attached to their necks for much longer. But he chose instead to ignore the young boy as soon as he caught sight of the expression in Lucrezia’s eyes. Horrified. She had been dancing in the arms of her nemesis. How cruelly ironic, that she went there to avenge her father, and ended up falling in love with her enemy’s heir. How shameful, that she would insult her father’s memory in such a way.

She curtsied to him, as any good subject would, then begged for forgiveness for having to leave immediately. He took a step towards her, worried that he might have offended her, tainted her with his closeness. He asked her for her name again.

"I am but a commoner," was her only answer. He did not care whether she was one of the flower girls at the vegetable market, his gentle voice protested as he took another step in her direction. "I have to go. I’m sorry, my lord," she replied.

He watched her turn around and walk away briskly. "Wait… when shall I see you again?" he asked.

She stopped short, and turned around to meet his eyes one last time. "Never," she said, then started running.

Ran all the way home, as though the wind was pushing her along. Ran until she was so tired that it hurt to breathe. Across the dark lanes, along the river, and into the part of Verona where he would not dare following her. The un-aristocratic part, where tradesmen lived. She had heard steps after her for a while. Worried that he may have recognized her. That he may have called his guards upon her. To find her. And bring her back to face the wrath of his father. She, the last Capuleti. He would not spare her. She did not turn around to check that she had lost them, but ran. As fast as she could. Did not stop until she got in front of her uncle’s house. The gate. That was when she realized she was out of danger. She was alone.

If only she had turned around before, she would have seen that it was him following her. Him alone. At first he had felt self-conscious, going out in his ridiculous costume. Had felt like a maniac, stalking the woman who had just rejected him… But he had seen it in her eyes as they were dancing, that she had wanted to be with him just as much as he wanted to be with her. She must have felt it, too. It was there, and it was real. So he had to find her. He wouldn’t let her disappear just as she had come, like some sort of vision. She needed to know that she was running away with his life still clinging to her fingertips.

****************** Scene 3 *****************

Lost. He had no clue where he was. What part of the city he was in. Too dark to find any familiar landmarks. Too dark to even see the Arena towering over the houses. He could be anywhere, and going in circles. How ridiculous, he thought, lost in the middle of a city that he should have known like the back of his own hand by now. Lost like an idiot, and wearing a dumb roman emperor’s toga, to top it all off. If anyone saw him in that state, he would be whipped off to the asylum faster than he could say, "But I’m Mirialdo Montague." In fact, that would make things even worse. Especially considering his father would probably leave him in there, since he missed the announcement of his own engagement to run after a beautiful intruder.

He smirked, trying to find a funny side to his own misfortune. He couldn’t believe he had just got himself into such an embarrassing situation… because of a pair of dark eyes. He looked up and read the sign on top a shop’s locked door. He could make out a few words despite the darkness and the language. A merchant of fine fabrics. Yet he did not recognize the sign as something that he would have seen during his tours of the city. He resolved to sit down on the steps and wait for the dawn to come. Then he would no doubt find himself in familiar surroundings and end up feeling twice as stupid. But at least he’d find his way home. If he could at least know her name, he would have been happy with that. With falling asleep saying it, then waking up in the morning and surveying the whole city to find her.

He looked up at the gate beside the shop’s door. The entrance to the shop owner’s house. A small internal courtyard, inside which he could hear a drinking fountain trickle. He suddenly remembered how thirsty he was. He convinced himself that there would be no harm if he just climbed over to get a drink of water. Then he’d be out of there, and no one would even know. No harm at all. A weird feeling in his chest overcame him as he reached the other side and realized that he was trespassing on someone else’s property, just like the mysterious dark-eyed maiden had on his. He walked to the fountain in the center of the courtyard, careful not to make any noise that would wake up the household, then dipped his hands in the cold water, and drank from them. He closed his eyes for a second. What if this was her house, he thought. He looked up at all the windows, trying to imagine which one would be hers. The night was so beautiful. The stars looked even closer from inside that small courtyard. And he would have wanted her to appear at one of those windows to look at the stars with him.

Suddenly, a light flickering behind one of the glass panes startled him. He choked, almost sputtering the water out, and went to hide right under a balcony on that same side, his back flat against the wall, his breath measured, as to not make the least sound. He heard the French door on the balcony open, and prayed that no one had seen him. "Otherwise, Bedlam, here I come," he thought, feeling self-conscious about the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest. Two female voices, whispering to each other. Young women talking fast, as though there was not enough time before the morning came. Talking of danger, and a secret mission, and a masked ball. Those were the few words he could make out. He suddenly felt the butterflies in his stomach. He couldn’t explain why or how, but he was sure it was her voice. The beautiful intruder with dark blue eyes. Yet he couldn’t see her without exposing himself, too. He cursed himself for not being fluent in Italian just yet, and listened for more.

Concentrating on each sound. Picking the words apart. If he tried real hard, he could actually make sense of the general meaning of their sentences. A stranger, with long hair, as pale as the moon, and eyes the colour of an icy winter’s sky. As handsome as a dream, and as kind as an angel. He blushed, wondering whether all Italian girls fantasized about blond-haired princes. And, most of all, whether she did. A stranger who had taken her hand and asked her to dance. Far away from everyone. Danced with no music, just following his steps. His heart jumped to his throat. He had danced without music that same night. A dream in his arms. Following his dream until he was lost. Or until he found her again in that courtyard?

Was it really she? Was she talking about him? He could hear the other young woman gasp as her friend uttered the words, ‘vendicare mio padre.’ ‘Avenge my father’ "But you promised me you wouldn’t put yourself in danger," she protested. The woman telling the story hushed her. "Sally, that’s not even it, you see?" she continued. "I didn’t because he kept me from it. I would have if he hadn’t. And I would have to live with myself, knowing I became a murderer, just like the man I wanted dead."

His whole world started spinning and he almost lost his balance as he heard her break down, her voice quivering, fighting the lump in her throat. "God, Sally, he… saved me from myself and he doesn’t even know it, and… I so want to see him again and tell him… but how do I let him know that I’m supposed to hate him instead, just because of what his father did? What does he have to do with that? It’s not his fault that he’s a Montague. Sally, what do I do now? I can’t help this, I… love him, even in spite of who he is." Her voice broken by the tears. The words of comfort of her friend. She had said his name. It was she. The dark-eyed maiden who had danced with him without music. It was she, and she loved him back.

He would have wanted to show himself to her. Come out in the open and tell her that if it was his name she hated, he would have happily done away with it, just so she could love him with no guilt. He would have wanted to see her face, her eyes red with tears for the love of him. He would have wanted to climb on the balcony and kiss them away from her cheeks. Taste the salt on his lips. Then taste her lips for the first time… and ask her to be with him from that day forward.

But he heard her friend Sally lead her inside, and close the French door behind her. He took a deep breath and resolved to go back the following day. Now that he knew where she lived. Besides, the sky was starting to lighten up. Soon it would be dawn. He was pretty sure he could find his way back home… and still be able to return there in the morning without getting lost. As he walked home, carefully memorizing every turn, every street name, every sign he saw, he remembered that he still didn’t know her name. To him, she was still ‘the maiden with dark blue eyes’, or, as he now could say, ‘the one he loved’. And who loved him back. He instinctively smiled at that happy thought. He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with her name on his lips just yet… but the morning would come soon. He had to be patient, because he would see her again before noon.

********************* Act 2 Scene 1 ********************

His cousin and best friend Treize could tell right away that something was different about him. It could very well have been his sleep-deprived eyes when he joined the rest of the family for breakfast. But Treize knew better. There was something about him… being cheerful in the morning. Him, who had never been a morning person, and who would be a complete grouch until about noon. Treize looked at him and could not wrap his head around the sudden change. He almost fell off the chair upon hearing his friend sigh some Italian verses as he helped himself to another cup of tea.

"Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona…" None other than Dante himself. "Do you know what that means, Treize?" he asked, cheerfully. He did, but he wanted to know Mirialdo’s translation of it. Maybe then he would know what was going on with him. "It means, my friend, that if you truly love someone, your love will win her over eventually," he continued. A dreamy expression on his face as he absent-mindedly dumped an inordinate number of teaspoons of sugar in the cup, then proceeded to stir. "Love conquers all," he stated, then took a sip of his tea. As soon as his tongue registered the overly sweet taste, he choked and nearly spit it across the room then proceeded to blush to a deep shade of purplish-red as he felt everyone’s eyes shifting on him.

He could tell his father was not impressed. He looked downright furious, and no doubt would make himself heard as soon as everybody else was out of sight. He hadn’t been able to announce his son’s engagement, the primary reason for throwing the damn ball in the first place. He had disappeared on him, and disobeyed his order to present himself so the announcement could be made.

He suddenly took notice that his cousin Dorothy had not shown up for breakfast, and could not help feel sorry for her. But how could she want to marry him, if they both knew they were not in love? And never will be, for that matter. He cared about her a lot. She was his best friend’s baby sister, and they had grown up playing together. But he loved someone else. And would never feel that way about her. And she deserved to marry someone who would.

