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Chapter Text

1. In Her Crystal Looks

Silvia sighed as she gazed out of the window of the carriage. The landscape passed by in an endless stream of fields and pastures. Her back hurt from the endless little jolts of the carriage and from sleeping in camp beds at night. On the seat next to her, her maid Ursula sat fast asleep and snoring, her head bowed on her bosom. Across from her, the lady Julia, who had recently been the page Sebastian, made a valiant effort at embroidery. Silvia shifted until she was half lying on her side, her nose pressed against the window. Sitting like this, she could just see the edge of the carriage in front of hers, in which rode her father, the Duke of Milan, as well as Valentine Rinuccini and Proteus Battistoni, the two young gentlemen of Verona who had tumbled into her life and upended it.

Silvia wished that her father had allowed her to travel with Valentine; after all, he was her betrothed, which was so close to marriage that there was surely no impropriety in traveling with him. She longed to ask him about Verona and about his family, which would be hers upon her marriage. She supposed that she could always ask Julia about the city, but Julia was a quiet companion, and Silvia was reluctant to engage her in conversation, for fear that the subject would turn to Proteus. That misunderstanding was resolved, yet Silvia still could not bring herself to speak to Julia as a friend. So she sat in her seat, bored and weary, counting the hours until the evening. They had been traveling for three days already, and according to her father, they would arrive in Verona a few hours past sunset.

The carriage rocked and swayed. Julia's stitches grew slower, until she laid the embroidery down on her lap and allowed her head to nod over it. Silvia tried her best to stay awake, pinching the soft skin on the inside of her wrist and making games of counting all the animals that they passed along the wayside. But eventually, weariness and boredom overtook her, and she allowed herself to slip into dreams of her future as a gracious matron of Verona.

Hours later, Silvia came awake with a jolt, and scrubbed at her eyes in confusion. Her entire body ached, and the light was wrong. Beside her, Ursula and Julia were also stirring. Julia yawned as she stuffed her embroidery into a little bag. Ursula prodded Silvia's shoulder.

"Awake, madam," she murmured. "We have arrived within Verona's walls."

Silvia sat up with a groan and looked out the window. The coach was rumbling over roughly paved streets, which must have been the source of her awakening. The night was dark, but pages rode alongside the coach bearing torches to light their way. Silvia could not see much of the city through the glare of the torches, but she did catch a glimpse of buildings here and there, and that was enough to reassure her that they were in a city, at least.

Ursula began to fuss over Silvia, fluffing her collar and patting loose strands of hair into place. "Would that our arrival had been more timely," she mourned, "for then my lady would appear more radiant, as befits the bride she is to be."

Julia pulled at her shoulder, trying to stretch the stiffness out of it. "I fear that we shall none of us be rival to great Helen this night," she said, "but Proteus and Valentine will doubtless be no rivals to Adonis, for they have traveled even as we have done."

"I care not for any beauty this night," Silvia replied, "save only the beauty of a well-appointed couch for my weary limbs."

Julia laughed. "How is it that a body may grow so weary from no more exertion than simply sitting in a coach?"

Silvia tossed a wry smile at her. "An I knew to answer that, I should shine above all the sages of the world."

The carriage slowed, then came to a stop with a jerk. Silvia peered out the window. Through the torchlight, she could see that they were in a courtyard, and that a group of people had gathered to greet them. Her father emerged from his carriage, followed by Valentine and Proteus, all three of them walking awkwardly on legs that had too long been idle. The Duke approached the waiting group, but Silvia had no time to see what he did, for a page opened the door of the carriage, and she saw Valentine's joyous face at last.

He extended his hand to assist her down from the carriage, and she was glad of it, for she thought that her legs would give way beneath her. Proteus offered the same assistance to Julia as Valentine led Silvia forward.

The Duke turned as they approached, and smiled to a tall, hawklike man in fine robes who stood at the head of the waiting group. "See where she comes! Lord Prince, I give you my daughter, the Lady Silvia."

"That is mine uncle, Escalus, the Prince of Verona," Valentine murmured in Silvia's ear.

Silvia attempted a graceful curtsey, but her legs were so stiff that she could manage only a rough bob. Nevertheless, Prince Escalus gazed kindly upon her.

"She is fair, and courteous as well," he said. "Be welcome in Verona, Lady Silvia." He turned back to the Duke. "Will you enter into my house, sir, and be pleased to accept the quarters that I have caused to be prepared for you and your household? It is passing late, and we will speak of business on the morrow."

Silvia smiled to hear those words, and allowed herself to be led up the steps and into the palace. A tall lady with a plain, kindly face detached herself from the group and put an arm around Silvia's shoulders. "I am the Countess Helena," she said, "who is to become kinswoman to thee in due course, I think. Come, I shall show thee to a chamber where thou mayst rest."

Silvia stifled a yawn and bade Valentine farewell. She followed Helena up a flight of stairs and through several corridors until at last a door opened, and she laid eyes on a sumptuous bed. Chambermaids stepped forward to undress her, and she was asleep even before she had fully laid herself down to rest.

When the chambermaid came to open the curtains in the morning, Silvia finally had the chance to see her new surroundings. Her bed was large and soft, clothed in white linen and veiled with curtains of velvet and gauze. Beyond the curtains was a friendly guest chamber, its walls covered with frescoes depicting scenes from the lives of the saints. A large chest of carved wood stood at the foot of the bed, and one of Silvia's gowns was draped over it. The ceiling was of dark wood, but was high enough that the room did not seem oppressive.

Silvia washed her face and hands in the basin that the chambermaid brought to her. Ursula was shown in, shook out Silvia's gown, and maneuvered it over her head. "Wilt thou stay in Verona, then?" Silvia asked.

Ursula pulled at the laces of the gown. "Ay, madam, if it be your will and that of the Prince of this city. Your lord father thought that you should have someone familiar with you."

"Ay, and I shall thank him for his kindness, and thee as well."

Ursula pulled the sleeves up over Silvia's arms and laced them to her bodice. Then she handed Silvia her mirror and picked up brush and comb. "If it please you, madam, I have spoken with Lady Helena's maid, and she has instructed me in the ways that the ladies of Verona arrange their hair."

Silvia examined her hair in the mirror. It was long enough, though rather a reddish blonde, and would be sleek after Ursula had brushed it. "Ay," she said after a moment. "I should enjoy seeing myself in the style of this city. Let my adventures begin!"

Ursula laughed. "Have you not had enough of adventure being captured by outlaws in the forest, my lady?"

"That was not an adventure, for I was terrified the whole time," Silvia replied. She adjusted her grip on the mirror, and nodded to Ursula to begin her work.

Silvia descended the stairs feeling decidedly regal in her new hairstyle, in which a coil of braids sat upon her crown as in Milan, but was softened by a veil of loose hair descending below it to curl about her shoulders. The first person she saw was Countess Helena, who was attended by her maid and a small, toddling child. Helena clapped her hands in delight when she saw Silvia.

"Oh, thou hast adopted our new fashion!" she cried. "It becomes thee marvelous well. See what a little sleep may do; thou art as fair as the morning and twice as radiant." She leaned over and kissed Silvia's cheeks in welcome.

Silvia thanked her, then glanced down at the toddler. It frowned at her and tried to hide behind Helena's skirts. Helena laughed, and scooped the child into her arms. "Fear not, Dionisio," she said. "Hast thou no kind greeting for thy new Aunt Silvia?" She smiled at Silvia. "This is my son, Dionisio. He is shy and ware of thee, but I think that will pass in time."

Silvia waved her hand at Dionisio. "He is lovely, so pink and healthy. I should like to give Valentine such a son."

"I am sure that thou wilt do so," Helena said. "Wilt thou come now and greet thy new family?"

She led Silvia through the corridors to a day salon. Valentine was there, accompanied by three other gentlemen whom Silvia remembered vaguely from the night before. "Where are Proteus and Julia?" she asked.

"They have gone to their families," Helena said. "They are to be married in a ceremony along with thee and Valentine." She gave Silvia a little push, and Silvia stepped into the day salon and curtsied.

Valentine immediately rushed to her side. "Nay, gentle Silvia, rise, for thou art in the company of my kinsmen." His smile lit the room, as it had done from the first moment she had laid eyes on him at her father's court in Milan, and he took her hand and kissed it with such reverence that she might have been the Pope himself.

The oldest of the accompanying gentlemen stepped forward and gave a gallant bow. "I am County Paris, cousin to Valentine," he said. "I look forward to welcoming thee into our home." At the door, Dionisio squirmed in Helena's arms, and Paris excused himself. Silvia noted the resemblance and realized that Paris must be Dionisio's father and therefore Helena's husband. That was good to know. She turned her attention back to Valentine.

Valentine paused, and his cheeks flushed. Silvia's heart melted at that blush, as it had done since the first time she had laid eyes on him, and she smiled. Encouraged, Valentine indicated the other two young gentlemen in the room. "I would present to thee Mercutio and Benvolio, my brothers."

Both men bowed to her in turn. Mercutio was the taller, and resembled Valentine in many points, though Silvia was relieved to see that she had chosen the handsomer of the two. Benvolio did not resemble either one in the slightest, and was dark where they were fair. Silvia puzzled over this for a moment, and then recalled a lord in her father's court who had gotten a serving maid with child and had raised the bastard girl along with his legitimate sons and daughters when the maid had not survived the birth. Having had all of those children as playmates, Silvia felt that she understood the particular trials of bastardy, and resolved to treat Benvolio with particular kindness.

"Thou art welcome here, Lady Silvia," Mercutio said, "and it will be my joy to name thee sister. I am sure that thy charms must be potent, to inspire one so retiring as Valentine to the heroic deeds that he has recounted to us."

