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He gathered up his bag. “I can now do no more here. Other injuries occurred during last night’s disturbances, and I go where I’m needed. I’ll be back later. Send for me if you see change.”

As the sun rose and light filled the chamber, I sat with Nonna Ursula, hoping for a sign of consciousness, while Princess Isabella flitted in and out, chatting as Friar Laurence instructed, telling Nonna Ursula of her palace duties, complaining the cooks didn’t listen to her, asking for advice.

One of the palace guards stood at the door. Tommaso guarded the open window. Both Old Maria and Pasqueta tried to close it; I insisted it remain open. Old Maria argued that Princess Ursula could catch a chill in her lungs.

I assured her the fire on the hearth would keep Princess Ursula from such a fate.

How I wished Nurse could have accompanied me to handle the maids, to cheer me through the long morning, to be my right hand as she often was! But someone had to stay at Casa Montague to supervise the children, the staff, and to care for my pregnant mamma, who was, I knew, fretting about Papà.

As the hours progressed, the tumult created by the disciplinati faded, and I hoped that would serve to reassure Nonna Ursula’s sleeping mind that her grandson had triumphed.

When the normal sounds of the city and the smells of the street, good and ill, wafted in on the drafts, I reminded her of the teeming life beyond the palace and how much she loved it.

I also discussed her son, Prince Escalus the elder, suggesting irritably that he could have hung around to witness the attack on her and give his report to me.

But even under my provocation, he remained unseen and unheard, and I reflected aloud and with bitterness of how useless a ghost he had turned out to be.

I also listened for the prince’s return.

I told Nonna Ursula all that, too, showed her my knives—they quieted Old Maria’s muttering about the open window—assured her that on the prince’s arrival, he would visit her and suggested if she would wake and tell us who attacked her, that would assist in the hunt for the hell-bound beast who had dared lay hands on the dowager princess of Verona.

At midmorning, Pasqueta brought me bread, cheese, fruit, and watered wine. I thanked her and recognized the opportunity for what it was. “Speak to your princess,” I said. “It is Friar Laurence’s command that we speak to her.”

Pasqueta glanced at me, tears in her eyes, leaned over her mistress, and pushed her white hair off her forehead. “Forgive me for leaving you alone. I never dreamed someone would enter the palace and bludgeon you.” Lowering her face into her hands, she wept.

I gave her a wiping cloth and studied the poor woman.

Pasqueta wasn’t so young. Her black curly hair was threaded with gray, and around her dark eyes, fine lines had begun to form.

“How long have you been with the princess?” I asked.

She mopped at her face. “More than twenty years. She chose me when I was fourteen to be the legs and strength for Old Maria.”

“You’re very fond of Princess Ursula.”

“She saved me from . . . My father wished to sell me. She bought me for a fair price, and when he tried to . . . take me back, she set the guards on him. He’s never returned.” Fiercely she added, “I hope he died in the mud of the street.”

She was the last person to see Nonna Ursula unharmed, and absent during the attack. Conveniently? Perhaps, but her emotion and ferocious dedication appeared to be genuine enough.

“Last night. You went to the kitchen to make her a posset.”

“Princess Ursula waited until Old Maria was asleep. She’s impossible to wake, jealous of our mistress”—Pasqueta gave a sideways twitch of the head to indicate the aged serving woman, who watched us suspiciously—“and Princess Ursula likes my posset better. I add honey to bitter herbs to soften the flavor, and I always make sure the water is at a rolling boil. Everything dissolves so much better and it’s not so grainy on the tongue. ”

To make her feel as though she was instructing a person inexperienced in the preparation of medicines, I kept my wide gaze fastened on her face. “Before you left, did you notice anything amiss? Hear anything outside the window?”

“Nothing. I keep thinking, trying to remember a hint of . . . but . . .” She burst forth, “I was only gone as long as it takes to boil water!”

“Does the cook not keep water simmering on the fire?” Our cook did.

“The palace cook is a slovenly brute who feeds the household and the prince’s men bad food and bad wine and—” She abruptly stopped talking.

“And sells the good outside the palace?” I offered.

She sighed in relief. “Aye. You understand. He does nothing if it doesn’t benefit him.”

From that information, I deduced that Pasqueta was gone long enough for someone to break the bars and enter. “When you crossed the threshold, you found—”

“Princess Ursula’s belongings had been overturned and she was unconscious, bleeding, so white—” Pasqueta turned pale and put her hand to her mouth as if to contain sickness.

I wet a rag, wrung it out, and put it to her forehead. She murmured a thanks and leaned forward, holding it in place with one hand and clutching her gut with the other.

I watched her steadily, trying to decide if that twinge of guilt I’d spied meant she’d set up the robbery—such suspicious timing!—and yet had been horrified by her accomplice’s brutal attack.

When she lifted her head, the color had begun to return to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Lady Rosaline. I hadn’t spoken of it, and in this moment, I was overcome.”

I took the rag, wet it again, and once more put it on her forehead. “Better now?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and glanced sideways at Old Maria. “But I . . .” She swallowed.

“Tell me.”

“I saw something.”