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E xcept that Barnadine staggered sideways and slammed me on the head with his elbow. The impact twisted me sideways. My foot slipped, my hands lost their grip, and I fell.

As the uprights flew by, I grabbed them, shoved my elbows between them.

A hand seized the back of my bodice.

I jerked to a halt; my ribs slammed against the bottom edge of the balcony. My shoulders felt as if they’d been wrenched out of their sockets. One slipper fell from my foot.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe.

Then I could. I sucked in one huge breath of air after another.

Above me, a man’s voice shouted . . . something.

Elder? He’d done great things to Barnadine, but could he have grabbed me and helped halt my descent?

I worked my hands in and around to hook my elbows around the stone posts. The apparently corporeal hand still gripped me, and I dangled there, gasping in pain and fear, heart thumping.

I’d spent my whole life making fun of the maidens in plays who when in peril screamed and kicked.

A new enlightenment took me; forthwith I understood screaming and kicking was a totally reasonable response to dangling in midair, weighed down, muscles clenched, joints straining, fighting for breath, knowing at any minute I could fall and thus end my sinful, joyous, conflict-ridden life.

I pressed my face between the uprights, closed my eyes, heard the thumps and the yells as Cal fought Barnadine.

Cal was fighting Barnadine.

I opened my eyes again.

The two men danced back and forth, each with a dagger in one hand and a stiletto in the other, so close to each other the blades flashed sunlight across their faces.

Above, the man shouted again, and this time I understood him. “I’m holding you, Lady Rosaline. I shall not fail you!”

Friar Camillo! Somehow Friar Camillo had recovered consciousness, staggered to his feet, and caught me in time.

Elder shouted, “Good man, my son!” He flung himself—his essence?—onto the floor and put his face close to mine. “Friar Camillo grasps you in one fist and has his arm braced around the rail. He can’t lift you alone, and I’m afraid to help.”

I shook my head vigorously. Blessed Mother Mary, no, I didn’t want Elder sparking Friar Camillo. Or me. “Does he see you?” I whispered. “Does he hear you?”

“No. No.”

In a louder voice, I said, “I do see you . . . and you’re blocking my view!”

Elder huffed and vanished.

Cal and Barnadine fought.

I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t look away.

Cal was younger, faster on his feet, but had been lamed in the dungeon all those years ago, and as the battle continued, that slight limp grew more exaggerated. Yet his features betrayed no concern, only an expectant concentration and almost smiling calm.

Barnadine drew on a deep reservoir of experience .

. . and desperation. He’d discarded the noble mask he’d worn for so long, of grieving bodyguard and loyal citizen.

His lips curled back from his stained teeth, his hands held his blades almost lightly, his deadly gaze scrutinized Cal for weakness.

He fought for his sister, his nephew, his family honor.

He fought to win, for he had nothing to lose.

He had killed Elder, the podestà of Verona, and deserved death for such a betrayal to his lord.

Cal fought to avenge his father, and that meant death for Barnadine.

If Barnadine killed the current podestà of Verona, never mind hell—he would die a horrible death at the hands of Cal’s soldiers.

Elder danced back and forth, watching the fight with the same intensity that enticed me to forget the horror of dangling far above the ground. I couldn’t, but it was now frankly second in my mind.

“Help him!” I commanded Elder.

“I can’t help him!”

I thought he meant—he was a ghost and so incapable of influencing the events. So I reminded him, “Yes, you can. You did it before. Zap Barnadine!”

He didn’t turn his head to speak to me; he kept his attention on the battle. “Cal wouldn’t thank me for assisting. This battle he must win himself.”

“What matters is that he eliminate Barnadine!”

“Cal is a warrior. He doesn’t need or want his papà’s help. Have faith, child. I see what you don’t.”

“What?”

“Strategy.”

What I saw was a man more and more in pain, leaning to one side, off balance and—

Swift as a striking snake, Barnadine’s stiletto stabbed Cal in the chest.

I flinched. Cal. Sweet Mary, Mother of God. Cal!