He winked at Valentine as he spoke, and Valentine's blush grew fiercer. "Perhaps I spoke rashly," he murmured, and Mercutio, Benvolio, and Silvia all had to laugh. "I did dwell with a band of outlaws," Valentine said, "and they did declare me their chief, for a brief while."

"That much we know to be true," Benvolio replied. "The Duke of Milan's pardon of those men will cause many letters to be sent between the Duke of Mantua and our Prince. I do not envy the secretaries."

"Another joy that the Hospital has brought to thy life," Mercutio said. To Silvia, he added, "Benvolio and I have charge of the Innocents' Hospital, a home where the orphans and undesired children of this city may find refuge. We will show it to thee when thou hast accustomed thyself to thy new home."

Silvia smiled. "I should enjoy that," she said. It struck her that, once she was a married lady, it would be appropriate to become patroness of some charitable organization. She thought back to her bastard playmate Agnella, whose kindly disposition she saw mirrored in Benvolio's easy laugh, and decided that she would be pleased to give her favor to a place that gave shelter to children of unfortunate birth.

The Duke of Milan declared the Veronese court a fine home for his daughter, and spent several hours closeted with the Prince, emerging with an agreement that named Valentine temporary heir to the city until such time as Silvia produced a son, who would then become heir, with Valentine to serve as regent should the necessity arise. Silvia worried that Valentine would feel himself slighted by this arrangement, but he quickly put her fears to rest. "I do not desire to rule a city," he explained, "and I shall be happy to hand that task to a son . . . whom I am eager to create," he added quietly, his blush accentuating his shining blue eyes.

Silvia turned modestly away as her own face burned. "So long as thou dost not feel thyself deprived," she murmured.

"I count myself a wealthy man," Valentine assured her, "for all that I have ever desired in life, I have in thee."

Something melted pleasurably inside Silvia at those words, and she took Valentine's face in her hands to kiss him as thoroughly as maidenly modesty would allow. Valentine shifted against her, and they might have tossed decorum to the four winds had Ursula not appeared in the doorway.

"Beg pardon, madam," she said, "but the seamstress has arrived to attend to the final details of your wedding attire."

With a sigh and a final kiss, Silvia disengaged herself from Valentine and followed Ursula to her chamber.

Chapter Text

2. One Feast, One House

Silvia rose before dawn on her wedding day, and spent the first hour in prayer. Ursula and two other young maids arrived just before dawn bearing Silvia's gown and other sundries. Silvia had bathed the night before, and now the maids dressed her in a fine new gown of silk brocade dyed with indigo and stockings of a paler blue. Silvia stepped into dainty, embroidered silk slippers, and sat down so that Ursula could brush and arrange her hair.

After only a little fussing about the particular style, Ursula twisted and pinned Silvia's hair, and then attached a thin blue veil to the coif. As a final touch, she reached into a box and withdrew a wreath of orange blossoms, which she settled atop the veil. One of the young maids gave Silvia a hand mirror, and she gazed into it in astonishment. Veiled in blue and crowned with orange blossoms, she looked like a bride. Ursula clapped her hands with glee.

"My lady's beauty will surpass all else today," she cried.

"Save only Julia's," Silvia answered, making sure to keep her tone light and gentle, though privately she hoped that she would indeed be the fairer bride. It was not that she did not like Julia, and she was glad to see Proteus safely married to another woman, but all the same, she did wish that Valentine had not been so quick to declare that he and Proteus should share a wedding day.

There was a gentle knock on the door. "Come in," Silvia called.

Countess Helena entered, gowned in deep violet. Her breath caught a little when she saw Silvia. "Art thou nearly ready?" she asked. "The Prince and the Duke are nearly finished with the contracts, and the players have arrived. I am to attend thee to the church."

"I thank thee, Lady Helena," Silvia said, more gratefully than she had expected. She had not known till then how much she would miss her old playmates, left behind in Milan.

Helena laughed. "Come now, it is thy wedding day. We are as near to being sisters as shall make no difference. Wilt thou not call me by my name?"

"Helena," Silvia murmured, suddenly shy.

Helena reached out and took Silvia's hand. "Come, sister mine," she said. "To the church! Thy bridegroom awaits thee." She gave Silvia's hand a quick squeeze and escorted her out the door.

When Helena and Silvia arrived at St. Peter's church, the Prince's secretary was there to meet them and usher them into a sitting room in a building that overlooked the piazza where the church stood. The Duke of Milan had arrived some time earlier and rose to greet the ladies. "Come," he said, "take places by the window. We shall have a fine view of the proceedings, and thou shalt not wilt in the sun, my daughter."

Silvia sat down in the chair that her father indicated, wondering what had become of her wedding. Helena noticed her puzzled frown, and sat down beside her.

"I spoke with Valentine two nights past," she murmured. "I told him that, though I found his resolve to share his wedding day with his friend admirable, few young brides would wish to compete with another, especially one they do not yet name friend."

"Julia has been nothing but kind to me," Silvia protested.

Helena nodded. "Of that I am sure, but I am just as sure that thou dost not know her well, certainly not in the way that Valentine and Proteus know one another. Therefore, we have hit upon a compromise. Valentine and Proteus may share a wedding Mass, but the ceremonies themselves will be separate."

"I see." It was a lovely idea, and Silvia was glad that Helena had thought of it. It was just the sort of thing she had imagined that one sister might do for another, and she thrilled to realize that Helena had meant what she had said earlier.

Though Helena could not possibly have known it, her ingenuity had relieved another of Silvia's secret fears. Now she could watch in secluded and guarded comfort as Proteus, who had tried to force both his affections and his body upon her, was safely wedded to the woman he professed to love. Freed of her secret worry that Proteus might charge down from the steps of the church to her side, Silvia could notice the details that she loved about ceremonies. She could see how Proteus puffed himself up with pride, how the priest stumbled as he read, and how gracefully Julia moved in her pale pink wedding gown.

Julia had traveled all the way to Milan on her own in order to find Proteus, which spoke of a certain strength of spirit as well as a true and loving heart. Silvia decided that Julia might be a good friend to have after all, especially after their weddings, when Proteus could no longer come between them.

Proteus kissed Julia as the church bells rang, but Silvia had only a moment to let her heart flutter, for her father laid his hand on her shoulder. "Make thyself ready, child, for our time is upon us."

Quickly, Silvia rose from her chair and allowed Helena to straighten her skirts, rearrange her veil, and fluff the crown of orange blossoms on her head. There was a knock on the door, and Ursula slipped into the room. "Master Valentine and his party have taken up their places at the church door, madam," she said, and pressed a small bouquet of herbs into Silvia's hand.

The Duke nodded his thanks, and offered his arm. Silvia took his elbow, and saw that her father was trembling a little. Helena preceded them out of the sitting room and down to the street below. Just before the doors opened, Silvia's father gave her a brilliant, tearful smile, and leaned over to kiss her forehead, just as he had done when she was a little girl. Then the doors swung wide, the royal trumpets sounded, and the Duke of Milan marched proudly with his daughter toward the church.

The moment of the wedding ceremony was so full of color and light that it did not seem real to Silvia, and for years afterward, she retained but one clear memory of the event. As she approached the steps of the church, Mercutio, who was attending his brother, turned Valentine around to face his bride. Upon seeing her, Valentine shivered all over, and a smile that fair outshone the sun spread across the sharp planes of his face. His bright eyes drank in the sight of her as she ascended the steps, and the Duke embraced him firmly before he placed Silvia's hand in Valentine's.

So they were married.

Prince Escalus had declared feasts and games for all of Verona to celebrate the two weddings. Silvia had no time to be nervous about the upcoming wedding night, for she and Valentine rushed from event to event, from horsemanship display to feast to dancing. She was introduced to a quick succession of Verona's worthies, and her head was awhirl with all of the Capulets, Grassos, Algardis, Montagues, Neris, Orsinis, and Salutatis that she met. She looked around in the crowd to see if she could find Julia. She thought she spied a pale pink wedding gown. "Julia?" she asked.

The lovely green-eyed woman who turned around was not Julia, and her dress was not pink as Silvia had thought, but lavender. "Nay, not I," she said with a laugh. "I am Juliet, Lady Montague."

Silvia's cheeks burned. "A thousand pardons, Lady," she gasped. "I have met so many new people this day -"

"Oh, do not fear," Juliet said. "Thou art as highly strung as any young bride, and if any in this city hath the right to mistake Juliet for Julia, it should be thee."

Silvia dropped a quick curtsey for thanks. "Thou art - thou didst name thyself Lady Montague?"

"Ay. I am wife to Romeo, the son of Tiberio, Lord Montague."

"Oh." Silvia recalled that she had been introduced to a Lord Montague, and vaguely remembered a kindly, bearded man with sad eyes.

"Lord Montague's wife died this past winter, so I am now the Lady of that house," Juliet went on. She pointed to a clot of young men surrounding Valentine. "There is Romeo, his son who is my husband. He has been a friend of thy Valentine for many years."

Silvia looked where Juliet pointed, and saw a handsome young man with a quick smile slapping Valentine on the back as he said something that made Valentine flush and made Mercutio and Benvolio roar with laughter. "He is a fine man," she murmured. "Has he . . . has he been good to thee, Lady Montague?"

Juliet did not answer immediately. She looked at Silvia for a long moment, her head tilted to one side, and her lips pursed thoughtfully. "Come with me to seek shade and a quiet corner," she said.

Grateful for a chance to escape the crowd of strangers, Silvia followed Juliet into an empty antechamber. Juliet glanced quickly around to ensure that they were alone, then smiled at Silvia. "I cannot think why thou wouldst care whether or not my husband, whom thou knowest not, is kind to me, whom thou hast only just met," she said. "Wilt thou not say what truly ails thee?"