"So what happened to you last night?" his cousin interrupted his thoughts. He suddenly felt as though there was something that he just could not share with his best friend. "Come on, Mirialdo, I think I have a pretty good idea," Treize teased, talking low as he took him aside. "First you disappear gods know where, then my sister runs to her room with the excuse of a terrible headache… Then you come down for breakfast reciting verses about love, while she’s too tired to make it out of bed… you two did not decide that you couldn’t wait for the wedding night, right?"

He gulped and took a step back, only to find himself against the wall. "No nononono… God, no, Treize, I wouldn’t dare… tainting your sister’s honor," he clumsily defended himself.

"Good," Treize commented as he walked away, "glad you know better than to disrespect her or hurt her in any way."

He let out a deep sigh. He definitely could not tell him about the dark-eyed maiden. "Oh, by the way Mirialdo," Treize casually added as he turned around, "I can’t seem to remember how that verse ended… Was it something like, ‘Amor condusse noi a dura morte’?"

He felt a pang in his chest at the bad omen that his cousin had just given him. "Love led us to cruel death…" He would have to be very careful… His friend, for one thing, would not support his choice to marry someone other than Dorothy. And would do everything in his power to prevent it. As his father would. He would have to not say anything about her to anyone just yet. Or she would be in danger, too. But he had to go back and see her. He’d take his father’s punishment in silence, and then he’d sneak out to see her. And it would set everything right. The punishment meant nothing.

***************** Scene 2 **********************

She had never been so thankful for Sally’s presence. She was the only one who knew. And she hadn’t judged her at all. No matter how bad it sounded. No matter how deeply she must have disappointed her. She could not afford to forget who she was. Lucrezia Capuleti could not fall in love with a Montague. Yet she had. And Sally had stayed up all night, in her room, to listen to her and comfort her and tell her that she’d be all right, she just needed time. To forget about him. She was so wise. But somehow Lucrezia doubted that she had seen right this time. Forget him… where to even start, when all she could think of was him? And how they had danced together, and how it had felt so right… so natural for them to belong together. And the slap in the face of hearing his name. And the even more painful shock of realizing she still craved to see him. Be with him. Forget about his name and hers.

Thank God there was work. And a lot of it, at that. She would keep herself busy until she was too tired to think of him. Her uncle had been surprised at her sudden need to reorganize the whole store. Move things around, lift rolls of fabric that weighed almost as much as she did, take the inventory count twelve times in that morning… It had taken him a while to get used to the idea of having a female apprentice, but his niece had proven herself over and over again. And he had come to think of it as natural, in the end. Even her disguise as a young boy. But she was sure acting weird that morning…

The store had been fairly quiet, in the aftermath of Lord Montague’s masked ball. And he expected it to be that way for the rest of the day. He snapped up from the stool that he was perched on as he heard the door open. A young man in elegantly understated clothing walked in and politely greeted the shop owner with a smile. He greeted back and asked the gentleman how he could be of service to him.

"I need to buy… uh… let’s see… ah, fabric… of some kind… for a gown! That’s what you sell, right?" the young man replied, a sheepish smile on his face. The shop owner, realizing the young man must be very wealthy, proceeded to show him to the most expensive rolls of silk and damask in the store. He then started his sales pitch, praising the gentleman’s excellent taste and his good eye for spotting the most refined fabrics right away. He was going to make sure he juiced him like a lemon… and he knew out of experience that a little bit of flattery always did the job with noblemen. He then called his apprentice, who was in the back reorganizing the storage area for the third time that morning. "Luca, did you change place of the yardstick?" he called.

Lucrezia, in her usual boy’s outfit, walked out from the back of the store, explaining to her uncle where the new location was according to the new, improved store layout. Her words died in her throat as soon as her eyes settled on the patron’s face. She gasped and her heart almost jumped out of her ribcage as she recognized him… the son of Lord Montague… the enemy… her beloved… enemy. She felt her knees go weak and had to touch the wall with one hand in order not to fall over. How had he found her? And had he even intended to, or was it just a random coincidence?

"Good day," he greeted her with a glowing smile. He felt himself blush, and his heart race as his eyes were drawn to hers. How was he going to explain that now? It didn’t matter; he just wanted to see her. "I… uh… was wondering if you could show me…" he mumbled hesitantly, "I am looking for… um…"

"Any particular kind of fabric?" she suggested, sensing that his discomfort matched hers.

He found himself instinctively walking towards her, ignoring the elderly storeowner, who still would not let up his sales pitch. She felt stupid for smiling at him, but could not help it. They stood face-to-face, their hands wanting to touch. Both blushing and feeling the storeowner’s curious stare on them. "I will leave you in the capable hands of my nephew Luca," the elderly merchant finally said, walking away, realizing that his apprentice probably had better chances of squeezing money out of the rich customer than he did. Lucrezia would make a fine merchant, one day, he thought. Too bad she was a girl.

As soon as they were alone, he reached for her hand from across the counter. She gasped and took a step back, not knowing what to expect from him.

"You never told me your name," he said hesitantly, unable to raise his eyes to her.

"I… is there anything in particular that you are looking for, sir?" she replied, trying to sound professional.

"I came to find you," he mumbled, "you left without a trace last night and… I wanted to see you again." His eyes met hers for a second before he lowered them again. Too blue, too intense, when he needed to think straight. Not sound like a pathetic love-struck sissy. She would never take him seriously that way.

"So what is your real name?" He finally said, trying to sound confident. "No, let me see if I can guess it," he continued, still not attempting to look at her, yet not letting go of her hand. "Your uncle called you Luca, which means your real name is… maybe… Lucia?" He searched for a clue on her face, then continued, "No… it’s something else, right? Luciana… Lucilla… Laura… no? Wait, don’t tell me just yet… Lucrezia?"

She yelped and placed a hand on her mouth, as though she had just revealed her own secret.

"That’s it… it’s Lucrezia, right?" he hesitated for a second upon seeing her reaction. She would not answer. "Well, for what it’s worth coming from a complete stranger like me," he muttered, "I think it’s a beautiful name. Fit for a princess." He smiled sheepishly and looked up. He could feel her hand tremble inside his.

"May I ask why Your Majesty came to look for me?" she inquired, her voice shaky. "Because you did something to me last night," he replied, his eyes now gazing into hers intensely. She paled and ran her free hand through her hair nervously, thinking he was about to accuse her of being a witch of some sort, and cursing herself for ever having the dumb idea to infiltrate that ball. Now she was probably going to roast tied to a stake on the main square.

"I… haven’t been able to stop thinking about you," he continued, looking very confused. "Oh, this is just great," she thought to herself, ready to panic, "Now he’s gonna accuse me of casting a spell to seduce him… the heir to the throne, so that a Capuleti can sit on it again…Why-oh-why didn’t I just go to bed last night?"

She gasped again as she felt his fingers brush on her cheek. "I… wish you wouldn’t be so scared of me," he said softly. Her face flushed at the contact of his warm hand. His fingers were touching her skin tentatively. "I just wanted to see you again… because I would like it if you let me know you better…" She could not bring herself to step back and break the contact with him. She just looked up at him, not knowing whether she could believe him, yet wanting to more than anything. "Would it offend you if I asked permission to come see you again?" She could not make sense of why he, who was royalty, was treating her like she was still a princess… and like he was the commoner asking to be granted a privilege.

She did not even realize that her lips were speaking for her already. "No… I… would be honored if you did, Your Highness." Even before her brain could register her own words, her eyes saw his lips open up in a smile so warm that she could not help but smile back.

"Then please call me Mirialdo," he replied cheerfully, "because from now on we shall be friends… if that’s alright with you, that is." Did he have any idea of the effect he had on her? And what would he do once he found out who she really was? Or would she ever tell him, at all? It didn’t matter. Not now. Not when his hands were entwined with hers. And his face so close to hers that she could hear him breathe in and out.

He would have wanted to pull her even closer… until their lips touched. Instead, he resolved to ask her if she would see him that same evening. "I usually close the store at six," was all that she replied, breaking free from him, then turning around to move a heavy roll of damask cloth onto a shelf. He suddenly felt a rush to his head as he realized that she had accepted. He instinctively called her name and, when she turned around, a glowing smile was on her face.

"Have you found what you were looking for, sir?" Lucrezia’s uncle re-entered from the back of the store.

"I certainly have, sir," he replied, exchanging a brief glance with Lucrezia, who blushed immediately. "I have already placed my order with your apprentice for twelve meters of that…" he said gleefully, pointing at a roll of dark blue brocade, which also happened to be one of the most expensive fabrics in the store.

"That?" Lucrezia repeated, paling at the thought of how much it would cost him. Her uncle rubbed his hands enthusiastically and praised his impeccable taste again as he drew up the bill. As he counted the coins, Mirialdo kept smiling and exchanging glances with Lucrezia to reassure her that it was really all right.