Along the sides of my bodice, threads popped.

Friar Camillo’s grip slipped. He shouted, “Lady Rosaline, don’t move!”

Quickly, even before tears could fill my eyes, Cal dropped his dagger, grabbed Barnadine’s free wrist, and twisted so hard that the bones broke with audible cracks.

Barnadine screamed.

Cal placed the point of his stiletto between Barnadine’s ribs.

Barnadine lurched sideways, and in an act of defiance in the face of unbearable pain, he fell forward, using his body weight to shove his blade farther into Cal’s chest—but somehow it didn’t budge.

Instead Barnadine impaled himself on the glittering steel all the way to the hilt.

Blood gushed. He hung for a moment, staring into Cal’s eyes with what looked like approval. “I taught you that trick,” he breathed.

“You did. And you failed because I’m wearing the leather shirt your father made for mine. That’s justice.”

“Yes . . . he’s here, your father. He’s glad.”

Cal gave a harder heave on his stiletto and hurled Barnadine back. Barnadine stumbled, fell to his knees, crumpled onto his back . . . and died.

Elder stared soberly down at his disloyal bodyguard, his hated friend, his beloved enemy. “I am glad.”

I wanted to clap. I wanted Cal to yank Barnadine’s stiletto out of his own chest and be well. Most of all . . . I wanted someone to pull me to safety.

It’s true. As soon as the final battle was over, all my selfish concern was for me.

And for Friar Camillo, who now began to make groaning sounds and adjust his grip on my bodice as if his strength would fail even now.

I knew how Friar Camillo must feel, holding on for dear life against the irresistible force that dragged me down to the earth where inevitably I must find my final rest. But not when life tasted so sweet. Not yet! Not now!

Cal paid no attention to Barnadine’s sprawled corpse.

He turned toward me, his concentration focused on my face as I plastered it between the upright stones like a child confined to a playroom.

He tossed the stiletto out of his chest, as if flicking a mosquito out of his way, and as he rushed to the rail, he wiped his hand, red with Barnadine’s blood, on his doublet.

Over my head, I heard his voice as he spoke to Friar Camillo, encouraging him, praising Friar Camillo’s generosity and courage, promising him nursing and care for his wounds,

Cal spoke to me, not encouraging at all, but brusque and demanding, telling me my strength would endure, that I had to hang on for the brief time until he hoisted himself in place. Then he said, loudly and clearly, “Rosie, I’m directly above you. Do you see me?”

I barely shook my head. I was afraid to move, to loosen a single muscle, to change my position in any way.

“Rosie, look up!” He used the voice of a commander.

Like an obedient soldier, I looked up.

His shoulders and head hung over the broad edge of the rail. His arm stretched toward me, his palm and fingers large, reaching, open. “Friar Camillo will continue to hold you. I’m here to grasp you. All you have to do is loosen one elbow, so do that now.”

Slowly I started to straighten my right arm. My weight shifted; I gasped and kinked it once again.

“Friar Camillo needs relief. Let go with one arm and grab my hand.”

I stared at Cal, my betrothed . . . the lunatic.

“Rosie, there’s no other way,” he said. “Friar Camillo’s strength is failing.”

“Trust the boy!” Elder urged. “He’s right. It’s the only way.”

Cal spoke over the top of him. “Rosie, you have to let go and reach for me.”

In some part of my mind, I understood the words. I even believed him. But what he suggested was impossible. I’d scoffed at the fear of heights. Now no other thought occupied my mind except terror. Over and over, my brain gibbered the instruction: Hold on.

“Reach for me.” Cal’s hand strained closer.

I looked down and back across the safe, and now inaccessible, stretch of floor that separated the rail from the wall. Cal’s feet were nowhere in sight, which meant he’d wrapped his body around the stone as support, and the largest part of his bulk hung over the railing, and—

“Reach for me,” Cal said.

We could both fall!

“Rosaline Hortensa Magdelina Eleanor!” Cal commanded. “Give me your hand!”

I released a defiant bellow, abandoned safety, and reached.