Silvia was glad of the dim light in the antechamber, for Juliet could not see the blush that warmed her face. "It is nothing," she murmured. "Save only the fears of any maiden as the wedding day draws to a close. I should not have such fears, for it was I who engendered mine own state, it was I who first uttered words of love . . ." Her voice trailed off as she took in Juliet's impish smile.

"I know thy fears, and I condemn thee not," Juliet assured her. "No matter how brightly thy love burns, thou art the one who must bear the burden and receive thy lord inside, and any maid may be undone at the thought. But I tell thee now, be of good courage. As in thy courtship, so should it be in thy marriage. Be honest, and tell thy husband what thou dost and dost not desire. An I know Valentine, he will be glad of the guidance."

"Dost thou know him, Lady Montague?" Silvia wondered if she ought to be jealous of such a charming friend as Juliet.

"As my husband's friend," Juliet assured her. "I might have been his kinswoman, for I was betrothed to County Paris some years past. But love had his way with me in the end, and I am content to be Lady Montague. As I am sure that thou wilt be content to be Lady Rinuccini," she added.

"Lady Rinuccini," Silvia repeated. She found that she enjoyed the feeling of the words in her mouth. Well, Juliet had survived her wedding night, and Silvia would do the same.

The feasting reached a wine-soaked climax as Proteus downed several goblets in quick succession, egged on by a crowd of his compatriots. Silvia turned away from the sight of his slobbering mouth and found herself facing Valentine. Terrified that he had been guzzling wine as well, she shrank away, but Valentine put out a gentle hand to stop her.

"Gentle Silvia, sweet my Silvia, why art thou frightened?" he asked.

Silvia could not speak, but glanced over her shoulder at the drinking contest. Valentine followed her gaze and flushed red. "Nay, doubt me not, loving Silvia," he said. "My brothers and their friends have enjoined me most strictly, and I have not partaken of a single drop. I shall not spoil what is to come."

He seemed sober, and he smelled of sweaty man, but not of wine. Silvia relaxed, and leaned against his chest. His arms closed around her, and for a moment, her fears vanished. Valentine shifted his weight, and his posture became uncomfortable.

"Silvia?"

She raised her head and saw that his breathing had quickened. "Ay?"

"Perhaps . . . wouldst thou . . . " Valentine cleared his throat. "Shall we leave this feast behind us?"

He looked almost as terrified as she was. Silvia remembered Juliet's words, and found a small pearl of courage within herself. She pushed away from Valentine's embrace and took his hand. "Ay, husband," she said, letting the word sit deliciously on her tongue.

They turned toward the door, but were stopped by peals of laughter. Mercutio, Benvolio and Romeo strode towards them and seized Valentine's arms. Helena sprinted in just behind them, with Ursula in tow, both of them giggling madly. Valentine made an awkward croak of protest as he was steered away from Silvia. Mercutio turned back briefly, and the mischief in his eyes softened for a moment.

"Fear not, sister mine," he said quietly. "We will send thy bridegroom to thee after we have schooled him in urgent matters." His hand rested gently on her shoulder, and then stroked as softly as a feather down her cheek, and then he was gone, taking Valentine with him.

Silvia had no time to wonder at their departure. Helena and Ursula escorted her upstairs to the bridal chamber, where the bed was decked with soft, dark blue sheets. Swiftly, they changed her bridal gown for a nightgown of white silk, and tucked her into bed. They departed with blown kisses and squeals of advice that Silvia could not hear over the pounding of her heart. For a few moments, she was left utterly alone.

She did not have much time to brood over her situation. Only a few moments after Helena and Ursula left, the door opened again, and Valentine stumbled into the chamber. Reflexively, Silvia clutched the sheets up to her chin, and stared at him. He looked just as bewildered as she felt. Somewhere in his brothers' company, Valentine had lost his hat, his doublet, his trunks, and his shoes. His hose had been unlaced, and had begun to sag around his legs, and his shirt hung untucked and crooked about his hips.

Silvia took another look, and realized that the shirt was not actually crooked, but rather . . . extended. It looked so much like the camp tents of the Milanese army that she had to stifle a giggle. Valentine frowned in puzzlement, then glanced down at his groin, and hastily flattened his hands over himself, his fair skin reddening again. All of a sudden, Silvia realized what Juliet had meant about being of good courage. It seemed that Valentine, her strong, brave, attentive Valentine, was just as nervous as she was.

That thought bolstered Silvia's heart. She favored Valentine with a small, mysterious smile, and ducked completely beneath the sheets. Thus shielded from his view, she wriggled out of the silken nightgown and kicked it to the foot of the bed. Then she took a deep breath and poked her head out from beneath the sheet.

Valentine froze, caught in the act of peeling off his hose. Silvia took a deep breath and sat up, allowing the sheet to fall to her waist, exposing her naked torso to his view. Valentine stood transfixed until she held out her arms, then stumbled over his half-discarded hose in an effort to dash to the bed and collapsed on the floor with a thud. For a moment, Silvia feared he had injured himself, but love proved stronger than clumsiness, and he rose to his feet again and made his way to the bed without further incident. He opened his mouth, but said nothing, as love, lust and awe chased each other across his face.

A strange ache squirmed between Silvia's legs, and her fear melted and vanished in the warmth that spread through her. No longer amazed at her own boldness, she reached for Valentine's shirt and took it off him, drinking in the sight of his nakedness at last. She ran her hand down his chest and felt him shudder, then squealed in surprise as he returned the favor, reaching out to caress her breasts. He smiled at that, and the tension between them broke at last. Feeling brazen as an Amazon, Silvia reached for Valentine's erection and delighted in his gasped response.

Willingly, he followed where she led him, as he had done throughout their courtship. Together they began to explore the new territory of their bodies, laughing and whispering, two children playing with a longed-for, new-given toy.

Chapter Text

3. To Confer Of Home Affairs

Silvia woke in the dead of night certain that something important was happening, but she could not fathom what it might be. The bed was warmer than she was accustomed to, and it smelled sharp and strange. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard someone weeping. Silvia rolled over and raised herself up on her elbows, wondering if she ought to investigate.

Valentine shifted his body sleepily, and reached out to place a heavy arm across Silvia. "No fear," he murmured, not quite awake. "Mercutio cries. Benvolio will soothe him. Sleep now."

Puzzled, but too sleepy herself to pay much heed to Valentine's words, Silvia nestled back down at his side and pressed herself along the hot length of him. She wiggled a little to find a comfortable position, and Valentine laughed. "Wilt thou squirm?" he asked.

His mouth covered hers, and his fingers sought out the secret folds of her quim. Soon, all of Silvia's confusion had drained from her mind, and she squirmed mightily indeed. Spent and satisfied, she drifted back to sleep.

When next Silvia woke, it was well past dawn. The bridal chamber was flooded with light, and birds sang with all their might. Valentine still slept at her side, curled loosely around her, one leg twined with hers and his arm flung over her, his hand resting on her breast. A brief surge of panic rose in Silvia's throat, for she had never before woken to find a man in her bed. But just as swiftly, the panic receded as she recalled the double wedding, the raucous party, and the night of delirious exploration that had followed.

Silvia's legs were cramped, and there was a stiffness in her groin, where the muscles in her legs had been stretched in entirely new ways. She grunted and tried to stretch a little. In an instant, anger flared in her. Whenever she had hurt herself as a little girl, her father or her nurse had always been there to cosset and comfort her, but she was a married woman now, and they would not come to care for her again. She judged Valentine to be most at fault in her present discomfort, the more so since she had had to invite and guide him herself instead of allowing him to teach her the ways of the marriage bed. And now he slept beside her, blissfully oblivious to his poor aching bride.

She leaned over, intending to shake Valentine into wakefulness. But as she put out her hand, she looked upon his face, calm and handsome in his sleep, utterly content with his situation . . . and with his new bride, she realized. He loved her; she loved him. She wondered if that would be enough to sustain her through the next few weeks as she taught herself how to be a wife.

Even as Silvia contemplated the serenity of Valentine's sleep, it began to dissipate. He shifted and sighed, tightening his embrace so that he curled more closely around her. After a moment, his eyes drifted open, bright blue and startlingly clear. A smile spread across his face, and he closed his eyes for a moment to breathe deeply of her scent.

"Good morrow," he murmured.

"Good morrow," she replied, choking a little.

"I dreamed of thee," he went on, idly stroking his fingers over the top of her breast. "Though I blush to confess it, this is not the first time I have done so. But today, I wake, and the dream does not vanish with the dawn."

"Dawn is long vanished," Silvia told him. "Our weary bodies have slept till the sun is high over the world."

Valentine chuckled. "A fairly earned weariness," he said, and leaned over to kiss her. His breath was not half as sweet as it had been the night before, but Silvia submitted dutifully, as she supposed a wife must. Valentine seemed to enjoy the kiss, for he caressed her hair and laid his head on her breast afterwards.

He rested for but a moment, then sat up. "I should not forget, our ceremony is not yet complete," he said. Silvia shivered a little, and shifted her sore legs, wondering what new burden she must bear, but Valentine turned away from her and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Silvia realized that she had a delicious view all down his naked back, and drew in a breath of appreciation.

Valentine glanced back over his shoulder, and, without thinking, tried to drape the sheet modestly around himself. In doing so, he pulled it off of Silvia, exposing her nakedness to the light. Affronted, she gasped and tried to reclaim the sheet. Their eyes met, and they burst out laughing at the absurdity of trying to cover what each had laid such voracious claim to in the dark. Valentine let the sheet go, and Silvia tucked it around her hips, allowing him to gaze upon her bosom. He stared for a moment, then shook his head, apparently remembering the one last part of their ceremony.