He did not mind walking home with twelve meters of something that had the colour of her eyes. What he would do with it he had no clue. He figured he could have the tailor make a gown for Dorothy, hoping it could ease her disappointment… and maybe something for his mother. Even though that was really Lucrezia’s colour… it would look stunning on her, but would probably make his mother and cousin look even paler and plainer in comparison. Regardless, it got him a very good excuse to see her again. He adjusted his grip on the heavy roll and repressed the urge to break into song as he proceeded to walk back home. Though the red marks on his back would still hurt for a while, his father’s punishment had no place in his thoughts now.

***************** Scene 3 ********************

Her day flew by, faster than her mind could process. She had barely taken notice of her uncle’s offer to take her to Venice with him next time he needed to purchase his inventory. Which left Sally utterly speechless, considering how many times Lucrezia had badgered her uncle to do just that, and how he had always replied that she was not yet cunning or experienced enough to deal with Venice’s cut-throat silk market. On any other day she would have jumped for joy and planted a resounding kiss on her uncle’s cheek, not to mention that she would have spent the rest of the day talking incessantly of all the things that she would see and do over there. She had often told Sally how much that would mean to her. But she had barely reacted. True, she had thanked her uncle several times for the recognition, but for the most part she had been in a very silent, mysterious mood all afternoon. She would occasionally hum a tune while sewing or stashing merchandise on the shelves, and Sally couldn’t help noticing how her head would snap up at each time that the church’s bells chimed to announce that another hour had gone by. The closer to six o’ clock, the more nervous she looked. And the more she insisted that her uncle leave her to take care of the store so he could get some rest. She could handle closing. She did it all the time. Sally knew that her friend’s strange behavior somehow had to do with the previous night’s ball. And with Lord Montague’s son. But she dreaded the thought. After all, there was no telling how he would react to finding out that the last heir to the Capuleti family was still alive. She just hoped that he would never cross paths with Lucrezia again, but had a feeling it was too late for that.

When she saw her again, at the dinner table, which she was inexplicably late for, she knew it was time for them to have another heart-to-heart talk. She was the only one who knew about the night before, and as far as she could tell, she was the only one who could talk some sense into her.

Lucrezia didn’t need to tell Sally that she had seen him again. She had sensed that already. Just as she had sensed that forgetting him and going on living life as though it had never happened was not an option for her friend. "Was it when you closed the store?" Sally asked her as soon as they were alone.

Lucrezia kept looking away, very much aware of her friend’s disapproval. "No. That was before… around noon. He came to the store to find me…"

Sally tried really hard to keep her voice down. "So your uncle has seen him? Oh, man, I… I… can’t believe you did that! What were you thinking? Oh, jeez, so now he knows where you live… this is bad. Very bad. Suppose he finds out who you really are…"

"I was going to tell him tonight," Lucrezia interrupted, her eyes now looking up at Sally. Sad, for some reason.

"What? Have you gone completely insane? You didn’t, right? Oh, wait… what do you mean by ‘tonight’?" she inquired, still just as nervous.

"That I would have if he had come. Like he said he would, around closing time. Please don’t look at me like that… I know it’s stupid, but… yes, I agreed to meet him. Except he didn’t show up."

Sally didn’t know what to say. She should have been relieved that she hadn’t had a chance to tell him. Or panicking at the thought that he’d already found out and that his guards may show up in the middle of the night. But her friend was in pain. And she knew why. And her instincts told her to hug her and tell her it didn’t mean anything, that he was probably held back at the palace, and that he would come and see her the next day.

***************** Act 4 Scene 1 ********************

She sat by the counter, sewing. Another slow day. Except for the pile of dresses that needed alterations and various little repairs. "No wonder," she mumbled as her finger pushed the needle through the fabric, "they get the cheapest cloth and expect it to last for ever…" Amazing how life had seemed so beautiful and unpredictable just the day before, and now… it was back to the same old drudgery. And the saddest thing was, it was probably better that way. How could she even think that anyone could… when she looked like a boy… much less someone as dazzling as Mirialdo Montague… he had everything going for him… Including a whole city to inherit and a beautiful cousin to marry.

Her ears vaguely registered the sound of the door opening. She shuddered at the prospect of having to act cheerful and talkative to any customer at all, and kept on sewing, hoping her uncle would be back from his errands soon enough to take over. "Good day, Lucrezia!" a young masculine voice resounded. Her head snapped up at hearing her real name. None of her customers knew, except… She gasped and almost fell off her stool as her eyes registered Mirialdo’s face. A sharp pain shot up from her index finger. She instinctively brought her pricked, bleeding finger to her lips, silently cursing needles and sewing in general.

He immediately apologized for startling her and asked whether she was all right. She looked up at him, eyes wide in astonishment, not knowing what to say. He gently took her wrist, then his fingers trailed up her hand, as he observed the small wound that he had just caused. "It’s nothing… really… happens all the time," Lucrezia fumbled nervously, "see? It’s not even bleeding any more…" Her words died in her throat as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it softly, his ice-blue eyes gazing upon hers.

"I’m sorry I couldn’t come last night," he then said, leaning over the counter to bring his face closer to hers, "Are you mad at me?" She jerked her hand away from his grip, took a step back, and then tried to summon her most believable ‘cold and indifferent’ stare.

"No. Not one bit, sir."

"…Sir?" he repeated, then mumbled to himself, "Hmm… this is worse than I thought," realizing that she must be really upset, if she refused to call him by his first name. "Better than Your Majesty, though," he figured, as a weird feeling overcame his chest. She was mad… it could only mean that she cared. And that she had probably waited for him.

"I was being followed," he explained, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Didn’t want to put you in danger… so I had to turn around and go back." Her eyes were still looking elsewhere.

"Then why are you here now? Nobody followed you this time?" Her voice challenging him, trying to sound detached, yet betraying her emotions. She was not going to let him lead her by the nose, prince or not. He knew that, and was secretly glad that she cared enough to test his story and stay mad for a while.

"Just a young servant, Quatre… but I lost him in the Piazza…" he commented. "I’m sorry I can’t stay long… but I had to see you and apologize for not coming," he continued, his eyes not letting go of her.

She raised hers to meet his gaze. "I waited for you last night…" she said softly, a touch of reproach still in her voice.

"I know," he replied, leaning closer, "and I’m very sorry. Can you meet me tonight?"

Her heart started racing. "Tonight?" she repeated, mechanically.

"Yes, and I promise you I’ll come, though the devil himself should stand in the way," he added, emphatically.

"I believe you," she simply replied, looking away.

"Then can you meet me at midnight, inside the church of Santa Chiara?" he asked.

"At midnight?" she objected, hesitantly.

He looked down, his hands reaching out for hers again. "I know it’s late… and if you don’t want to I’ll understand… but I can’t be sure that nobody will follow me until then." "I’ll be there," she stated, a tone of determination in her voice. Like a promise to him. "Now go, before they find you." He felt her hands squeeze his fingers, and resolved to do what he had contemplated doing during their whole conversation. He leaned closer and let his lips brush against her cheek, then closed his eyes and kissed the warm softness of her skin. Before saying goodbye to her again. At least until that night.

As he was about to exit the store, she called to him. "Mirialdo…" He still could not get over how beautiful her voice sounded when she was saying his name. "Promise me you’ll be safe," she said in one breath, briskly.

"I promise, Lucrezia," he replied, and walked out into the scorching summer sun.

******************* Scene 2 *****************

Nobody knew she had sneaked out. Not even Sally… well, no, that wasn’t exactly true. She hadn’t been able to get through the day without telling her that she had seen right, that he had been held back. He had come, just like she had said he would. What she did not tell her was that they were going to meet that night, but she could have sworn she heard footsteps just as she walked past Sally’s door. And that a light flickered, right by her window, when she looked up at it from the courtyard, right before carefully opening the squeaky old gate. As she walked towards the church, feeling the cool breeze on her face, she resolved that next time she would climb instead.

Just as she pushed the heavy wooden door open and slid herself inside, screening her eyes as they adjusted to the light of the candles, she could not help wondering if what she was about to do was like signing her own death sentence. After all he was the archenemy of her family. And she was all that was left of it. She and her sick mother, who was just a shadow of herself and couldn’t even recognize her some days. She suddenly felt a pang in her chest, realizing she was probably endangering her mother’s life as well. And Sally’s and her uncle’s, possibly… for hiding them all this time. She closed her eyes and contemplated walking back home… and telling him never to come by again, should he come the following morning.

Her heart jumped to her throat as she felt him place a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, jeez, I’m sorry… I keep startling you," he apologized, then smiled at her. She turned to face him, and suddenly felt ashamed of herself for even thinking of the possibility that he may harm her. Whatever his father may be, Mirialdo was the opposite. He deserved to know. She would not keep on pretending.

"I am so glad you came," he spoke first.

