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T he Montague family was preparing to go to the palace for that intimate dinner. The image should have conjured up glamour, excitement, music, food, and wine.

Alas, it was not so.

Earlier, Nurse had helped Mamma into her voluminous gown with a high waist to accommodate the baby bump. As always, Mamma personified glamour and beauty, Verona’s ideal noblewoman ripe with child.

Now in my bedroom, she reclined on my bed with pillows behind her shoulders and supervised as Nurse and her staff helped Katherina, Imogene, Emilia, and me into our layers of chemises, stockings, underskirts, bodices, and skirts.

In the adjoining bedroom, Papà had volunteered himself and his manservant to wrestle Cesario into his formal clothing.

For my sake, my sisters attempted to maintain their good humor, joking that because of the reported dismal state of dining at the palace, I should strap on the scabbard Nurse had given me, but leave out the dagger and instead stuff it full of bread, cheese, and dates.

Yet, as Emilia said morosely, that wasn’t funny when it sounded like such a good idea.

We did, of course, each have our eating knives attached to our belts with a scabbard, but we couldn’t leave those home any more than we could walk the streets without shoes. A guest who arrived at a meal without a blade would likely go home hungry and defenseless.

I had a new silk gown—bodice and skirt, never worn—made for Mamma before she fell pregnant.

The color, an intense teal, should have been too bold for an ingenue, but as Mamma said, I was too old to play that role, the prince was too sensible to expect it, and because she’d passed her dramatic coloring on to me, the color presented me like a dewy pearl in a velvet setting.

Overnight, Nurse had driven our seamstresses to lengthen the hem (I was taller than Mamma), let out the bodice (my shoulders and rib cage were broader than Mamma’s), and create a matching pearled cap to cover my dark hair and matching beaded sleeves to be laced onto the bodice.

I felt like the prize pig at an auction.

“ Should she carry a dagger?” Nurse was serious. “For the first time, she’s going to the palace as the prince’s betrothed, an important role in these treacherous times, and enemies may lurk in the dark corners and hidden places.”

No one scoffed. My recent ordeal with Verona’s first serial killer had left more scars than the one on my chest. We had discovered by grisly experience that a woman, no matter how protected, could discover danger where she least expected it.

“Yes!” Imogene was all about fighting.

“Not Lysander’s dagger,” Mamma warned. “Nor yours, good Nurse. The prince’s dagger is correct.”

When danger had first reared its head, both Nurse and Lysander had given me daggers, to strap one each onto my arms.

Prince Escalus had given me a dagger also, this one a stiletto to strap onto my ankle.

I had put them all to good use, and his dagger I had slipped into a scabbard lined with ribs and extinguished a beating heart. His dagger, wielded by me, had saved my own most wretched flesh, and for that, at least, I was grateful.

Nurse fetched the blade from the cupboard, knelt and buckled the worn leather onto my leg, then straightened my linen underskirt and velvet overskirt so no sign of it showed.

Now dressed, we girls lined up in front of the bed for Mamma’s preliminary inspection.

She clasped her hands over her heart. “My beautiful daughters!”

We were, of course. That’s not narcissism; when you’re raised knowing your parents are the most beautiful, romantic, admired couple in the known world, it follows that you, too, are a beauty.

We all have varying degrees of raven hair, golden skin, and well-lashed, large brown eyes.

Katherina and I had developed curvaceous figures; we assumed the younger girls would, too.

With another vision of pulchritude always following close behind me, I didn’t waste time on conceit.

Yet standing here, a jewelry box of silks and satins, gold embroidered sleeves and soft shawls woven in Nepal, we knew we were striking, even intimidating.

Nurse helped Mamma sit up.

“Now!” Mamma said. “Emilia, stop picking your nose. Katherina, lift your chin! No one will notice the pimple on your forehead.”

“How can they not?” Katherina snapped. “It’s a unicorn horn!”

Nurse studied it, then produced a yellow-colored salve that reduced the redness.

“Imogene, show me your hands.” Mamma looked at Imogene’s nails and shook her head. “Nurse, take her and use soap and a brush.”

As Nurse dragged her away, Imogene wailed a protest.

Mamma continued, “Emilia, forget you have a nose. Rosie, come here.” She held out her hand. I came and took it. “You’re handling this calmly. Are you feeling well?”

“Mamma, I would rage and cry if I thought it would do any good, but I recognize the truth of your words yesterday. I do take responsibility for my actions.” The certainty was, my world had fallen apart and I had moved from hot wrath to numb horror. “I’m resigned to my fate.”

Katherina snorted.

I looked at her. “In sooth, I am. I’ll be the wife of the podestà. I’ll be wealthy, wear beautiful clothing, host parties, be the envy of all Verona—”

“You don’t care about any of that stuff!” Emilia protested.

“No, but that’s what my life now will be.

Before Lysander, I’d schemed to stay here in the heart of Family Montague and be the maiden aunt to all the babies you would have.

I’d have been happy. To my surprise, I met Lysander and dared to dream I had at last discovered a love worthy of a progeny of Romeo and Juliet’s.

Then . . .” I lifted a despairing hand and let it fall.

Katherina was the daughter who always asked the right questions. “Did Prince Escalus explain why he was there instead of Lysander?”

“He said quite a few things. He wants a wife and he had specifications. Apparently, despite my temper and my unappreciated ability to shout loudly enough to make myself heard, he values me a master diplomat.” In reference to my ability to tactfully maneuver myself out of unwanted betrothals .

. . except the last one in which my betrothed was stabbed to death by the aforesaid serial killer.

That happened without any maneuvering on my part.

I promise you, it did.

“Diplomacy is good for the wife of the podestà.” Katherina nodded.

I shot her a glare, then remembered my resolve to remain stoic in the face of this adversity. “He said he liked my charming family.”