He padded over to a brilliantly painted cabinet and took out a small box of carved dark wood. This he brought back to the bed. Silvia leaned a little closer, curious to find out what could be inside. Valentine opened the box and brought forth a lovely necklace of pearls enhanced with three large faceted rubies, and two golden dragons that held a smaller drape of pearls between them. It was delicate and extravagant, perfectly designed to appeal to the fancies of a young girl, and Silvia could not restrain a soft "Ooh," when she saw it.

"Dost thou like it?" Valentine asked, a hopeful note in his voice. Silvia nodded. "Then it is thine," Valentine said, and leaned forward to clasp it about her neck. The pearls were cool at first, but quickly warmed against her skin. Silvia brushed her fingers over the two golden dragons and smiled. Valentine glanced down at the box.

"It was my mother's," he explained, and removed an enameled portrait case from the box. He laid it in Silvia's hands, and she opened it to find a miniature of a pretty, wheat-blond lady with an earnest look in her eyes. Around the lady's neck was the same necklace that Silva now wore.

"She died when I was three years of age," Valentine said. "I have little memory of her - Mercutio has more, I think. Not many years ago, when Mercutio and Benvolio built the Innocents' Hospital, Mercutio found this and gave it to me, saying that it should be the morning gift for my bride, whenever I should find her."

"I am honored," Silvia said softly. "I shall wear this with great affection for thee and the lady who bore thee." Then a thought struck her. "I hope that Mercutio has chosen jewels just as fine for his bride, when he may find her," she added generously.

Valentine looked troubled for a moment, but then his frown melted away. "Mercutio has all the keepsakes of our mother that he desires," he said. He turned the box toward her, and she laid the portrait miniature inside, nestling it beside a leather dog's collar.

"Why, what is that?" she asked.

Valentine looked and laughed a little. "That collar belonged to Bembo, my good and faithful friend. He died shortly before I left for Milan. That is fortunate, I think, for he was old and weary and would likely have burst his heart in the effort to follow me on the road. If thou wilt, I shall show thee his grave."

Silvia nodded silently, and reached up to touch the pearls and rubies again. It was a generous and heartfelt morning gift, and she was glad to have it and the affection that came with it.

Some time later, after they had washed and had been dressed in complementary outfits of pale gold brocade, Silvia and Valentine made their entrance into the salon where their families awaited them. There was applause, and some good-natured whistling from Valentine's brothers, which Paris silenced with a glare. Prince Escalus rose to greet them and presented them to the assembly as Lord and Lady Rinuccini. Silvia's father gave a watery smile as he embraced her.

"I knew this day would come from the moment the midwife told me I had a daughter," he said. "Seventeen years have I prepared myself against today, and yet still I am overcome." He turned to Valentine and looked deep into his eyes.

"An thou love me," he said, "thou wilt honor and cherish thy lady wife for the pearl that she is, her price far above the rubies that thou hast placed around her neck."

Valentine nodded. "Even as a father do I esteem you, my Lord. Fear not for Silvia, for her place is at the very heart of my affections, and none shall draw her thence."

This seemed to satisfy the Duke. He nodded, kissed Silvia' hand, and turned away, but not so soon that she did not see the liquid in his eyes. Paris stepped in to draw him away, and the Prince turned back to the newlyweds.

"There is another day of feasting and celebration," he said. "You may take part or not, as you wish, though you must attend the dancing tonight in our great hall."

Valentine and Silvia traded puzzled glances. The Prince smiled a little. "I thought it an acceptable compromise," he explained. "I know that you would prefer to continue your acquaintance, but when the ward of the Prince weds the daughter of a Duke, the proper solemnities must be observed. Therefore, the people will have their holiday, and you will dance for our guests in the evening." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Valentine nodded. "I understand, Uncle, and I thank you for this liberty."

Silvia shifted, nervous under the eyes of her new family. Valentine gave her hand a supportive squeeze. "I beg leave of you all," he said. "I would show my wife her new home."

The Prince nodded. "Of course."

Gratefully, Silvia turned away from the strangers and followed Valentine out of the salon.

As he had promised her, they paused in their tour to visit the garden. Valentine led her to a small mound next to a bench, where flowers grew, and pointed to a small stone plaque set in the ground. Silvia bent down and saw an inscription upon the stone. "A Faithful Friend," she read. "This is the grave of thy dog?"

"Ay. Bembo was the best friend I had until I met thee."

Silvia did not know what to make of that statement. She gazed down at the little headstone, then flicked a glance towards Valentine. "What of Proteus?"

"Proteus has been my boon companion since we were small." Valentine reached out to brush his fingers across the stone. "But it was Bembo to whom I whispered secrets in the night."

"Oh." This was an aspect of Valentine that had puzzled Silvia. She had never been able to fathom precisely why he counted such a deceitful man as his closest friend. It did not exactly surprise her to hear that Proteus had not, after all, been so close a friend as to hear all of Valentine's secrets. But if that was true, then perhaps it had been more of an insult when Valentine had offered her to Proteus, there in the forest. She glanced back at his face, and the open serenity of his expression was suddenly cold and mysterious.

"May we inspect the kennels next?" she choked out.

Valentine smiled. "Ay, we may," he answered. He rose, and helped Silvia to her feet as well. "My uncle keeps packs of fine hounds," he said. "Bembo was born in these kennels."

"Perhaps we shall find a new pup that we may raise together," Silvia suggested faintly.

"Perhaps."

She followed Valentine along the path to the kennels. The necklace of pearls and rubies shifted a little as she walked. She raised her hand to touch it again, and it struck her that Valentine might not feel the need for a new pup, not now that he had made her his obedient spaniel.

They did not find any new pups in the kennels, though the kennel-master told them that a litter was due within a fortnight, and promised to let them know when the pups were born. Silvia accepted the news with the silent calm that she supposed a good wife ought to exhibit, and followed Valentine to the next stop on their tour.

They finished in good time to return to their chamber to be primped for the dance being held in their honor. Ursula chattered as she undid Silvia's braids and brushed her hair. Sometimes Silvia listened, but for the most part, she ignored Ursula and sat lost in her own thoughts. Ursula swept Silvia's hair up and arranged it in a loose, yet somehow artistic, pile on top of her head. She secured the pile with jeweled pins and combs, then stood back and allowed Silvia to inspect her reflection in her hand mirror.

Beneath the unaccustomed coiffure of a young matron, Silvia's face appeared strange and foreign to her. She twisted her head this way and that, but the pins and combs were stronger than they appeared, and the pile of hair did not fall. So this was what she looked like as a married woman. Already her maidenly courtship seemed far behind her.

The dance revived her flagging spirits a little. She and Valentine were presented to great applause. They danced together at first, and Silvia rejoiced in the easy flow of their movements. She had first taken note of Valentine after she had seen him dancing at one of her father's feasts, and she was glad to realize that that shared activity could continue even after marriage. Their dance was received with gracious applause, and then the rest of the guests swarmed over the floor. Juliet appeared and smiled at Silvia and Valentine.

"Might I steal thy husband for a dance, Lady Rinuccini?" she asked, her green eyes twinkling.

"Ay," Silvia said, though she wondered what she would do for the next dance, knowing so few people in Verona. However, as she turned to leave the dance floor, she saw Mercutio making his way through the crowd to her side.

"My brother has had time enough to acquaint himself with his new wife," Mercutio said. "Now, I would come to know my new sister. Wilt thou dance, sister?" He bowed gracefully, and Silvia's smile returned.

"Ay, I should be more than pleased to dance . . . brother."

Mercutio danced well, and showed her off to her best advantage. When the dance ended, Silvia found that she no longer needed to worry about finding a partner. For the rest of the evening, she entertained her pick of Verona's gentlemen, but was equally pleased to end the evening dancing on the arm of her own Valentine.

Chapter Text

4. Affection Chains Thy Tender Days

The Duke left for Milan the next morning, leaving behind Ursula and one of his advisors to educate Valentine on Milanese law in case that Valentine should have to assume regency over a city where he had lived for but a short time. These studies consumed much of Valentine's time in the days immediately following the wedding, and Silvia found herself at something of a loss.

Her father had given her a book of advice for married ladies before he departed, and she read the volume thoroughly. Resolving to be as perfect and reverent a new bride as she could possibly be, Silvia held her tongue and nodded agreement when her husband and brothers-in-law spoke. She started to embroider a fine pair of gloves for Valentine, so that she could have something practical and wifely to occupy her time. She studied her prayer books diligently and attended Mass in the privacy of the royal chapel in the mornings. Her performance of these duties absorbed her and filled her with the satisfaction of accomplishment for nearly a week.

One rainy morning, nothing seemed to go smoothly. Valentine's morning kisses and caresses struck her as perfunctory, and she brushed him away. He spoke no word of protest, but merely bowed to her and left their chamber, a look of hurt puzzlement on his face. Horrified that she had hurt him whom she was meant to honor above all others, Silvia opened her mouth to call Valentine back to her, but found that her voice stuck in her throat.

As Ursula helped her to dress, Silvia spied some of Valentine's clothing left in a pile behind a door. When Ursula had tied off the last lace on her gown, she hurried to pick the clothes up and discovered that some of the garments were torn. For a moment, she rejoiced, thinking that this would be her opportunity to redeem herself. She quickly availed herself of needle and thread, and sat down to mend her husband's clothes. A torn cuff on a shirt sleeve was easy, and she was able to sew buttons back onto a pair of breeches after taking a few moments to find them in the pile. But a split seam in a fine brocaded doublet proved too difficult for Silvia's small needle. After she pricked her fingers three times, she gave up in frustration, threw the doublet on the bed, and stalked out into the corridor.