"I gave you my word that I would," she replied, then added a mocking "whatever a merchant’s word is worth…" He chuckled softly, then tentatively slid his arm around her shoulder. They started walking down towards the altar, a weird, dizzying feeling in their lungs as they breathed in the scent of incense. Both their hearts racing, as she guessed by the way his hand quivered when it touched the tip of her shoulder. And yet nothing ever felt more right than to be there.

"I was actually regarding it as the word of a princess," he finally uttered, after an endless moment of silence.

She stopped abruptly and looked up at him, her face suddenly taking on a serious expression. "Mirialdo, there’s something I never told you about myself," she started.

He cocked his head and smiled at her. "You haven’t really told me anything about yourself," he replied, "just as I haven’t told you much about myself. But that’s why I wanted to see you alone." He stood in front of her and took her hands.

She took in a deep breath. "Mirialdo, you may not like what you find out…" she warned. "Just like you when you found out I was a Montague," he added.

How did he know? She glanced at him quizzically.

"I was there when you told Sally about me," he explained, unable to return her glance. "Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mean to stalk you, I just… ah, never mind what I was doing there… on second thoughts, it probably was kind of crazy of me to follow you like that and then get lost…"

"It was you then? The steps I kept hearing after me," she inquired. He smiled sheepishly and apologized, "Um, well… yeah… sorry… Well, I’m surprised no rumors are going around about a nutcase in a roman emperor’s toga running around Verona in the middle of the night!" She found herself wanting to resent him, yet unable to. In fact, she could not help smiling at the whole mental picture of him, lost and embarrassed about his absurd costume, wandering around aimlessly.

"But how did you," she began, then stopped, blushing slightly.

"End up in your courtyard? I wish I had a clue," he commented candidly, "I just sneaked in to get a drink of water, that’s all… before trying to figure out my way home… Next thing I knew, I recognized your voice coming from the balcony. You were talking about me…" Her head started spinning and her cheeks blushed furiously, as she felt completely exposed.

"Then you must have heard me…"

"When you told Sally you loved me, even though you were supposed to hate my name."

She turned her back to him and lit a candle. She knelt down and closed her eyes, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. If her father could see her now, from wherever he was, would he ever forgive her?

He stood and watched her silent prayer in awe, knowing she must be feeling as though she was betraying every one of her beliefs. Then, as she rose, he reached for her wrist, took in a deep breath, and confessed to her what she must already know. "Why do you think I followed you," he asked her. She would not look up at him. "What do you think possessed me to sprint after you and not care about my father, or the ball, and much less my silly costume?" He touched his fingers to her chin and gently lifted it up so he could see her eyes. "Love made me do it… as silly as it may sound… I loved you already, Lucrezia. Even before knowing who you were."

She struggled to break free, but he wouldn’t let go of her wrist. Yet she wasn’t scared. His eyes looked so gentle. Determined yet kind.

She shook her head as she warned him again, "Mirialdo, you don’t know the first thing about who I am… And I wish I didn’t have to do this, but…"

"Then tell me… I’m here, I’m listening," he said softly. She looked up at him, a serious expression in her eyes, biting her lips to summon the right words.

"I have been living in disguise as Luca Visconti ever since your father became lord of Verona." She immediately saw the discomfort in his eyes, and could not help looking away. "Before that, your home… well, my name…"

"Was Lucrezia Capuleti?" he finished her sentence.

Her head snapped up, an expression of disbelief in her eyes. "How do you know?" she inquired nervously.

"After I came to see you the first time… I found something in the palace," he explained, "Well, it was actually my servant, Quatre, who found it and showed me. He was worried about my safety. It was this… painting that had been stashed away, and had ended up in the servants’ quarters." He smiled, then continued, "A young girl of about… fourteen, fifteen maybe… wearing a periwinkle dress." He reached with his hand and took a strand of her long, soft bangs between his fingers, then tucked it behind her ear. "Beautiful waves of raven-black hair, as long as mine… but it was the eyes that gave you away immediately."

She gasped and took a step back. "Who else knows?" she inquired, her voice shaken with fear, "Mirialdo, you could be in danger too… you could be accused of being a traitor for just knowing about me and not reporting me to your father."

He placed his index finger on her lips and hushed her. "I’m the only one who knows… and Quatre… the little blonde servant that saw us dancing… but he’s no threat to us," he reassured her, "he’s very loyal to me. He knows I’m in love with you and he wants to help."

She hadn’t realized that he had taken her by the hand and led her outside the church. She shivered as a gust of wind blew past them, and only then took notice that she was now standing underneath the old cherry tree in the small square in front of Santa Chiara. He was standing beside her, his arm around her shoulder. Just as he felt her quiver, he instinctively began rubbing his hand on her forearm, tightening his embrace until her head was cradled against his shoulder and she was no longer cold. "Why is it that you don’t hate me?" she asked him, not daring to look up, yet not breaking contact.

"Because I love you," he replied mockingly, "I can’t hate you if I love you, right? Besides, you should be the one hating me… After all, it was my family that took away everything that you had."

"Yes, but I deceived you," she objected. He sighed deeply, then asked, "Do you… blame me for what happened to them… to you?" She raised her eyes to his, and shook her head, her lips parting in a smile. "And I can’t blame you for being cautious," he concluded.

He felt her arms close around his waist slowly. He shifted himself so he would be facing her, then pulled her close and embraced her tightly, breathing in the scent of her hair, his heart racing as he heard the small gasp escaping her lips. Her chest moving rapidly against his. Her forehead feeling so warm against his neck. He lowered his face until his lips touched it, and kissed it softly. Just as she looked up at him, wide-eyed and blushing, he took her face in his hands and kissed her again. First her temple, then her cheekbone, then the corner of her lips. He felt them quiver as he brushed against them. Softness he had only been able to dream about. He let himself linger on that feeling a while longer, his lips barely touching hers. She immediately tried to pull away, feeling a hot rush to her head. "I’m sorry… did I…" he started. But the apology died in his throat as she suddenly rose on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his. Both their minds on fire, their senses lost in the wet softness of that very first kiss.

**************** Scene 3 ***********************

He lay in his bed and wondered. Why it was getting harder and harder to let go every time he saw her. Especially after that kiss… he had found it almost impossible to pull away. He had wanted to run away with her that same night. Help her up onto his horse, and then ride with her. All the way to anywhere it was that they could be together. No pretending, no hiding from their families. No midnight meetings, nor followers to lose in the windy lanes of Verona. He tossed and turned in his bed, wondering if there was such a place. A home for the two of them. Not in Verona, he knew that. Not anywhere that his parents could control his life. But perhaps somewhere else. Where no one would know their names. Where they could start from scratch, the two of them. A new life, a new family. Their own family. If she would have him.

What did he have to offer if he broke his ties with his family? He owned nothing, knew nothing… was nothing. Everything he had came from his father. And everything his father had, he had wrongfully taken from Lucrezia’s life. He loved her more than anything. But would that be enough to her? When he had no means of supporting her… a princess by birth, forced to disguise herself as a young boy and work for a living. If he stayed with his family, he knew he would have to marry Dorothy. Not to mention her life would be in danger if anyone were to find out about them. But if he asked her to leave Verona with him, they would be walking into the unknown together. He knew he would have gone through anything in order to be with her. But he did not want to put her through any hardship for his sake.

******************* Scene 4 *******************

She was stashing away a heavy roll of velvet onto a shelf when the door opened and a young boy of about fifteen walked in, carrying a message from his master for ‘Luca Visconti’. Just as she turned around, she recognized the blonde boy. The same that had seen her at the ball, dancing with Mirialdo, her face completely exposed. "Quatre?" she asked, stepping down from the ladder, then approaching him.

"Miss Lucrezia," he began, speaking as low as he could, "would it be possible for me to talk to you in private?" He glanced sideways at the curious look on the shop owner’s face.

Lucrezia immediately fumbled an excuse so she could leave the store for a while. An important delivery to a wealthy customer. Her uncle could not refuse. One minute later, she was walking side by side with Quatre, listening carefully to the message he brought.

"I persuaded him that it would be wiser if he did not leave the palace for the day," the boy mumbled apologetically. "And I have come to warn you, I have reasons to believe that someone at the palace suspects something."

"Is Mirialdo in any danger?" was her first reaction.

The boy shook his head, seeing the concern in her eyes. "Not directly," he reassured her, "at least for now. But his cousin Miss Dorothy has asked me to follow him several times already, and if she perchance asked someone else that I am not aware of, I am afraid you could soon be exposed, Miss Lucrezia."

He stopped short, right before getting to Piazza Delle Erbe, then turned around briskly and asked her to follow him without looking back. "I am afraid Master Treize is right on our tracks," he explained.

"Who is?" She started to ask.

"Mirialdo’s cousin," he specified, his voice a little shaky, "together with his sister, Miss Dorothy."