“Emilia, stop picking your nose!” Mamma commanded.

“It itches!” Emilia protested.

“Come here, child.” Mamma held a linen towel to Emilia’s face. “Now blow.”

Emilia honked.

“He’s in for a rude shock,” Katherina told me. “What else?”

“He wants an older sister to care for Princess Isabella.”

“You have the creds for that.” Katherina tried always to look on the bright side, but now in a biting tone, she added, “It would be pleasant if you could have been left in place to act the older sister to us. ”

I hugged her. “I’ll always be there when you have need of me.”

“Don’t wrinkle!” Nurse shrieked from the basin, where she scrubbed at Imogene’s hands.

We deftly separated.

“He said I’d proved myself to be a good household manager.

” (This was true; Mamma was a grand woman, but a disaster at managing the Casa Montague and I’d early taken the reins.) “And because I come from fertile stock, I’ll provide him with a crew of strong sons to row his barge and a flock of lovely daughters to listen, enraptured, as he spins the same tale over and over of his past triumphs. ”

The last was a jest of a kind; at the dinner table, Papà did enjoy repeating tales of his youth until we all cried, “Desist!” Not that he ever listened.

“He’s the prince. Of course, he wants heirs.” Mamma sounded prosaic.

“He did mention that,” I said, “and he seemed enthralled with filling the empty, echoing corridors of the palace with progeny.”

“Ahhh.” Mamma and Katherina sighed sentimentally. “How sweet.”

I covered my face with my hands. I know my place in society, but the hop from lifelong virgin to breeder of nations seemed sudden, jarring, and—considering the bedroom duties necessary to bring this about and the partner who had elected himself as my mate—a lot of work for a few minutes of what I assumed would be pleasure.

Someone tugged at my arm. I looked down into Emilia’s wide eyes. “Yuck,” she said.

“Thank you, Emilia. I couldn’t agree more.” I stared at the others. “Then he cited that I’d trusted him to rescue me from murder charges.”

“He did do that,” Katherina agreed.

“A lot of people helped with that,” I snapped. “He said I teased him. He seemed much struck by that.”

Mamma’s soft heart was wrung. “No laughter, no teasing. Since the deaths of his parents, Escalus the elder by assassination and dear Eleanor after she gave birth to Princess Isabella, Prince Escalus has lacked a normal family life.”

“He’s not like us,” Emilia said, and it wasn’t a compliment.

“He said something about admiring my courage.” Then I lied. “And that’s all.”

Imogene arrived holding out her distinctly cleaner hands as if they belonged to someone else, someone she didn’t know or like.

Nurse followed close on her heels, and she mocked me. “That’s all? Really? What about what he gave you?”

This woman had been my mother’s nurse and my nurse and supervised the care of all the children. She slept in my room, she bossed us all, and now she butted into the conversation when I least wanted her.

I glared, conveying my displeasure without words. “He didn’t give me anything. ” That I wanted to admit.

As was her wont, she blithely ignored my palpable hint. “After you met with him, you clutched something in your hand and held it to your heart.”

Mamma and my sisters all began to smile.

“Let me assist your faulty memory,” Nurse said. “When I asked you about it, you said he gave you something to think about.”

In exasperation, I said, “ La merda, woman, do you never cease your babbling?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Rosaline,” Mamma said automatically.

Nurse put on an innocent expression. “To be silent when I know the truth would be a sin of omission.”

My three sisters began circling like the brats they are. “What did he give you, Rosie? Did he give you a ring? Did he give you a kiss? Did he give his heart?”

“Definitely not his heart.” If he’d said he loved me, I might not return his affection, but I wouldn’t be quite so aggravated.

“We haven’t seen a ring,” Imogene said, “so—”

Katherina and Emilia chanted, “Oooo, a kiss. Rosie got a kiss. Rosie got a kiss. Rosie got a—”

“That’s enough, girls.” Mamma was firm, but smiling. “We must leave Rosie her secrets.”

“Humph.” Like that was going to happen in this household.

Papà staggered in, sweaty and exhausted, pushing Cesario ahead of him.

Tommaso, our young footman recently promoted to the position as Papà’s manservant, stood behind him, looking equally worn.

“Behold my son, perfectly dressed. Now I have to go change again. Don’t let him get dirty or tear anything.

I’ll be right back!” He sprinted out of my room and down the corridor to our parents’ suite, with Tommaso on his heels.

Cesario smiled, a cheerful imp, and struck a pose. “Princess Isabella will think I’m handsome and love me more than ever.”

“You’re a blister on the bottom of humanity”—if there was a choice between diplomacy and insult, Emilia always chose the insult—“and Princess Isabella knows it.”

“I am not!” Cesario shoved her with his hand.

“Are too.” Emilia shoved back.

“She does not!” He shoved.

“Does too!” She body shoved.

Nurse caught them both by the backs of the necks and held them apart. “You will both remain clean and unwrinkled until you arrive at the palace or I’ll personally wash and iron you while you’re in your clothing.”

Both kids relaxed so abruptly, they fell to the floor, where they remained until Papà arrived clad in an entirely different outfit. “To think I used to take an hour to dress,” he marveled. “Children have an unexpected way of changing your priorities.”

Mamma put her hand on her belly and half closed her eyes. “This child is much more placid than Cesario. Probably a girl.”

“No, Mamma, it’s a boy.” Imogene threw that off as if everyone should know. “He looks like Grandpapa Montague and he’ll make famous wines.”

We stared at her. Imogene had a most disconcerting way of predicting the future, which wouldn’t be a concern if she was wrong, but she was always right.

Time to turn the subject before someone mentioned witchcraft. “One thing about this visit,” I announced with robust, if unlikely, good humor, “there’s no way it can be as bad as we fear.”