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I didn’t smile, and I held Marcellus’s gaze.

He blinked as if startled. During the short time he’d known me, he’d seen me as a fragile female, buffeted by earthshaking events, by turbulent emotions, and in the end neatly trapped by his prince into a betrothal.

He hadn’t seen me as spinster Rosie Montague, captain of her own destiny, commander of the Montague household, organizer of adult parties and children’s events, and beloved sibling and cousin to half the people in Verona and beyond.

I had my strengths, I knew them, and it was time he knew them, too, and gave them the respect they deserved.

No. Gave me the respect I deserved.

Marcellus recovered, inclined his head, and bowed like a courtier. “My apologies, my lady. I’m a churl in the face of your authority.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “More of a braying donkey. Much of the staff is hovering at the door. Order them in, organize them into a crew, and let’s get this pigpen cleaned and restored before Old Cook arrives to create order and marvelous meals.

” I figured Marcellus could handle that.

Whatever else he was, he was, after all, Cal’s trusted commander.

He knew how to coordinate an attack, even if it be on filth.

I feared the fancy footmen, the frilly maids, the calloused hostlers, would hesitate, but they piled through the door and went eagerly to work clearing away the years of rotting debris and ingrown dirt; the entire palace had been forced to eat the moldy, repulsive, dried-up foods, and I knew I couldn’t have done more to win their loyalty and appreciation.

The soup wasn’t fancy, but its meaty, herbaceous scents filtered through the kitchen, down the stairs, and I sensed a lifting of hearts and a return of appetite.

As soon as the vegetables were cooked through, I ordered Orsa to stir while I grated day-old bread into the broth to thicken it.

With a ladle, I filled a medium pot for the staff working in the kitchen and a small pot for Cal, then ordered two robust manservants to wrap towels around the iron handle, lift it from its hook, and carry it down to the men.

With them went a maid carrying bread, cheese, and dried fruit from the baskets. Everyone was smiling.

It’s amazing how good food can lift the heart.

Marcellus went to the wine cellar, and I, carrying a bowl of bread, cheese, and fruits, went back to Nonna Ursula’s room, with a boy carrying the small pot and grinning all over his face.

Before we entered the room, I put my finger to my lips. Cal was still deeply asleep. Nonna Ursula was unmoving. Old Maria sat in a chair by the window, sniffing as the fresh air choked her, using the last of the sunlight to embroider in the Florentine way.

Tommaso sat on a bench with his back against the wall, looking bored, but as the smell of the soup reached him, he rose to help the boy hang it on the hook over the fire. “Bless you, Lady Rosaline, my belly thinks my throat’s been slit.”

I collected bowls from Nonna Ursula’s cupboard, filled two of them, put them in front of Tommaso and the boy, and softly commanded, “Eat!” As they pulled the spoons off their belts, I picked up a basket and prepared to go out into the garden.

I had fragrant pink flowers to pick.

Tommaso stood. “I shall go with you, my lady.”

His sincere intention moved my heart, for he was almost salivating over the soup.

I replied, “It’s not yet night, and I’m going into the prince’s own garden.

I’ll be safe. You should eat.” He looked undecided, so I put my hand on his shoulder and pressed him back down in his seat. “Eat,” I said again, and left.

The garden much resembled the evening the Montagues had come for Cal’s family dinner: shadowy, fragrant, and softened by twilight. Yet . . .

Elder wanted me to find his killer.

Papà and Mamma wanted me to stay chaste and, with their own experience as an example, and despite my exemplary and prolonged virginity, they worried I couldn’t make it to my wedding night.

My siblings wanted me to be good ol’ dependable Rosie.

Cal demanded I yield to him my trust, my troth, my thoughts, my much-vaulted virginity, without a promise of anything of himself in return.

Lysander was the only one who didn’t want anything from me, except . . . me, and although I knew whom to blame for that night when I’d been caught in Cal’s arms, still I felt guilty when Lysander worshipped me with his gaze. I mean, really, how many worshipful men does a woman get in one lifetime?

Maybe one. If you’re lucky.

The disciplinati simply wanted me to die.

And someone close to the podestà had tried to kill Nonna Ursula because that person believed that during that séance, she had discovered the villain who had killed her son.

I realized how very overcome I had become by the constant barrage of voices, faces, hungers, demands.

All my world roiled in confusion, upending my security and stripping away my serenity.

My own skin no longer fit on my body. I feared what was to come, and for all our sakes, I needed to do as Elder required and find his killer before he struck again. At Cal, at my family, or at me.

I took a deep breath and sought the peace of the garden to clear my mind.

Nearby, a man’s voice said, “God’s blessings to you, Lady Rosaline!”

Perhaps I was a little jumpy, for I reached for the dagger in my sleeve—and came up empty.

I’d given my knife to Orsa to use in the kitchen, and had not yet retrieved it.