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B arnadine. It was a relaxed and smiling Barnadine who stood there—tall, scrawny, and with a gaze so cold and stagnant, I knew it promised death.

“Sadly, no. I’m perfectly aware what’s happening here.” I didn’t like it, but I was aware. “You made yourself sound much like Elder, and you lured me up here to kill me.”

“No, he wouldn’t do that.” Confidently Elder gestured to Barnadine. “He’s my bodyguard. He’s sworn to protect me and my family. More than once, he’s saved my life as I saved his!”

If I hadn’t been concentrating on putting the pieces of this tragedy together, when the call wafted down the stairs, I would perhaps have realized the voice was not quite Elder’s voice. Rather than obey the call, I would have fled to Cal with my suspicions.

“He saved your life, only to take it,” I told Elder in pity, for he so wholeheartedly believed in Barnadine’s loyalty that I knew his no-longer-beating heart would break at this betrayal.

“Perhaps it would be better to allow little Callie to wed you and breed half-mad children. That would knock the family out of power nicely.” Barnadine’s once-fine clothing was still worn and stained with wine, his brown hair still thinning, but his eyes no longer shifted from side to side, nor were they bloodshot with excessive drink, and his jaw might be unshaven, but not even the concrete Roman aqueducts were so unyielding.

Somehow I wasn’t surprised that Barnadine was the assassin, for what had niggled at me was a resemblance .

. . but I was unprepared, carrying only the blade Cal had given me, and that at my ankle.

“Yes, Cal and I are catapulting toward our wedding, and if you judge me mad, that surely would be a greater . . .”

Still smiling, Barnadine shook his head.

“Why are you doing this?” I suppose I knew, but I had to ask.

Barnadine lost the smile. “Because you might be slipping down the slope into a frenzy of hell, but as you drop, you’re getting too close to the truth of the matter.”

“That you killed Prince Escalus the elder? You were the assassin who plunged the knife into his heart?”

Elder leaped to Barnadine’s defense once more. “That’s impossible! He fought beside me in the rebellion. He rushed ahead of me, ever protecting me from the mightiest thrusts, the most fanatical attacks. Without Barnadine, the Acquasassos would now rule Verona!”

I nodded to show I’d heard, spoke to Barnadine, and gave it my own twist. “You fought beside Prince Escalus, taking him into the heart of every battle, hoping you would lead him to death. To stay true to your vow, you schemed to get Elder killed.”

Elder insisted, “No, woman, listen. He—”

Barnadine interrupted the ghost he couldn’t hear.

“I dashed into the deepest, most dangerous part of every combat, knowing he’d consider that a challenge, and we fought back-to-back, like brothers, defending each other against any foe.

Even if I died myself, I’d sworn his blood would stain the earth.

But against all odds, we won. We always prevailed.

We gained a fearsome reputation, enough that as long as Prince Escalus the elder was alive, no one would ever again challenge the house of Leonardi.

” His breath now sounded like a death rattle.

“I stood alone on the battlefield of victorious honor, knowing I’d succeeded in one vow and failed in the other. ”

“Why?” Elder was clearly distraught and bewildered.

I had merely suspected the truth. Now I knew, and I paid attention to both men as I said, “Because Friar Camillo is more than a holy brother sponsored by your family. He’s your nephew . . . and the son of Prince Escalus the elder.”

“That’s not true!” Elder said.

He looked so upset, so completely stunned, I addressed him gently. “Elder, Friar Camillo doesn’t resemble your firstborn son, Escalus, but he does resemble you. ”

Elder reached up as if to touch his own incorporeal face. “Impossible.”

“All Verona knows you don’t like Callie. He trapped you.” Barnadine eased one step toward me. “You don’t want Callie.”

I don’t want to die, either. I eased one step back. “It took me time and space to see the resemblance. Elder, did you dishonor Barnadine’s sister?”

“Never.” Elder was insulted and emphatic. “I would never have disgraced Barnadine or his family.”

Barnadine eased forward again. “You already suffer melancholy and madness. Why not make this easy for me and fling yourself off the tower?”

Elder watched his former bodyguard, dazed, disheartened, disbelieving. “Dishonoring Barnadine’s sister would have been an abuse of princely power, and for such action, I stood to lose all. For to so shame the man who guarded my back would be foolish.”

Elder’s reasoning was so eminently logical, he gave me pause. I faced Barnadine head-on. “Elder says he didn’t do it. Who’s your sister?”

Barnadine stopped, and his features twisted in anguish. “She’s dead to the world.”

“Who was your sister?” One must be patient with men’s need to never speak of painful events. One must be ready to draw out the story in excruciatingly slow increments.

“The fair Helena, the youngest flower of our family, born almost as an afterthought to my parents’ love.

She was a blessing, so pretty, so modest, so happy, the maiden who lifted our hearts.

I was the oldest, one of two sons, one who would fight as my father had for the house of Leonardi.

From Helena’s earliest days, I listened and approved as my parents spoke of her destiny.

Her purity shone from her like a golden light, and she would take her vows as a bride of Christ.” Barnadine’s voice grew hoarse with emotion. “Always we knew that. Always.”

“Ringing any bells?” I asked Elder.

“No Helenas I recall. No golden light of purity on any—” He stopped speaking so suddenly, I knew he’d remembered . . . something.

Barnadine continued his recollections. “Before Helena entered the convent, she begged for one taste of life.”

I watched Elder’s revealing expression. “Life?”

“Nothing dishonorable!” Barnadine put his hand over his heart as if to contain its ache. “A party, a whirl of gaiety among the ladies and gentlemen of Verona.”

We were getting close to the crux of the matter. “Where did you take her?”

“That day, we celebrated the festival of St. Peter of Verona. In the morning, the people prayed. I prayed. Helena prayed. My family prayed. In the night, revelry filled the streets. All of Verona donned masks to laugh, drink . . . fornicate.”

Elder stumbled backward as if to collapse against the wall. Instead he vanished into it, which would have been funny except. . . this was in no way amusing. This was a living tragedy of brother and sister, husband and wife, illicit love, death and murder, past and present, over and over.

Now Elder knew the truth. Now, when it was too late.