A fussy child's wail attracted Silvia's attention. Eager to find someone with whom she could share her woes, even if it was just little Dionisio, she followed the sound into a small study. There she found Helena, her attention torn between a book in which she seemed to be trying to work some sort of sums and the small toys that she offered Dionisio in an effort to quiet him.

"Dionisio, lambkin, wilt thou not play with thy ribbons a while and give thy lady mother a moment's peace?" Helena pleaded. She dangled a frothy puff of ribbons and lace before Dionisio. For a moment, he seemed fascinated. He reached out, grasped the puff, and then tossed it away with a cry. Helena groaned.

Silvia swept into the room, crouched down in front of Dionisio, and screwed up her face in an imitation of his own pout. His cries stopped, and he stared at her for a moment, then stuck out his tongue at her. She stuck out her tongue, and he laughed, and clapped his hands to her cheeks.

"Wude!" he cried.

"Ay, it is very rude," she said. "Why dost thou bedevil thy mother, so, Dionisio?"

Helena smiled. "He wishes to play in the courtyard," she explained, "but he may not in such weather. So he cries, and all my efforts to amuse him are to no avail. I thank thee for thy timely arrival, for that is the first time he has been polite this day."

"Perhaps I might take him with me for a little?" Silvia suggested. "I should be glad of his company, and thou couldst complete thy task."

"That would be most welcome."

So Silvia took Dionisio's small hand in hers, and they toured through the palace corridors for a little while. They looked at the paintings on the walls, and Silvia encouraged Dionisio to tell her stories about the characters who appeared in the paintings. This activity kept Dionisio amused for a short time, but he grew impatient and began to squirm and call for his mother. Disappointed that her first stint of caring for a child had failed so soon after it had begun, Silvia quickly led Dionisio back to the study.

Helena was just making a last note in her book when they arrived. She held out her arms, and Dionisio rushed over to her without a backward glance at Silvia. Silvia was about to creep out of the study in disgrace, but Helena waved her back. "I thank thee for thy time," she said. She gathered Dionisio into her lap and petted his hair. "He is not often so well-mannered towards those he does not know well."

Perhaps her efforts had not been so useless after all. Mollified, Silvia came back into the study and sat down upon a bench near the window. "What dost thou write?" she asked Helena.

"I am marking the days of my courses," Helena replied, showing Silvia the little diary with dates marked in red ink. Silvia frowned in puzzlement.

"Wherefore dost thou so?"

"Paris wishes to have another child, and therefore I keep note of my courses so that I may know when I conceive. Dost thou not?"

Silvia shook her head. The book her father had given her had said nothing about such activity, describing instead many interesting tests a woman could conduct to determine whether or not she was with child.

"Well, thou shouldst begin," Helena said. "Hast thou a diary?"

"Nay, I do not. I have never had thoughts worth the writing of them."

Helena raised her brows at that. "I believe that as much as I believe Mercutio's fairy tales. Tomorrow, or when the rain passes, I shall take thee to a bookseller, and we will purchase a fine diary for thee."

The prospect of such an outing was so pleasant that Silvia clapped her hands together. But almost immediately, she recalled her station in life and bowed her head. "Nay, I would not. I shall send Ursula to the bookseller in my stead."

"What, sister, knowest thou not thine own mind?" Helena laughed. "Thy hands say, 'I would,' but thy mouth says, 'I would not.' What part of thee shall I credit?"

Silvia scowled, and tucked a stray lock of her hair back into place. "I mean, madam, that I am a good Christian wife, and it is my duty to my husband to remain within my home and guard myself from impure thoughts."

"Faith, whence come these words?" Helena asked. "I was told that thou didst steal forth from thy father's home to seek Valentine in his outlawry. And now thou must confine thyself?"

"A good wife must give her husband no cause to suspect her chastity."

"Why, what mischief wouldst thou commit at the bookseller's?" Helena frowned, then rose and took Dionisio by the hand. "Show me how thou didst come by such a notion."

Silvia led Helena and Dionisio to her chamber and pulled the book from its place in the cupboard. "It was my father's parting gift to me," she explained. "It was so that I, who have no mother, might learn well how to be a wife."

Helena took the small volume and flipped idly through its pages. Though at first she attempted to suppress her giggles, eventually, she burst out laughing. "Silvia, Silvia, sister mine, surely thou canst not take this book as the fifth Gospel!"

Silvia thrust her chin forward to cover her growing embarrassment. "It was my father's parting wisdom. And look thou, it was written by a priest, a holy man of God!"

"And what, pray tell, does a priest know of being a wife?" Helena retorted. Then, in a softer voice, she added, "I have seen such books before; they are many, and thou couldst drive thyself mad in an attempt to follow every word of their teachings."

Silvia opened her mouth, but found that the words of protest died upon her tongue. She took the book from Helena's hands and allowed it to fall open where it would. As chance would have it, the page was part of a passage that exhorted the good wife to remain silent and allow her husband to teach her to have only pure and pious thoughts. Silvia had underlined the passage and had attempted to follow its advice, but it seemed that she had gained nothing in the attempt. Disappointment flooded through her, and she tossed the book aside and flopped down on the bed, pursing her lips to prevent tears.

Helena sat down beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Though undoubtedly intended to help, the gesture undid Silvia completely, and she burst into tears. With a soft sigh, Helena leaned down to embrace Silvia. She spoke no word, but merely allowed the first storm of tears to pass.

"Auntie Silvia crying," Dionisio said.

"Ay, Auntie Silvia is weeping," Helena said. She turned briefly from Silvia to lift Dionisio onto the bed beside them.

"Why?" Dionisio asked.

Helena smiled. "That is a good question, lambkin. Shall we ask Auntie Silvia why she weeps?"

Her first bout of distress spent, Silvia sat up, sniffling, but she smiled a little when Dionisio turned his earnest little face to her and repeated his question.

"Auntie Silvia, why?"

Helena petted Dionisio's hair and nodded to Silvia. "I, too, wish to know. Wherefore dost thou weep?"

Silvia glanced at the little book. "I weep for my own foolishness, I suppose. I meant only to be a good wife, but it seems that I have been a better wife to my book than to my husband. I fear that I have displeased him, and he will love me no more." That thought brought forth another gush of tears.

Helena neither spoke nor laughed, but placed Dionisio in Silvia's lap and then wrapped both of them in a firm embrace. They sat thus for a few minutes until Silvia quieted again.

"Thou art a marvel," Silvia murmured. "Thou speakest no word of comfort, yet thy touch soothes my cares as much as the loveliest homily ever preached."

"Words are not always the best counsel," Helena said. "That much I have learned from Benvolio, whose embrace soothes deeper hurts than thine."

Silvia managed a little laugh. "Well, Benvolio cannot know the trials of learning to please a husband, so I am glad that thou art here in his stead. Thinkst thou that I can regain my Valentine's love?"

"I do not." Helena held up a hand to forestall Silvia's horrified protest. "How canst thou regain that which thou hast never lost?"

Shocked, Silvia was silent for a few moments. "Dost thou truly think so?"

"Ay. I have known Valentine far longer than thou hast, if not so intimately. I speak naught but the truth when I say that I have rarely seen him happier than when he speaks of thee, or looks upon thy form."

Silvia frowned, puzzled. "I was sure that he had come to despise me. I am forward and willful, and he has not corrected my faults. I thought that he had given me up for lost."

Helena laughed out loud at that. "Nay, that's not so. Thou knowest him less than perfectly, I see." At Silvia's frown, she added, "And that is not a fault. Few new-made wives ever know their husbands so well. That is why God has given men sisters and cousins, so that we may reveal their characters to their brides."

"Speak, then. I would know my husband if I would please him."

"To please Valentine, thou must please thyself, then, for thy happiness is the source of his own."

Silvia looked into Helena's eyes, and there was no trace of anything but the deepest sincerity to be found within them. Yet still she could not bring herself to believe that something so simple and appealing could be the whole of the truth. There were things that she could not say even to one as kind as Helena, and so she contented herself with telling only the lightest of her fears.

"How shall I know what pleases me here? Verona is still a strange city to me, and I am not accustomed to being a wife within her walls."

"Thou must explore our ways," Helena replied. "We shall start on the morrow, with a fresh dawn. I shall take thee to the bookseller's - thee and not Ursula, look thou - and we shall purchase a diary for thee." Helena reached across Silvia and picked up the marriage book. "Perhaps we may offer this in trade. It has brought thee naught but grief. Then I shall take thee and show thee the Innocents' Hospital. It is proper for a married lady to think of charity, and the Hospital is a fine institution. I have collected a basket of small gifts, and thou wilt help me to deliver them."

Silvia considered the suggestion. It certainly sounded like an entertaining day, but she could not quite shake the passages she had read from her mind. "Will that please my husband?" she asked.

"It will please him to know that thou art engaged and occupied with thy new home. It will surely please him more than the sight of thee fretting and weeping over words in a book written by a man who does not love women." Helena glanced away for a moment.

A delicate snore interrupted their thoughts. Silvia looked down to see that Dionisio had fallen fast asleep against her bosom. Helena looked over and smiled.

"Why, look there," she said. "We have finally lulled him to sleep with our talk. That is good, for it is his time to sleep a little. Thinkst thou that thou canst bear him to his bed without waking him?"

Silvia wrapped her arms around Dionisio and stood slowly. The child did not wake, and Silvia followed Helena to the nursery and laid him on his small bed. Helena draped a blanket over her son, and motioned for a maid to come and watch over him. She and Silvia stepped out into the corridor.

"Thou wilt be a fine mother in thy time," Helena said. "Thou hast a way with children that is lovely to see. But do not be over-eager to conceive. Learn to know thyself and love thy husband first. On such a foundation are the best mothers built."