Lucrezia sighed as she remembered how Mirialdo had said no word to her of his engagement to his cousin yet. "Try to look relaxed, Quatre," she suggested, "you are walking with another boy… a servant like you, right? I don’t look anything like a woman right now…" He took a deep breath and slowed down his pace a bit, remembering that neither Treize nor Dorothy knew what she looked like. "Now stop," Lucrezia whispered to him, "Right here. Pretend to be checking out that girl… right over there… don’t worry, I know her." Sally, carrying a basket full of fresh vegetables, was picking some peaches from a fruit stand. "Now say something dirty," she instructed. Quatre paled. "I beg your pardon?"

"Aw, jeez, just… make a comment about her like guys usually do with each other, ok?" He stood there, tongue-tied, almost feeling Treize’s and Dorothy’s breath on his neck, then gasped as Lucrezia punched his arm in a friendly manner, then blurted out in her best masculine voice, "C’mon, what are you, chicken? She’s looking at you. Need a written invitation to go talk to her?" He took a deep breath, then exclaimed, hoping it would be loud enough for Treize and Dorothy to hear, "Damn, she’s hot, man!"

Sally’s jaw dropped upon hearing the comment, and she was just about ready to throw a ripe tomato at poor Quatre’s face, when she realized he was with Lucrezia. She immediately guessed that this too must have something to do with Lord Montague’s son wreaking havoc into her friend’s life, and that she must be risking serious trouble to put up such an act. Her eyes fell on an elegantly dressed couple shaking their heads and walking away. They looked like they could be part of Lord Montague’s entourage. "Thanks, Sal, I’ll explain to you later," she heard Lucrezia say as soon as the odd couple was out of sight.

"You’d better…" Sally seethed, then proceeded to walk home with her groceries, leaving Quatre and Lucrezia alone again.

Quatre was mortified. If it hadn’t been for Lucrezia’s quick thinking, he would have gotten her exposed.

"I see the situation is more serious than I thought," she commented calmly. "Quatre, please tell Mirialdo to remember his promise. I am asking him to lay low for a while… Let the suspicions die down… and to not come see me tonight or tomorrow or until you deem it safe. I trust your judgment," she said.

He fumbled an objection, "but, Miss Lucrezia, my master wanted me to ask you to meet him again tonight… what shall I say to him? That you won’t see him?"

She remained silent for a while, then instructed, "Will you tell him that I want him to be safe? Quatre, please… will you?" The boy nodded hesitantly. "Thank you," she replied, "Then you can tell your master to watch for me from his quarters, because tonight at midnight I will be coming to see him."

The boy gasped and protested that it was too dangerous, but to no avail. "I need you to tell him, Quatre" she repeated, "promise me you’ll tell him to be safe and to wait for me."

******************** Scene 5 **********************

He had barely repressed the urge to raise his voice at Quatre. How could he let her do something that risky? Infiltrate in his palace, just to see him? How could Quatre have agreed to that? He trusted him to keep her safe. But now the palace was asleep, and there was nothing that he could do except wait. And hope. Why did she make him promise? As if his safety was more important than hers. A thought flashed in his head, a dizzying pain in his diaphragm as he breathed in. If she got caught… she would probably confess to some conspiracy to kill him or his father… that way she would not expose him as a traitor. He cursed himself again and felt like a coward for not sending Quatre back to her to tell her that her plan was crazy, and forbid her to go through with it. Would she even listen to him if he tried to forbid something to her? Probably not. But that’s why he respected her so much. She was brave, passionate, stubborn… and a survivor. He was in awe of her resiliency. But this… was just too much to ask of her.

The sound of a pebble hitting the French doors. He rose abruptly and exited onto the balcony, his eyes frantically searching for the silhouette of her in the darkness of the garden. He couldn’t see. A sharp pang in his chest. "Lucrezia, please be all right," he whispered to himself, his heart in his throat, his eyes still just as lost. Suddenly, a hand cupped over his mouth from behind. Startled, he turned around, only to find his beloved standing right in front of him, a rope draped around her arm, a smile as bright as the moon itself.

As soon as they were inside, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed the breath out of her before she could even say a word. His lips wanting to tell her what his voice couldn’t express. He kissed her face and her hands over and over, telling her how worried he was, and how totally, completely crazy of her it was to infiltrate in his palace, and how much she had just risked. She kept giggling softly and hushing him, reassuring him that it had been easier than expected, and that nobody had so much as heard a leaf stir… well, except for the loud snoring of the guard that was supposed to watch the gate.

He had sat her on his lap and was stroking her face and her hair, his other arm surrounding her waist, pulling her close. "You made me promise to be safe," he scolded, "but you never promised… And you risked your life for me… I want you to promise me that you’ll never do this again," he continued. She looked at him and half-pouted, protesting that she had to see him before leaving for Venice. "Venice?" he repeated, confused. "For how long?" he asked, letting the disappointment in his voice show.

"I’m leaving the day after tomorrow, for about a week," she replied, "doing inventory purchasing with my uncle."

She closed her arms around his shoulders, her fingers playing with the softness of his long hair, and kissed his lips again. "I’m going to miss you," she said softly, "but I think it’s actually better this way… it’ll give people time to forget about the ball. By the time I get back, no one will suspect anything any more." He nodded, unwillingly. How he was going to get through a whole week without her, acting like the perfect son, he did not know. Yet, it was undeniably safer, that way. And besides, what was really a week in the greater scheme of things?

He had sat back against the headboard, cradling her in his arms, trying not to think of the future, as his right hand played with her fingers. She was there, in his room, in his arms. That was all that mattered. The present. He whispered in her ear, "I wish we could just be together… not just tonight, or tomorrow night, but… always." Her eyes became serious. She had wanted to approach the subject several times, but never quite found the right moment.

"What about Dorothy?" she paused and looked him straight in the eyes, "You are to marry her. You two are engaged, right?" He sighed and looked away.

"Yes," he replied sullenly, "or at least our families consider it a done deal. Do I want to marry her? No. Does it matter to anyone? No, unfortunately it doesn't. It’s not the way things work in my father’s household."

She stroked his face, then whispered, "It matters to me. I want you to be happy… whatever that is." She swallowed hard, wondering why it had to be so difficult, then continued, her voice firm, "Even if it's with Dorothy, and even if I have to let go of you. I will if I have to, but you have to tell me first. What do you want, Mirialdo? Because you know we can’t stay like this…it’ll break our hearts or get us both killed, whichever one comes first."

He buried his face in her neck, feeling powerless. "I wish I could… just leave this place… with you," he stammered. His voice barely repressing the anger and frustration of not being free to choose.

"Look at me," she said, "I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me. Should I come back from Venice or should I stay and let you forget me? What do you want your life to be, Mirialdo?"

"You," he said harshly, his voice muffled underneath the cascade of his long hair, his shoulders quivering. "I want you… to be in it. I want to wake up with you every morning. I want… us. That’s what I want for myself, Lucrezia."

He lifted his face in order for her to see the sincerity in his eyes. Along with the pain. "But, tell me," he continued, "if I were to ask you, right here, right now, to marry me and run away with me, and start from scratch somewhere else… Just the two of us, forget about our families… Just with what we have right now, which is nothing… Would you honestly think I could make you happy? And give you the life you deserve?" She looked at him, her eyes widening as her brain processed his words. "Lucrezia, you’re a princess, for Christ sakes, you deserve better than this… Better than me… Would you honestly want to marry me, and take me for whatever little I have to offer?"

She cocked her head, her lips stretching in a smile, her eyes stinging from the tears that all of a sudden were pressing to be let out. "I would," she replied, surprised that her voice had come out sounding so shaky already. "And I would deem myself the happiest woman on earth, if I could have you, and you know what? I would still go to Venice in two days, only I would go to look for a home for the two of us. So if this was a proposal, well, guess what… I’ve just accepted it. And if it wasn’t, then now you know never to ask me unless you really mean it, because I’ll take you seriously and say yes."

He watched her eyes well up with tears, yet not let go of him, waiting for an answer. "Was it, Mirialdo? Or did I jump to conclusions? Did you just ask me…"

"I am asking you now," he responded, then took her hands into his own and proceeded to kneel down on the floor in front of her. "Lucrezia, will you be my wife for the rest of our days? Will you marry me, despite all that I am not and all that I can’t offer you?" She looked down at her knees and squinted, her breath broken by a sigh, her eyes finally letting go of the tears. Then her hands tugged at him until he was up on his feet and she could wrap her arms tightly around him. Her cheek resting against his chest, she closed her eyes to better concentrate on his strong, rhythmic heartbeat, then whispered to him the answer that would never change in her heart. They belonged together. And she could not ask for a greater blessing than to be his wife.

*************** Scene 6 ******************

Sally had heard her as she sneaked back in. Almost dawn, but she could not make herself let go of him any sooner. She blushed as she confessed to her dearest friend that, yes, she had been in his chambers, and had spent the night in his arms, but he had not so much as attempted to even undo the first button on her shirt.

