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P apà stood speaking to the prince’s boon companions and bodyguards, Dion, Marcellus, and Holofernes.

From Papà’s animated and pointed gestures, I assumed he was discussing past sword battles and his almost unbroken line of successes.

The companions listened intently, not three younger warriors humoring an old knight, but men learning from the greatest swordsman to ever grace Verona’s streets.

Even at the advanced age of thirty-seven, Papà handled a sword with skill, speed, and strategy.

My siblings were gathered around Princess Isabella, giggling as she stealthily passed grilled skewers of figs, bread cubes, and cheese to appease their hunger.

Our beloved Friar Laurence stood with the children, laughing with them and snatching the occasional fig.

His humble brown robes and shaved head denoted that he had taken vows of poverty as a Franciscan monk, and the three knots on his corded rope cincture stood for poverty, chastity, and obedience.

This good brother had in secret joined my parents in matrimony and, as a skilled apothecary, prepared for my mother the potion that put her into the sleep of death for two and forty hours.

A respectful pupil, I weekly went to his shop and learned the apothecary arts, thus he’d earned a seat at this most momentous meal.

As soon as everyone saw Cal and myself, and saw that we were together, a palpable air of relief swept the assembly.

Mamma sat beside an old woman, older even than Nurse, a woman of seventy years or more, with iron-gray hair pulled back under a black veil and tucked into a beaded and bejeweled headdress.

Loss and worry had worn deep, dry wrinkles around her mouth and eyes.

Her shoulders were stooped, her frame skinny, and she leaned close to listen to Mamma.

“My grandmother,” Cal murmured in my ear.

“She who ‘spreads terror before her like a farmer spreads manure’?”

“The very one. Are you afraid?”

“Introduce me and I’ll know.”

“Dowager, here is my daughter Rosaline.” Mamma beckoned me.

As a young gentlewoman should, I glided majestically toward them.

“Hurry up, girl!” the old lady shouted. “I’m slipping toward the grave quickly enough without having to wait on your airs!”

I picked up my pace.

“Kneel down.” She pointed to the floor before her. “Let me look at you.”

Surprised, I looked at Mamma, who nodded, and I knelt before the old woman.

Now I understood. She was almost blind, her brown eyes clouded white with the obscurity of age, and when I realized she waited on me, I took hold of her twisted claws and put them on my face.

She slid them down from my forehead, over my chin, and back up again. “Let me see your teeth,” she ordered.

I bared them in a semi-snarl.

She used her finger to poke at them; her skin tasted like garlic. She pronounced judgment. “Strong teeth. Good complexion. Good bones—although, of course, that’s required from the daughter of Romeo and Juliet. Name is Rosaline?”

“Yes, Dowager. Rosie, should you wish it.” Keeping in mind the way she’d leaned to hear my mother, I spoke loudly.

She tapped her chest with one of those bent fingers. “I’m Ursula. It means ‘bear.’ ”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dowager.”

“You may call me Nonna Ursula.”

“As you command, Nonna Ursula.”

“You give the proper answers. Are you an obedient woman?”

Cal gave the bark that passed for a laugh.

She tilted her head toward him. “My grandson doesn’t think so.”

“Of course, your grandson is always right.” I could slide the implied knife between the ribs as well as any society matron.

She cackled, and it sounded ungodly, like the laugh of her eldest son, Prince Escalus the elder. “You’re impudent.”

“Yes, Nonna Ursula.”

“Good. Sit next to me at dinner. You can entertain me.”

Cal and Papà leaped to help her to her feet.

She whacked at them with her cane. “Get off. Get! Off! I can still stand on my own.”

She could, although she wavered and scowled. “Give me your arm, girl.”

I offered it. She tucked her hand in my elbow and I led her to the long table covered by a brilliant-colored Persian carpet, to the chair Prince Escalus pulled out for her.

Her arrival was the signal for dinner to begin.

Seating had been assigned, not according to station, but with a wise view of letting the two families gain in acquaintance.

Set at each place was a round pewter dish, a goblet of swirled color glass made on the isle of Murano, a silver spoon, and a trencher of bread.

Very elegant, although in the case of Emilia and Cesario, perhaps the glass was ill-advised.

Servers in the prince’s livery arrived for the hands-cleansing ritual.

One held an ornate pitcher, one a matching bowl, one linen towels.

Starting with the prince, the man with the pitcher poured water over his hands; another man caught the water; the last handed him a towel to dry his hands.

As the men worked their way down the table, I observed the clever seating arrangement.

Prince Escalus sat at the head of the table.

I sat at his right hand, and Nonna Ursula sat beside me.

As the dowager princess, she deserved to grace the foot of the table, but seating her toward the center allowed her to follow the conversations.

Papà sat next to her, then Katherina, then Holofernes.

Imogene sat next to him, and Friar Laurence next to her.

Across the table, Cesario sat on a tall seat between Mamma and Marcellus—Marcellus being the most stern and unsmiling of the prince’s companions.

I grinned. Cesario would take care of that.

Each place had a small olive-wood bowl filled with white flakes of salt. I viewed my bowl, then looked at Princess Isabella and lifted my brows. She nodded proudly. At this table, no one sat below the salt, a signal that all were equal—her idea.

We had two empty chairs across the table, I knew not why, and I was curious to see who came to fill it.

Eight-year-old Emilia sat at the foot of the table between Princess Isabella and Dion; she had been boosted up on her seat, too, and she looked around as if amazed to find herself in such a position of honor.

She settled back and, with her own particular insouciance, took command of the discussion, with special care to speak clearly and toward Nonna Ursula.

“Papà brought one of our special wines to celebrate this evening, a full-bodied blend of Sangiovese and Barbera grapes set down in the year of Rosie’s birth.

” From the cradle, the Montague family trained in wines.

We grew grapes at our vineyards north of the city, and there processed them into wines revered throughout Italy and beyond.

Papà signaled to Tommaso, who stood guard by the door, and the youth disappeared and returned lugging a small wooden cask.

Papà rose and together the two men pulled the cork plug, and Papà, with a small hammer, gently tapped in the spigot.

Tommaso presented him with a glass, he sampled the wine, and pronounced, “Strong, flavorful, aged with dark fruit to perfection . . . like our daughter Rosaline.”

Everyone applauded and smiled at me, and I found myself blushing. I found it uncomfortable being the center of attention, and told myself I’d better get used to it, for as wife to the podestà, I’d be the princess upon whom all eyes would be fixed.

I then assured myself I wouldn’t mind, since under normal circumstances, I’d be busy, not sitting like a scrap-cloth doll on display.

Papà himself served the wines, and on this occasion, I received the first glass.

Then Nonna Ursula, then Mamma, then Cal and his bodyguards, then Friar Laurence.

The children received their wines well-watered.

Everyone waited until Papà had filled his glass and lifted it.

“The house of Montague welcomes the joining of Prince Escalus of the house of Leonardi to our beloved daughter Rosaline Hortensa Magdelina Eleanor in matrimony, and may you both be blessed with long years of love and happiness!”

Glasses raised, clinked, and congratulations were exchanged with various amounts of enthusiasm.

Cal rose to answer Papà in like tones—and a man stumbled into the dining room.

“Barnadine,” Nonna Ursula said crisply, “how good of you to join us at last.”

Barnadine. I recognized that name: faithful bodyguard to Elder, the servant who failed to protect his master.

That would explain his distressing appearance.

That, or guilt. Had this man been the one to assassinate Elder?