Chapter Text

5. For Beauty Lives With Kindness

After her talk with Helena, Silvia made sure to be especially charming to Valentine at supper that evening. It proved difficult to maintain her charm, as the Prince spent much of the meal glaring, hawklike, at Mercutio, who did not eat with the appreciation that the Prince felt the cook's efforts merited. But afterwards, in the privacy of their chambers, Silvia learned that her efforts had not been entirely in vain.

"I am glad that thou wast at my side," Valentine told her. "Thou dost strengthen my spine in time of conflict."

"Will there be many such conflicts as those, thinkst thou?" Silvia asked, unable to hide the quiver in her voice.

Valentine sighed. "There are not so many now as when we were children," he said, "but . . . ay, the old quarrel still arises between Uncle and Mercutio. Uncle means well, but he cannot understand that this is no mere childish willfulness. It is a part of Mercutio, and all the scolding in the world will not change it."

A shadow passed over his face. Mindful of what he had said about his spine, Silvia went to him and twined her arms around his neck. Valentine brightened a little and kissed her with slow tenderness. His arms crept around her waist, fitting their bodies together. When at last they broke their kiss, Valentine made a small contented noise and leaned his brow against Silvia's.

"Am I forgiven, then?" he asked.

"For what?"

"For . . . for whatever lack of affection made thee cold to me this morning."

Silvia laughed a little, more at the memory of her own vanity than at Valentine. "Ay. I have spoken with Helena, and I have come to repent me of mine own sins, for which I would beg thy forgiveness. Perhaps we may start anew?"

"I should like that very much."

With a sudden playful laugh, Valentine scooped Silvia up in his arms and twirled her around the room as she squealed with delight. He tossed her onto the bed and dived after her. They quickly lost all sense of time as they engaged in the enjoyable business of forgiving each other the small sins of the day.

The next morning dawned bright and fair, and Silvia's foul mood had vanished with the rain. She covered her head with a modest veil and summoned Ursula to her side. After seeing Valentine so happy the night before, Silvia had decided that she would accompany Helena to the bookseller's after all, but she would bring Ursula along to guard her propriety. Fortunately, Helena did not seem to mind when Silvia told her of the plan, and even arranged to bring along her maid Cesca as well.

"I shall be glad of the company," Helena said. "An outing with four is as pleasant as an outing with two, and Ursula is as much a stranger in Verona as thou."

The walk to the bookseller's was not too far, and Helena pointed out several interesting landmarks along the way, including the gate to the Jewish ghetto. The bookseller's shop was cool and dim after the bright sunlight of the street, and Silvia was glad of the chance to browse for a while. Her father had never given her leave to visit any shops in Milan, insisting that merchants bring the best selection of their wares directly to his palace instead. But here in the shop, all the books lay available, and Silvia could look at whatever she pleased.

Mindful of the purpose of their trip, Helena asked the bookseller to show them his selection of diaries, and Silvia chose a modest volume bound discreetly in brown leather, with only a hint of gilding. But as she opened it to admire the clean, fresh pages, her eye fell on a little book bound in bright green. It turned out to be a book of hours, charmingly illustrated. Silvia had never seen one so small and yet so beautiful, and was immediately taken with the pretty thing.

Helena smiled, and pulled a coin from her purse to pay for the book. "That shall be my gift to thee, sister," she said, "to welcome thee to our family." Silvia was so overcome that she forgot her modesty for one moment and embraced Helena. Ursula put both books into her bag, as Cesca was already carrying a basket bound for the Innocents' Hospital, and the ladies moved on to their next destination.

The Innocents' Hospital turned out to be a large and gracious house, and Silvia could hear the shouts of its young inmates as they approached. A maid welcomed them and led them to a small receiving room. At first, Silvia was disappointed to see that it looked just like a receiving room in any private house. Then she spied a portrait on the wall and realized that she had seen that face before. A closer inspection confirmed that this was another portrait of Donatella, the previous Lady Rinuccini, whose miniature Valentine had shown to Silvia on the morning after their wedding, and whose dragon pearls Silvia now wore about her neck. She forgot her disappointment in her wonder over the notion that a lady's portrait should be given such pride of place at her husband's expense.

"Welcome, my ladies!"

Silvia turned to see Mercutio enter the receiving room. He bowed politely to them, then flashed a smile at Silvia. "I see that thou hast discovered my mother. She was a fair creature, was she not?"

"Ay, indeed." Silvia glanced from the mother's portrait to the son's face. "Thou dost favor her marvelous well."

Mercutio's smile faltered for a moment, and he gave a quick nod. "Ay, my father would often make the same remark."

Helena rose from the bench where she had seated herself and took the basket from Cesca. This she presented to Mercutio. "I have brought a small gift for the Hospital," she said. "It is nothing of great import, merely small items that I have acquired in the past month that I thought might be well used here. There are buttons and trim for clothing, a book or two that has been forgotten, a jug of olive oil from Paris's estates, and a few other such fripperies."

Mercutio peeked inside the basket. "I thank thee, cousin," he said. "Such items are always needful here." He went to the door and waved at someone in the corridor. A young boy appeared, and Mercutio put the basket into his hands. "Cardenio, wilt thou take this to the storehouse?" he asked.

The boy nodded, then noticed the two ladies and made an awkward half-bow before leaving. Mercutio turned back to his guests.

"Have you other errands this day?" he asked. "Lady Silvia has not visited here before, and I can show her the house, if she wishes it."

Silvia hesitated only a moment. "That would be most kind," she said. "Helena, have we the leisure? I have not seen such a conservatory before; we have none in Milan."

"Ay," Helena said. "Go thou and look. I shall await thee here; I have seen the place many a time, and I have brought embroidery with which to occupy my time."

Mercutio bowed to her, then offered Silvia his arm.

They toured through schoolrooms, playrooms, sitting rooms, a kitchen, a chapel, a study where Benvolio waved to them, and several small dormitories. At each turn, Mercutio explained to Silvia how the rooms had been made over from their original uses. For, as Silvia realized, the reason that the Hospital looked like a noble home was that it had originally been one. In fact, it was the house in which Mercutio and Valentine had dwelt as children. Looking at one dormitory that had been Mercutio and Valentine's bedchamber, Silvia had a sudden flash of insight.

"That is how thou canst afford to keep this place," she breathed. "Thou dost pay no rent on it."

"Nay, sister," Mercutio said. "The building is my property; it was willed to me as the elder son by my father. All monies and gifts that the Hospital accepts help to pay for its daily maintenance, but the land and the house itself are mine."

"Thou didst not wish to dwell here thyself?"

Mercutio's laugh sounded only the least bit forced. "Nay, I am content with my situation in the palace. This is a far better use for such a gracious house."

Looking out the window at happy and well-fed children plucking fruit from the trees in the orchard, Silvia had to agree. "I shall write of this place to my father. Perhaps Milan might benefit from Verona's example."

"Undoubtedly." Mercutio's smile seemed much more genuine now, and Silvia marveled briefly at how quickly his mood could change. "Should the Duke of Milan express interest in our poor home, I would commend him to Bologna. There is an older and more established conservatory there. It is where I went with Benvolio to learn how to run such a place."

"My thanks. I shall tell my father as much." The mention of Benvolio brought another question to Silvia's mind. "Where are Benvolio's old rooms?" she asked. "I guess that he could not share thy quarters, but I hope he did not sleep with the servants."

Mercutio looked startled for a moment, then laughed and shook his head. "Benvolio did not dwell here as a child. He was raised by his uncle, Signior Montague. Thou wouldst have met Signior Montague at thy wedding - dost thou recall him?"

"Ay, I do." Silvia frowned. "But wherefore . . . I thought . . . Valentine speaks of Benvolio as 'brother.'"

"And that is how Valentine sees him," Mercutio said, "though Benvolio is a son of the house of Montague, not the house of Rinuccini."

"Oh!" Silvia's face burned with embarrassment as she realized her mistake. "A thousand pardons. I had mistaken him for a bastard son, and I had pitied his state. But I see now that I was wrong to do so. He is thy foster brother, is he not?"

"Ay," Mercutio said slowly. "He is that."

It was hardly the first time that someone had hidden knowledge from Silvia; in fact, she had noted several moments when Mercutio had done so that very day. She supposed it was something that all men did when they spoke to women, but that thought did not comfort her, nor did it stop a peevish fancy from stealing over her. She stared out the window at the children playing, and thought about small boys, and Valentine, and the brief notions she had of his childhood. These thoughts inevitably led to one whom she usually tried to bar from her mind.

"What thinkst thou of Proteus?" she demanded, more harshly than she would have liked. "Thou must have known him as a boy, playing with thy brother."

"I know him as well as I know any young gentleman of Verona," Mercutio said. "For myself, I would not have chosen him as my playmate, but I am glad of his small kindnesses to Valentine, and I am glad that Valentine has a close friend."

"What were they like, as boys?"

Mercutio came to stand beside her at the window. He did not look at her, but also directed his gaze down at the children playing. "Proteus was always the leader in their play," he said. "Valentine was a timid child, and easily led. He blossomed when he played with Proteus, and I rejoiced to see that. But as for the games they played . . ." His voice trailed off, and he was silent for a moment. Silvia glanced at him and saw secret joy and sorrow chase each other across his face.

"I do not know that I should wholly approve it if any of my children were to play such games," Mercutio said at last. "But neither can I condemn them wholly, for the games through which Proteus led Valentine were, I suspect, much like the games through which I led my friends, with all their mischief . . . and all their joy. I know not. Perhaps I resemble Proteus more than I know."