"You foolish girl," Sally scolded her, "if he hadn’t been the gentleman that you so believe him to be…"

"But he is," her answer came promptly. "He never attempted to hurt me even when I was just an intruder in his palace… or when I told him I was the last Capuleti." Sally could do nothing but acknowledge that, so far, he had proven to deserve the enormous trust that Lucrezia placed in him. As much as she hated to admit, and as much as common sense would forbid it, she knew he made her friend happy.

Admittedly, it had taken her a while to get used to the idea that he would marry her friend so soon, that same night. In secret, just the two of them and their most trusted friends as witnesses. Herself and Quatre, the only ones who knew. Lucrezia had been restless the whole day, but managed to not give her secret away by blaming it on the excitement of finally going to Venice. Her uncle had smiled unsuspectingly, his tired old eyes glowing with the belief that she would make a fine merchant one day, very soon. What he did not know was that Lucrezia would be spending every second of freedom looking for a home and a way to support herself and her husband-to-be, instead of sight-seeing.

They had it all planned out. She would use her association with her uncle to make herself known among the powerful Venetian merchants, then get an apprenticeship with one of them for a while. Meanwhile, Mirialdo could be teaching fencing and Latin to some of the local aristocrats’ children. On the side, she would be teaching him everything she knew about the silk business, until the day that they would have saved enough money to buy themselves out and start their own independent trade.

Sally had left for the market square earlier than usual. She had met Quatre and, together, they had taken on the daunting task to find a priest for Mirialdo and Lucrezia. One that would not mind the short notice and would be brave enough to perform the wedding in secret, no questions asked. Not even when the big names, Montague and Capuleti, came out in the open. Luckily, Lucrezia had reminded Sally of one such person. The friar that had helped her and her mother escape when Lord Montague took over Verona. Arranging the time and meeting place had followed, then each had returned to their friend and master with the welcome news.

Sally looked at her friend and adjusted the long white gown one last time before entering the small country oratory where she was to marry her beloved. She had known her for almost five years already, yet could not get over how regal she still looked. Her short black hair pulled back to let her deep blue eyes glow. The contrast created by the tiny jasmine flowers that she had woven into her hair like a crown. She had never seen her friend look happier and more beautiful, and was secretly glad for all the times that she had pricked her finger trying to finish her gown before that night. She had wanted it to be a surprise, and the expression on Lucrezia’s face as she saw it was worth all the nights spent sewing by candlelight.

Friar Lorenzo, Quatre and Mirialdo were already there. Sally peeked through the door, and for a second she savored the picture of Mirialdo Montague being a walking, talking, jittery nervous wreck, asking Quatre every five to ten seconds, "Are you sure she knows it’s here? Do you think she’ll come? Why isn’t she here yet?" Her smile grew even wider as she watched her best friend enter, her cheeks blushing as soon as he caught sight of her. His smile and his ice blue eyes brighter than ever as he took in the beauty of his bride.

They walked down the aisle, her hand resting on his, their eyes mesmerized with the sight of each other. A true princess marrying her prince. Sally felt herself die inside at the thought that soon he would be riding away with her friend, never to be seen again in Verona. She tried to hold back the tears, but her eyes just would not obey, and gratefully accepted the handkerchief that Quatre offered her. Yet she was happy. Her best friend was exchanging eternal vows with the man she loved. A new life was just starting, for them and only them. Full of hard work and question marks, but also full of promises of love and life. And she would have the reward of knowing that she played a part in bringing them together.

***************** Act 5 Scene 1 *******************

The cold morning breeze blew past her, sending a shiver down her spine. Her white gown a secret that nobody would ever know, faithfully kept by her dear friend Sally. Like a sister to her, through all the ordeals. She would see her only once more. When she got back from Venice. She would send her over to the Montagues’ palace with a message to give Quatre. A message for her beloved husband, the place and time that she would be waiting for him. When she would see him again and they would ride together all the way back to Venice. Her husband. She smiled and felt her cheeks blush as the thought of him came before her. Nothing could match the beauty of knowing that they now belonged to each other body and soul.

She barely heard her uncle’s enthusiastic comments of how exciting she was going to find Venice, and all the things that she would do, see and learn. She had a little longer to say goodbye to him. But her mother and Sally… she really had to struggle with herself to not let those tears out. Nobody was supposed to guess that it was a goodbye. But now that she was galloping away, ahead of her uncle’s slow cart, only the wind would see them. And the wind must have known her secret already.

Her beautiful secret. She felt herself blush as her mind played back the images and feelings from the night just past. How he had lifter her up in his arms and walked through the door to the small cottage where they had become one. Their very first home, if only for one night. Her skin still ached for him, as though the kisses would never be enough. How he had kissed every inch of her skin that he was uncovering, his hands trembling just as much as her whole self. His beautiful, elegant hands. So strong and yet so gentle. How he had made her blood rush to her temples, her body burn for him. How she had feared and longed for the moment at once. The pain and the passion and the pleasure…more than her mind could take. Excruciating, maddening, intoxicating… how he had made her part of him. Her life and his, one. The dawn had come so soon, and the night had been so short, in his arms. Yet she could still feel his hair brush against her bare skin, underneath her clothes, if she concentrated enough on the thought of him. But soon there would be no more good-byes. No more last kisses before the dawn would break them apart. No more lonely walks back before Verona awoke. Soon there would be home. Theirs.

**************** Scene 2 *****************

It had been four days already. Four days since she had left. Four days of waiting for her to come back… At least another three to go, Mirialdo thought with a small sigh, as he made his way to the garden. He had been fencing a lot, ever since she was gone. He couldn’t explain why, but it was as though he needed the physical strain to keep his mind from going back to her. Eventually it always did go back to her, though. "My princess…" he smiled. Yet, it hurt. He couldn’t help worrying about her, virtually alone in an unfamiliar city, working in secret to create a new life for the two of them. He had wanted to go along. Just get on his horse and show up in Venice. To undertake the task himself, as she had enough to keep herself busy, following her uncle around and learning from him all that she could take in. Besides, he was her husband now, and it was his duty to take care of her… yet she was the one taking care of him, getting everything ready so they could have a home together.

"Stubborn," he thought aloud, "why does she have to be so stubborn?" She hadn’t let him come along. She had insisted that he stay behind and wait. In fact, she had taken in all his objections and replied with all the good, rational reasons why he should be patient and play the part of the obedient, submissive son for a while longer. Besides, what would happen if their plan were to be intercepted? They would find themselves running from his father’s guards, with counts of high treason pending on both their heads, and with no place to go yet. As much as he hated to admit it, the best thing he could do for the time being was, in fact, to wait for her and make sure that, by the time she got back, nobody suspected anything any more. And that included acting like the perfect heir to the city of Verona.

At least his façade seemed to be working, though. Dorothy had been delighted with the gown that he had ordered for her, and had seemingly stopped asking Quatre to keep an eye on his movements, her suspicions somehow quieted. Not that there was a lot to monitor anyway. He had not felt like seeing Verona since saying goodbye to his beloved. He had not felt like seeing much of anybody, for that matter, but had resolved to make an effort to showcase his most princely behavior to his family. His father had seemed rather pleased with him, and had even gone as far as asking for his advice regarding an upcoming battle plan to conquer Mantova. He had given him the "Son, one day all this will be yours" speech. He knew it must have meant a lot to him. He had never heard his father say, "I’m proud of you," but he had a feeling that was exactly what he had meant. Still, there was one person that would not be fooled.

Treize. After all, they had been best friends for as long as they could remember. And they had always talked openly about everything. Except when it came to the truth about his own feelings, or lack thereof, for Dorothy. Yet it was as though, somehow, Treize knew. He had said things, several times, in his usual nonchalant tone that had made Mirialdo’s blood freeze. Allusions that had made him wonder not whether, but rather how much he knew about him and Lucrezia.

Especially when they fenced together. He had to really watch himself because Treize tended to ask a lot of questions, in particular every time he managed to get the better of him and to have the tip of his sword a bare two inches from his throat. Which always left Mirialdo wondering if he would have driven the sword in, had he told him the truth… Yet he liked the challenge, if only because it gave him something to pour his energies on.

"Your mind is elsewhere, Mirialdo," Treize’s voice recalled him to earth. "What is the matter with you? You can do better than this," he said dryly, slightly disappointed at his lack of concentration. Mirialdo picked up his sword, then took position again. "She really got to you, didn’t she?" Treize finally said as they faced off once more. Mirialdo couldn’t help taking a step back, which gave his cousin a slight advantage over him already.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he replied matter-of-factly, hoping his cousin would not pursue the subject any further.

"Of course you do," was all that Treize uttered, a slightly sarcastic tone in his voice as he launched another attack.

Pinned again. It had taken Treize all of three minutes to disarm him. To make his sword literally fly off of his hand and land top down on the lawn. "Mirialdo, did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out?" he then asked him, the tip of his blade inches from his chest. Dumbfounded. Mirialdo could not bring himself to either deny or ask how he knew. "Find out about what?" he managed to fumble after a moment. Treize lowered his sword and turned his back to him.

