A ctually, on the rare occasion, Cal had been quite accomplished with poetry.

Not that I’m a poet, but all my life I’d been surrounded by iambic pentameter and romantic declarations and glorious moments that required lovers to go somewhere .

. . to the spangled heavens, to faraway imagined white-sand beaches, to the cliffs of romance towering over the clawing tidal waves of tragedy . . .

I really hate poetry. All that unnecessary traveling.

I suppose, when push came to shove, I preferred the earthy monologues of horticulture and Cal—passionate Cal who loved his exotic plants and found all the details about them enticing, never noticed my lack of true rose culture enthusiasm.

He was, perhaps, unable to conceive of a person who wouldn’t look upon the petals of a rose and think of its origins, its preferred growing medium, and what use to make of its parts.

I smiled at the dark red rose.

“Hey! You! Lady Rosaline!” Old Maria beckoned me over, and for the first time it seemed she viewed me with respect. “I didn’t believe it before, but you’re smarter than hair.”

“Thank you.” I guess.

She gestured toward the basket of flowers and herbs.

“The words weren’t working, and neither was all that rubbing her, but the odors—when I smell something I knew long ago, for a moment, I’m back in that place.

Maybe she will be, too; be back here with us.

” She stared at her mistress. “Although not yet.”

“No, not yet. Maria, after the séance, did you remove the skull bag from the table by the fire?”

She barely glanced in that direction. “I keep this room tidy. I don’t let clutter overcome the order, which at all times Princess Ursula demands.”

“Um.” I nodded, looked around, and realized what truly was missing, what had been missing for the last few hours. “Where’s Pasqueta?”

“Gone,” Old Maria said in relish.

“Gone? As in—”

“Disappeared. I told the princess that girl was useless. I told her I could handle the caring for her without help. But nooo.” Old Maria snatched up her sewing, put in a couple of stitches, put it down.

“She had to bring in a strong young skirt who wanted dancing and laughter and men. I told her so. I told the princess, and now I’m proved right. ”

Doubtfully I said, “Pasqueta didn’t seem that young.”

Old Maria’s glare could have withered ripe apples on the tree. “Her tenure here is nothing compared to the time I’ve spent with Princess Ursula.”

I backtracked. I needed Old Maria cooperative, not angry with me.

“Right away, I recognized your loyalty. I said to myself, ‘That is a loyal woman.’ Yet I wonder, why would Pasqueta leave a position serving the dowager princess of Verona, with its privileges and the respect accorded her, and the knowledge that every woman in Verona would gladly take her place? She didn’t seem stupid to me. Did she seem so to you?”

“Not stupid at all.” In a tone scornful and disbelieving, she asked, “Why do you suppose she left to make a posset ?”

“Because Princess Ursula asked her?”

“She left the princess alone to be attacked.”

“She wasn’t alone. You were with her.”

“Princess Ursula and I are of an age and with like losses.” She flipped her hand at her ear.

“I didn’t wake, because I didn’t hear. Come, girl!

You know what I’m saying. You must have thought it yourself.

Pasqueta’s timing was too convenient. It takes a man to tear the bars off the wall outside, but it takes a woman with the morals of Eden’s snake to open the window from the inside to ease his way. ”

Yes, I had thought it. Despite Pasqueta’s assurances, I knew it was a possibility.

But she’d seemed too truly frightened of the ghost, and then of a man inside the palace.

“Yet . . . her disappearance is disturbing, too. Violence has been done to beloved Princess Ursula. Is someone methodically removing the protections set around her?”

Old Maria squinted at me, reluctant to abandon her pet theory, but recognizing if I was right, she was in the line of sight.

As she thought, her eyes moved craftily from side to side.

Abruptly she pulled her silver sewing needle from the cushion and pointed it around like a blade, thrusting it at Tommaso, at Cal’s guard, at me.

“I’ll defend the dowager princess to my death! ”

I leaned back. “Thank you. I’m proud to know I can depend on you.”

“Rosie!” Nurse stood in the entrance, dagger out, clad in a dark cloak.

I jumped to my feet, glad to see her; and at the same time, I knew at once I was needed. “Is it Mamma?”

“The babe is coming early.” Nurse leaned against the doorframe to catch her breath. “The midwife is nowhere to be found. Friar Laurence is busy with the wounded.”

I ran to get her a goblet of watered wine, and as she drank, I said, “And . . . ?” Because why couldn’t Nurse handle this birth? She had experience, more than I did.

“Lady Juliet fears I know not what, but she sent for you. She begs for you. You must come at once!”