Silvia did not know what to make of that. She did not wish to imagine Mercutio, her wise older brother-in-law, as having anything at all in common with Proteus. "Thou dost not resemble him in the least," she declared.

Mercutio turned then to look at her, fixing her with a startlingly intense gaze. "What is it about Proteus that distresses thee, sister Silvia?" he asked quietly. "I see in thy face that thou dost fear him."

A chill washed through Silvia, but she ignored it. Instead, she smiled and tossed her head as if she were still a carefree maiden. "I, fear Proteus, my husband's dear friend? Nay, not I. I thank thee for thy kindness, brother Mercutio, but I fear that thy fancy has swept thee from this world."

Mercutio shrugged, clearly not willing to pursue the topic further at the moment. "If thou so sayest, then it must be the truth," he said. "Many have accused me of overly detailed fancies before now."

"The hour grows late," Silvia said. "Helena and I must return home."

"Of course."

"My thanks for this visit. I shall write of it to my father. Will I see thee tonight?"

"Ay, at supper." Mercutio offered Silvia his arm once more, and escorted her back to the receiving room where Helena waited patiently for them.

Sleep did not find Silvia easily that night. She lay wakeful long after Valentine had fallen asleep, staring upwards into the gloom and considering what she had learned that day about the man who slept at her side. He was no leader, that was certain. But that had not really been a surprise; after all, it was she who had directed their courtship, and she who had traveled into the forest to seek him in his outlawry. She decided that it was a relief to know that Proteus had led Valentine for so much of their lives. Perhaps that meant that Valentine's betrayal in the forest had been merely a habit born of long friendship. Perhaps he did love her for her merits after all.

Chapter Text

6. Crooked Fortune

Over the course of the next week, Silvia's mood rose and fell. She enjoyed spending time with Helena and Dionisio, and dutifully resolved to mark the days of her next courses in hopes of conceiving a son of her own. Valentine proved a constant and attentive lover, and if he was not always skilled at pleasing her, he was a quick study and learned from his mistakes. He inquired about her days, and she told him as much as she thought proper. In the evenings, Mercutio and Benvolio would sometimes tell them stories about the little antics of the Hospital inmates, or Paris would read to them.

One morning, Silvia awoke to a tapping sound. Valentine stirred beside her, and then she knew that the tapping was not part of her dream. Valentine pulled the coverlet over her shoulders and sat up. "Come," he called.

The door to the bedchamber opened just enough so that one of the young stablehands could peek inside. "Beg pardon, master," he said. "The master of the hounds has sent me to inform you that Clelia has whelped."

"That is most excellent news!" Valentine said.

The stablehand bowed and left, closing the door behind him. Valentine rolled over and embraced Silvia. "The moment that thou hast longed for is come," he said. "There are pups to be seen in the kennels."

Silvia smiled. "Thinkst thou that they will permit us to visit them?"

"Ay, though the pups will be too small to leave their dam. But we may at least make their acquaintance." Valentine drew Silvia closer and kissed her. "Shall we visit the pups today?"

Silvia could not help wriggling with pleasure at the thought. "Ay, an thou hast the leisure to do so."

"For thee, dear Silvia, I have all the leisure in the world." Valentine caressed Silvia's hair and breasts, but both of them found that they had been woken too early for love, and chose instead to burrow into each other's arms and let sleep reclaim them.

Later, after the sun had risen fully, Valentine led Silvia down the path to the kennels. The kennel-master greeted them cordially, as though he had known that they would be arriving. "Be welcome, Master Valentine and Mistress Silvia," he said. "I presume that you have come to inspect Clelia?"

Silvia nodded vigorously before she could stop herself, and both Valentine and the kennel master laughed. The kennel master led them into a small room at the end of the building, where a fire blazed merrily in a small hearth near a large wooden box. Silvia peeked into the box. Clelia, a sturdily built hound, lay on her side, but glanced up as her visitors arrived. In the protective arc of her paws, seven small pups lay in a heap.

They resembled nothing so much as fat, furry sausages. Most of them were gray or tan, though one was as black as midnight. Their eyes were sealed shut, and they wiggled awkwardly around. Their mews sounded surprisingly like the cries of a human infant. Silvia gazed at them, entranced, and wondered if Clelia would allow her to touch one of her puppies.

"Are they all well and in good health?" Valentine asked.

"Ay, they are strong and lively, not a runt among them," the kennel master answered, a strong note of pride in his voice. "They will be fine hunters. Unless my mistress would make a pet of one? This is a line that may be trained thus, for Clelia is of the same dam as was thine own Bembo, Master Valentine."

"I understand, and I thank thee," Valentine said. He knelt down at the whelping box by Silvia's side. "What thinkst thou, sweet? Wilt have a pup for thine own?"

Silvia turned to look at him, and a broad smile spread across his face. "Ah," he said. "I see that thou hast fallen in love once more. Well do I recall when thine eyes did shine so prettily at me!"

Silvia blushed. "I do wish a small pup, though no dog could usurp thy place in my heart."

Valentine smiled. "Hast thou chosen thy new love?"

"This one." Silvia pointed to a gray pup with a white stripe down its nose. The kennel master leaned closer.

"Ah," he said approvingly, "my mistress has chosen well. That is one of the strongest pups, and I wager she will breed true. If you will have her, I shall mark her, for she is yet too small to leave her dam." He held out a small green ribbon.

Silvia nodded, and the kennel master tied the ribbon around the pup's neck, then held her out so that Silvia and Valentine could stroke her soft baby fur.

"May we visit her, so that she will know us when it is time for us to take her in?" Silvia asked. The kennel master agreed, and placed the pup back in the pile of her littermates. Valentine and Silvia rose, and Valentine shook the kennel master's hand.

"I thank you for your kindness," he said, and escorted Silvia outside. In the courtyard, he turned to her. "I must leave thee here," he said, "for I have agreed to meet Proteus at a tavern at the hour of noon. Shall I convey aught from thee to him?"

"Only such greetings as might be felt fitting," Silvia said, and hoped that the sudden chill in her voice would remind Valentine just how few greetings from herself to Proteus could be considered fitting.

An epidemic of lenticular fever struck the Innocents' Hospital. The old Jewish physician whom Mercutio and Benvolio kept on retainer visited regularly, and the daily reports seemed optimistic that this illness would not prove fatal to most of the children. Nevertheless, Helena and Silvia were barred from visiting the place, lest they should catch the fever themselves, and Mercutio and Benvolio ceased to tell amusing stories, but showed signs of worry and sleepless nights.

One evening, the royal family had gathered in a salon, as was their custom. Helena and Silvia worked on a tapestry as the men read or conversed quietly. At last, Mercutio sighed.

"Ah, me," he said. "Afore God, I am so weary that my head aches. I fear I must bid a good night to you all."

He rose from his chair, then swayed where he stood. The color drained from his face, and he might have fainted, but Benvolio sprang to his feet and eased him back down again. The Prince hurried over to them.

"Art thou well, Mercutio?" he asked. "Hast thou taken the fever? Must we summon aid to thee?"

Mercutio waved him away. "Nay, uncle, there is no fever. I have not slept well these past days, and I . . . I have, on occasion, been too worried to eat."

"Caro, no," Benvolio said, his voice both warm and reproachful at the same time. "Thou must eat. Thou canst not afford to miss a meal."

"I cannot eat, sweet friend," Mercutio replied. "I fear for our children, and I cannot force myself to swallow."

"Caro, thou must tell me when this affliction strikes thee," Benvolio said, cupping Mercutio's face in one hand. "At the least, thou couldst drink a cup of broth. Even that would strengthen thee a little."

"Tomorrow," Mercutio murmured. "I am too weary tonight."

"Then I shall take thee to bed. But thou must promise me that thou wilt eat tomorrow, or thou wilt be useless to the children."

"Ay."

Benvolio wrapped his arm around Mercutio's waist and helped him to rise. They made their farewells and left the salon. Mercutio leaned against Benvolio as they walked, and Benvolio encouraged him with little pats and caresses. The others watched as though this were the most natural thing in the world, but Silvia wondered why Valentine, Mercutio's natural brother, had hung back and allowed the foster brother to help in his stead.

She dared not ask in front of the assembly, but that night, as Ursula assisted her with removing her gown and changing into her nightclothes, a thought struck her. The kind of solicitous attention that Benvolio had paid to Mercutio reminded her of the care that Paris took with Helena, or that Valentine took with her. She recalled certain whispers that she had overheard as a child in the palace in Milan. She had been too young and naive to understand them then, but their true meaning began to dawn on her now. A shudder went through her body.

No, she decided, it could not be. She must have been mistaken, for surely God would not have permitted her to marry into a house of sin. There must be a different explanation that would allow her to maintain her respect for two men who had shown her naught but welcome and brotherly affection. She would have to find a way to ask Valentine, for he had known Benvolio and Mercutio all his life.

At Ursula's gentle prodding, she sat down, picked up a small mirror, and allowed Ursula to brush her hair. Ordinarily, she loved the sensation of the slide of bristles through silken locks, but the ritual brought her no pleasure tonight. After only fifty strokes of the brush, she reached up and grasped Ursula's hand.

"Stint thou, I pray thee, Ursula."

The mirror reflected a puzzled frown on Ursula's face. "I have not yet done a hundred strokes," she said. "Will my mistress neglect the crown of her beauty?"

"One night shall do no harm," Silvia said, more sharply than she would have wished. "Prithee, leave me in peace. Or," she added, as inspiration struck, "an thou would stay, tell me what thou dost know of . . . of unnatural desires, of acts of lust that one man may commit upon another."

Ursula drew in a sharp little breath. "My mistress knows that I know nothing of such things," she retorted. "I know only that which is pure and ordained by God and His priests."