"I don’t know her name, but you’re in love with her," he replied. "And it seems that you’re willing to throw everything away for her. My sister included," he remarked dryly before turning around and pinning his cruel blue eyes on Mirialdo’s face again.

"Don’t do this to me, Treize," was all he could utter, raising his eyes to meet his cousin’s. He was ready to fight for her, if he had to. Fight his own best friend, if he became a threat to her safety.

Treize sensed that right away. "I have no intention of fighting you, Mirialdo," he commented matter-of-factly, "even though it is my sister you are rejecting." He then looked away and continued, "I just want to warn you. You and her, together, it’s not going to happen. Not in real life, my friend, so you’d better let go of her at once. Straighten out your head and do the right thing. For yourself and for her."

"How could you tell?" Mirialdo inquired, still utterly confused.

"Because I’ve been there," Treize replied, a tone of repressed anger in his voice. "I’ve been in love with the wrong person, just like you. I wanted to be with her, even though I knew my family would never approve." He bit his lips, then went on, "It was selfish. I should have known, and I should have let go of her. But I was too weak to do that." His hand closed into a fist. "Now they’re dead because of me. Anne, the only woman that I ever loved, and the child I had with her."

Mirialdo’s head started spinning. He had never imagined… that his cousin had to go through that. He instinctively laid a hand on his cousin’s shoulder, not knowing what to say, or how to make it hurt a little less.

"Don’t be stupid like I was, Mirialdo," Treize’s voice seethed reproachfully, "Trust me, you don’t want to have to live with that for the rest of your life." Finally, he started walking away from him, his fist opening up again, a painful sigh escaping his lips. "Oh, Mirialdo," he uttered coldly without turning around, "Before I forget… Your father sent for you. I think it’s about the wedding date. Don’t make me regret having this talk with you."

************** Scene 3 *********************

He sank onto his bed and placed his hands behind his head, staring at the frescoed ceiling. Feeling as though the world had just dropped onto him. Their plan… was falling apart. He was to marry Dorothy on Saturday. The day before Lucrezia was expected back. His father’s orders. He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. "Damn," he cursed. "I will not marry Dorothy. There is no way in hell," he resolved. He was already married… to the person he truly loved… they could not make him marry someone else.

Treize’s words kept spinning in his head, painfully. He was putting Lucrezia in danger, right that same moment. What would he do? Treize knew about them, and no doubt would get him exposed if he so much as tried to delay the wedding by one day. He would know why, and he would be right at his heels, guards and all. His warning had been more than explicit. And very effective, too. He would have rather die himself than to see her get hurt because of him.

But they were married now. They belonged together. No man could separate them, because they had joined their lives together in front of God. "Let man not separate what God has united" Friar Lorenzo’s words resounded in his head. That was what marriage was all about. And he would not let his father, or Treize, or anyone else, for that matter, keep them apart. They couldn’t. "Till death do us part." He sighed as he remembered that line, and wished that there was no such thing as death. No such thing as fear.

He had to do something. Change the plan. Find a way to let her know not to leave Venice, then escape from Verona in the middle of the night… before the wedding. He drove his fist into the pillow. There was no time. Even if he sent Quatre right away. Even if he got on the road before dusk. He did not know where she was staying. It would take him a day to get there, then he would have to find her… all of this before she got back on the road to Verona. And he would not risk by sending Quatre to meet her along the way on the day that she was to ride back. Suppose he missed her, for whatever reason. Suppose she took another road. Suppose they found him out as he tried to leave. She was better off being as far away from Verona as possible.

****************** Scene 4 ********************

Quatre knocked on the door. "I have it right here, master," he spoke as low as he could. Mirialdo nodded, then let him in quietly. It was late. The whole palace was asleep. Everyone tucked in their beds safely, anticipating the great day that was to follow. The day that Mirialdo Montague, the future lord of Verona, and his beautiful cousin Dorothy, were to be wed. A most remarkable celebration for Lord Montague and for the whole city.

"I am sorry that it took so long, master," Quatre apologized as his hand rummaged in his pocket, "Miss Sally thought it would be wiser to wait until the apothecary closed his shop for the day…"

"You did the right thing, Quatre," Mirialdo replied, "What’s important is that you have it." Quatre opened up his hand to reveal a small vial, filled with a clear blue liquid. "Excellent," Mirialdo whispered to himself. "Is Miss Sally clear on everything? What she’s supposed to tell Lucrezia when she gets back, and where I will be waiting for her?"

"Everything is ready, master," Quatre reassured.

"Good. Then let us carry on the plan," he uttered solemnly, then took a deep breath, brought the vial to his lips, and ingested the foul-tasting contents, ready to face his own death.

Quatre was with him, by his bedside, as the poison took effect. As his eyes clouded over with the expressionless shade of unconsciousness. As his breath became ragged, his teeth biting the air to get oxygen into his paralyzed lungs. He kept mopping his master’s clammy forehead and whispering words of comfort about how he would wake up in his true love’s arms in a mere two days. Once the poison’s effect wore down. Exactly according to plan. He had smiled through the spasms, his lips wanting to speak. Then he had ceased breathing. His face still, almost serene in his simulated death. His hand unclenching, revealing a small white jasmine flower.

**************** Scene 5 ********************

It had been a very productive week. She smiled at the summer sun as she spurred her horse along, the keys to her new home jingling in her pocket. Their new home. She almost could not believe that she had managed to pull that off. The perfect apprenticeship with one of the most powerful merchants in all of Venice. And he had wanted to hire her even knowing that she was a woman. She would not have to disguise herself any longer. "Mirialdo will be happy about that," she chuckled, recalling the expression on his face as he had seen her walk into the church on their wedding. The very first time he saw her wear clothes other than her masculine outfits. Maybe she could grow her hair long again.

And she could pick up painting again, like when she was still… No, there was no room for the past. Just the present and the future, for herself and her beloved, and the children that they would have. She would start painting again not for her mother and father’s sake… but for her own. Their little home had plenty of frescoes that had been left to fade. She could work on reviving those, with a little bit of practice. Just a couple of rooms, modestly furnished. But to her, it was worth a castle. Sure, it was nothing too fancy, compared to the palace that she had grown up in… and that Mirialdo had also called home. But it had a breathtaking view of the Laguna from the living room. And a nice, big fireplace where they would roast chestnuts in the fall… or just sit and warm each other’s hands after a long, cold winter’s day.

Of course, it would take a while to get used to their new identities. She would have to be very cautious for a while, and not call him Mirialdo in a moment of distraction. At least not in public. And she would have to remember to turn around every time somebody called her by her new name. There would be no more Lucrezia Capuleti or Mirialdo Montague… Just Romeo and Giulietta Montecchi of Venice.

She had wanted to help her uncle with loading the merchandise on the cart before they left that morning. It was almost her way of saying goodbye to him for good. After all, she could not break down and cry, if all she could think of was, "How on earth can 20 meters of brocade be this heavy?" And, besides, it wasn’t really for ever. "Who knows," she thought, maybe she’d see him again next time he needed to purchase his inventory in Venice. Maybe by then she’d even have her own trade, together with Mirialdo. And he’d recognize them, and know they were alive and well, and happy together… and safe from Lord Montague’s guards. And he would understand why she had to do it. Leave her family like that.

It was already dusk when she rode into Verona. Sally would be waiting for her at home, then she would leave for the Montagues’ palace to inform Quatre that she was back. And Quatre would tell Mirialdo to meet her at midnight outside the church of Santa Chiara. She smiled at the memory of that first night when she had sneaked out to meet him in secret… When they had confessed their feelings to each other… then exchanged that ever-precious first kiss.

She contemplated for a second going to the palace in person… to see him immediately, her yearning for him stronger than her rationality. "No," she said to herself, shaking her head, "We’ve been waiting this long because it was safer… Let’s not do something dumb to jeopardize everything in the very end." She had to be patient… just until midnight… then there would be nothing to stand between them. Ever again.

But she would at least have something to give him, when she saw him again that night. "A rose, maybe," she giggled, as her horse slowed down to a nice, steady pace. "How would he take that, if I were to give him a nice red rose?" The thought very tempting, as her mind pictured the priceless expression on his face. "He’d be surprised, but only for a second… He’s probably come to expect that I don’t always act within the classic gender roles…" She stopped in Piazza Delle Erbe, knowing she could still find fresh-cut flowers there. She tied her horse at a post, then approached an elderly woman who still had a spray of roses and gladiolas, that looked like they had just been picked.

"These are even fresher than the ones I came with this morning," the lady said, "They would make a most lovely gift for a very special maiden…" Her tired old eyes squinted in the half-darkness, then she recognized the familiar face. "Oh, Luca… it’s you, dear. How was Venice?" Lucrezia thanked her with a smile and replied that it had been the best week of her life.

"I am so glad to hear that, my dear," the lady sighed, "It’s been a most dreadful two days here. It seems that Lord Montague’s only son was to be married yesterday, and everything was ready for the celebration… it was going to be a most memorable banquet. Then they all got up in the morning, and Miss Dorothy, the bride-to-be, started getting ready for her big day, and then word came that the groom lay dead in his bed. Isn’t it so incredibly sad?"

Lucrezia stood speechless, her brain processing the words of the elderly lady, their meaning suddenly coming to her, painful as a knife in her chest. "Mirialdo…" his name escaping from her lips as she turned pale, her knees giving way. She staggered to her horse, her head spinning and her eyes welling up with tears. A scream suffocated in her throat. He couldn’t be. Not now that they were so close.

"Rumor has it he was poisoned," the old lady continued, "Are you all right, dear? You don’t look too good…" Lucrezia bit her lips raw, her forehead resting against her arm, propped up on the saddle. Swallowing the tears, she recomposed herself enough to ask the woman where his body was kept.

****************** Scene 6 **********************

The Montagues’ crypt. Right below the cathedral… She slowly walked down the steps, her hand trembling, ready to draw on her dagger. Surely some member of his family must be there, to pay homage. She had to prop herself against the damp wall as soon as her eyes registered his figure in the darkness, lying still. The paleness of death on his flawless skin. His lips livid, yet slightly parted, almost as if smiling in his eternal sleep.

She ran a hand on his cold forehead, unable to believe that he was actually gone from her forever. She knelt down by his side and felt herself die. How could he still be so handsome? Almost like an angel. Gone back to where he belonged. Her eyes veiled with tears, yet she could see him so clearly. She had waited for that night, wanted to be with him so much that it hurt. And now, that they were supposed to leave together… he had been taken from her. She did not realize that she was crying, her face buried in his broad chest. Silky strands of his blonde hair still caressing her fingertips. Impossible to let go. They belonged together, how could she let go?

She suddenly realized that Sally was probably expecting her at home, waiting to give her the terrible news herself. Soon she would start worrying and probably come look for her there. "No!" she cried softly. "She won’t let me do it, if she sees me. She won’t let me join him where he is." With that, she got up swiftly, then, as she was about to leave, she lowered her face on her beloved’s once again, pressing a small kiss on his cold lips. "Wait for me… I’m not far behind."

The apothecary hadn’t asked any questions. He had just given her the small vial and collected the payment. His quickest-acting poison. She smiled, looking up at the moon through her misty eyes, then proceeded to walk into the cathedral again, then down the stairs to the crypt. Her smile faded from her lips as she heard something stir in the darkness. Then a candle flickered and a woman’s scream was heard.

"Miss Dorothy…" she uttered in disbelief.

"Who are you?" the young aristocratic lady inquired, reaching for a dagger and holding it up to her face. Her eyes turned to two thin slits as she recognized her features… from the ball… and the market, with Quatre. "You are the one he died for," she whispered, her anger barely concealed. "You are the commoner wench that took him from me," she screamed, lunging an attack at Lucrezia. She did not find it hard to disarm her. After all, she had spent the past five years living as a boy. Fighting and defending herself like one were just two of the many things she had had to learn.

"Do you know why he died?" Dorothy kept asking her. "He’d rather take poison than marry me, and you are the cause… You witch! What did you do to him? Why did you take him?" she kept accusing her. Lucrezia could only take a step back, keeping the dagger out of her reach, and tell Dorothy that she would have rather died herself than see Mirialdo harmed in any way. She had never meant for any of that to happen. She loved him. More than she loved herself. And Dorothy could probably understand what that was like, since she was there, too. To see him and say goodbye.

"I wouldn’t have cared, if he loved you," Dorothy finally uttered, her voice low, somewhat calmer. "I would have been happy just bearing his name," she whispered, "and his title. I didn’t care whether he was in love with me… I, for one thing, wasn’t. I just wanted to live in the same palace as…" She stopped abruptly to look at Lucrezia’s astonished face, then smirked cruelly. "Ah, God, why am I even telling you this? I should be killing you right here," she said coldly. "Do you know that Quatre is now being questioned for the murder? Do you even care?" she asked, emotionlessly.

"I do," Lucrezia replied, lowering her eyes. "That’s why you should go back to the palace and tell everyone that you found the murderer. Tell them that I confessed to it." Her hand reached inside the pocket. Dorothy’s eyes widened as she saw Lucrezia’s hand open and reveal a set of keys. "Take them," she encouraged the blonde girl. "Bring everyone here… I will be dead within the hour anyway. Then get on my horse and get out of Verona. You and Quatre. Save at least yourselves."

Dorothy took a step back and gasped. "How did you know it was him?" she inquired, staring into Lucrezia’s dark eyes.

"You just told me," she replied with a smile, then prompted her again, "Now go… you’ll find a map and the exact address inside the left-hand pouch underneath the saddle… Quatre will know the rest." With that, Dorothy took the keys in her hand, and ran up a few steps. Then she turned around one last time. "Why?" she asked.

"Because he would have wanted you to be happy," was Lucrezia’s only answer.

As soon as she was alone again, she walked to her husband’s side. She sat down by him, her hand clasping the small vial. "I’m right here, my love," she whispered to him, stroking his peaceful face, kissing his eyelids and his lips. "I’m just a moment away… I’m coming to join you forever." She stretched her legs and lay down beside him, her elbow propping her up as she stroked his hair one last time. Then her hand moved to her lips and she took in the poison. She rested her head on his chest and draped his arms around her, feeling safe and at peace with the world all of a sudden. "I’m here… can you feel me, love?" she whispered in his ear before her heart ceased beating.

His face twitched, then his eyes opened. He gasped at the sight of that dark, unfamiliar place. Then he suddenly remembered. The forty-eight hours must have gone by. And his plan must have fooled everyone, since he was lying in his family’s crypt. His lips parted in a smile, as he took notice of the soft, warm weight on his chest. "Lucrezia… my stubborn little princess," he mused as his hands lifted her face so he could kiss her forehead.

He hadn’t remembered her skin to be so pale… but she must be very tired. After all, she had just spent the whole day riding to Verona. She must have fallen asleep waiting for him to wake to consciousness. "I hate to wake you up, my sweet," he whispered in her ear, "But we have to get on the road." With that, he kissed her lips softly.

A strange sensation in his chest made his head spin, as his lips registered a bitter taste. She wasn’t breathing. He snapped up to a sitting position, and only then did he see a small vial on the ground, beside her, as though it had rolled off from her hand. Exactly like the one that Quatre had brought from the apothecary. Only, empty. He knew right away that his plan had gone horribly wrong.

A cry of pain escaped his lips as he crouched next to her, his head bent over her lifeless body. Why? What could have gone wrong? They had every detail planned. Why didn’t anyone warn her? Why didn’t Sally… or Quatre… Oh, God, why? It was so close. So within their reach that he had almost felt her touch, right before waking up. How could she lie dead in his arms when they were supposed to start their life together that very same night? Ride all the way home and never look back… and never be apart.

His hand reached for the vial and brought it to his lips. "How cruel of you to not leave a drop for me," he whispered, stroking Lucrezia’s hair. Could she be any more beautiful than as an angel? His lips instinctively smiled as he caught sight of the dagger that she was carrying. He knew what to do. "If I can’t be with you in life… then I’ll join you in death," he spoke to her, his lips brushing against hers. "And this time, it’ll be forever." With that, he reached for the dagger, took in one last deep breath, then plunged the blade in his own chest. He felt himself fall on her, his own blood, warm and wet, between them… his arms wrapping themselves around her body. "I love you, Lucrezia… I’m on my way."

***************** Epilogue **************************

A small house in the middle of Venice. So unassuming from the outside, but inside, a large, inviting, roaring fireplace. And a window with a breathtaking view of the Laguna. But even more precious, the treasure of frescoes that graced the walls and ceiling. The loving work of a young lady with long, blonde hair, paler than the moon. She sat by the fireplace, giving the finishing touches to a painting, when the door swung open.

"I’m home," a young man’s voice resounded as he shook his snowy boots, then proceeded to walk over and kiss his lovely wife’s forehead.

"It’s almost done," she commented, looking up at him as he observed the painting, "do you like it?"

"It’s perfect," the young man replied, sitting down by her side, motioning for her to come sit on his lap while he warmed his hands.

It was a family portrait… like those that celebrate an important event… like a wedding. A young couple, elegantly dressed. The young man with bright ice-blue eyes and long, platinum blonde hair draped on his shoulders, smiling and resting his hand around his lovely wife’s waist. The bride, with dark blue eyes and tiny little jasmine flowers woven into her raven-black hair, and a smile brighter than the sun.

"Quatre, do you think they’re…"

"Together? Wherever they are?" the young man with blonde hair suggested, giving his wife a light peck on the lips. "Absolutely, Dorothy. There is not a doubt in my mind that they are."

Fin