"I am sorry that I doubted thee. Well, go with God, then, and leave me to my thoughts."

Ursula cleaned the brush, laid it on the dressing table, and left the bedchamber. Silvia climbed into the bed and drew the covers up to her chin, her mind awhirl with questions.

Valentine entered shortly, and began to strip off his clothing. Silvia watched his lithe grace and tried not to think about the horrible suspicions in her head. "My lord?" she blurted.

Valentine pulled his nightgown over his head and froze. "Whence come these words?" he asked. "Have I not told thee that I would not be lord to thee, but love?"

"My lord," she repeated, "tell me true. Are there those in this house who partake of unnatural caresses?"

Valentine was silent for a long moment. He sat down on the bed, and regarded her nervously. "I cannot regard the affection between my brother and his consort as unnatural. It is as much a part of them as anything else. No more could I call unnatural Benvolio's dark locks, though mine are fair, or Mercutio's talent for mathematics, though my strength lies in philosophy."

"Then they do engage in perverse lust," Silvia said. "And thou dost condone it, with no thought to their immortal souls? Thine own brother!"

"Mercutio's affections are not mine to condone or condemn," Valentine replied. "As for his soul, well, the highest aim of the soul is to love, and Benvolio brings that forth in him, and loves him in return more faithfully than any man I have yet known. Can I call them damned for loving?"

"Speak we of love? I speak of lust and perversion."

Valentine's expression hardened. "That is no perversion. I know what is perversion, having been witness to it in my youth, and I tell thee true, I see no perversion in my brother or in the man he loves plain and free."

Unbidden, the terrible, unspoken memory flashed behind Silvia's eyes. Once more, she saw herself huddled on the ground, her clothing askew, and Valentine and Proteus staring at each other in shock. "And that my love may appear plain and free," Valentine had said as he betrayed her. His words had puzzled her then, but she understood them now. It had not been his love for her of which he spoke.

"Proteus," Silvia hissed. "He is the one, is he not?"

"The one?" Valentine asked.

"The one who perverted thee. Thou hast witnessed perversion, as thou hast said, but where is the line between 'witness' and commit?' It is Proteus who has sullied thee, who has made thee blind to what is good in life, who has twisted thy affections so that thou namest evil good, lust love, and a whore thy wife!" As the last bitter words tumbled from Silvia's mouth, she burst into tears.

"A whore? What slander is this?" Valentine moved toward her, his hand outstretched, but she batted it away.

"Go!" she cried. "I will not have thee here! Sleep some other where. Find thy Proteus, for thou mayst easily separate him from Julia. Take thy pleasure where thou wilt!"

"I will -"

"But not here!" Silvia pulled the covers over her head and sobbed. After a moment, she felt the mattress shift as Valentine rose from the bed, and heard footsteps and then the opening and closing of the door. Now she was all alone in her marriage bed, and, to her surprise, she found that she wanted nothing more than for Valentine to hold her. But she could not call him back again, for pride and anger would not allow it. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her body and cried herself to sleep.

Chapter Text

7. Tune My Distresses

Silvia woke when the light of dawn shone in her eyes. The last shreds of a dimly recalled nightmare fled her mind, and, without thinking, she reached over to the other side of the bed, hoping for comfort in Valentine's arms. But Valentine was not beside her. In a flash, she remembered how she had berated him and driven him away to sleep elsewhere. Her ears burned with shame that she had behaved in a manner so ill befitting a young wife. But then she considered the other thing she had learned last night, and her shame deepened.

She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees as she considered her situation. She must not speak to Mercutio or Benvolio any more, no matter how sweetly they addressed her, for she wanted no part of their sin. She also had no wish to speak to Helena, for she felt that her friend had betrayed her as well, by silence. She could not seek out Valentine, and in any event, she suspected that he had lodged with Proteus that night. After some consideration, Silvia decided that no earthly friend could help her. At home in Milan, she might have gone to her old confessor, Friar Patrick, but she knew none of the Franciscans of Verona. Well, she had no need of men to intercede for her. She would go to church and speak directly to God.

This goal spurred her out of bed, where she washed her face and hands and summoned Ursula to help her dress. "My veil, Ursula," she commanded. "Today, I shall go to St. Peter's church, and I desire that thou shouldst attire me."

"Ay, my lady." Ursula curtsied, and hurried to fetch the veil.

It felt strange to walk through the streets of Verona alone, without Helena to accompany and guide her. But St. Peter's church, on whose steps Silvia had been married, was not far from the palace, and she found that her feet remembered the way. A ragged beggar woman sat at the door, and Silvia absently dropped a coin into her outstretched hand as she slipped inside.

The interior of the church was cool and surprisingly bright. Silvia dipped her fingers in the font of holy water and crossed herself absently while admiring the magnificent inlaid stone floor. A few old women sat on stone benches and prayed or conversed quietly. An enormous, gorgeously carved and painted crucifix hung over the altar. Nearby, Silvia spied someone that she knew. Lady Juliet Montague sat on one of the benches, sorting through a sheaf of small papers.

Silvia was loath to intrude upon another woman's business, and hung back for a moment. But her need for a companion was greater than her reticence, and she approached Juliet, giving a little cough to signal her presence.

Juliet looked up, and gave Silvia a broad, sweet smile. "Lady Silvia," she murmured, and patted the bench next to her. "Sit and be welcome."

Silvia sat down and glanced at the papers in Juliet's hands.

"Today is a visiting day in the convent," Juliet explained. "I will see my cousin, Sister Clemenza, and I have brought letters for her from my family." One escaped her fingers and fluttered to the floor. Silvia retrieved it and handed it back. Juliet looked at it and smiled.

"Ah, the greeting from my husband," she said. "He loved her once, didst thou know? It was before he loved me."

Silvia immediately thought of some of the romances she had read as a child, all the stories of young men pining after ladies imprisoned in convents. "Oh," she said with a little gasp. "And thou didst still agree to wed him, even knowing that he was hers?"

Juliet giggled. "He was never hers. We would laugh about it together, she and I. We were still girls then, and she was still my sweet cousin Rosaline, always cross because the Montague boy had dared to sigh too long beneath her window. She never cared for young men, and sometimes I think she took the veil to escape their attentions."

"How clever she was," Silvia sighed.

Juliet suddenly looked sharply interested. "Thou hast been wed but a few short weeks," she said. "Surely thou hast not yet tired of thy husband?"

"I know not. But . . . perhaps he has tired of me." That thought had not occurred to Silvia until it tumbled forth from her lips, and it distressed her so much that tears sprang to her eyes.

Juliet set her letters down and put a hand on Silvia's arm. "How may this be so?" she asked. "I have heard the tales of what he did for love of thee, and what thou didst do for love of him. I cannot bear to think that such love has vanished into the mists."

"Perhaps it was I who was mistaken," Silvia choked out. "Perhaps I wedded the Valentine I wished to see, and not the one who walks in the world. How can I compare to the temptations that surround him each day?"

"Speak plainly," Juliet said, "and tell me what has happened to thee. If I may, I would speak of this to my husband, for he counts himself a friend of Valentine, and may be able to influence him."

"Nay," Silvia shot back, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. "He has no need of more influence from men. Perhaps thy husband may tell thee of the influence that other men, closer to Valentine, may have over him."

Juliet thought for a moment. "Proteus?" she ventured.

"Ay, Proteus, but not him alone. I speak of Mercutio, my husband's own brother, and his . . . his . . . in a word, I know not how to speak of it. Surely thy husband doth know of it, for it seems that I, foolish one, was the only blind eye."

Juliet was silent for a moment, and Silvia wondered whether she had shocked her with her words. But then, an indulgent smile spread across Juliet's face, and she placed an arm around Silvia's quivering shoulders.

"Consort," she said. "That is the word that they chose. Oh, now wilt thou blush! Ay, I know of it, and my husband does as well." Her eyes sparkled with some sudden humor. "My husband knows of it because I told him."

This statement surprised Silvia enough that she forgot all about weeping. "Thou didst tell - then . . . thou didst know? But how? Didst thou not recoil?"

"Recoil? Nay. Perhaps I might have done so, had I been older and more experienced in the world. But I was fourteen, and so new to love that I had no thought for what was lawful and what was not."

Silvia pursed her lips as she considered that idea. She herself had not thought of love at fourteen, though she had thought of marriage, for that had been when Thurio had first begun to negotiate with the Duke of Milan for Silvia's hand. She was surprised to find that she was a little bit envious of the fourteen-year-old that she suspected Juliet had been.

"Benvolio is my husband's cousin," Juliet went on, "but they are so alike in manner that one might be forgiven for mistaking them for brothers. The glow of love shines alike from their eyes, and when I knew it in Romeo, it was not hard to see it in Benvolio, nor to discern where his affections lay."

Juliet's soft words had begun to calm Silvia, and she was able to think about the previous evening. There had indeed been love glowing in Benvolio's face along with his worry over Mercutio's exhaustion. More than anything else, Silvia wanted someone to look at her like that, as if she were the only thing in the world worth having. And if Valentine had ever been inclined to look at her thus, she had made sure that he would never do so again, by her harsh words to him. She let out a little sigh and wondered if she would start to weep again.

"And where do Valentine's affections lie?" she asked, her voice wobbling a little. "With his bride of but few weeks, or with the friend of his childhood? Which of us would he choose?"

Now it was Juliet who pursed her lips in puzzlement. "Choose? Why must he face such a choice? What has happened to thee, Silvia?"

Silvia looked away, not sure how to answer that.

"I saw thee wed," Juliet said after a moment. "I saw thee stand on the steps of this very church, bathed in the glow of the midday sun. And yet the sun seemed dim and cold beside the warmth in thy new husband's gaze. What has soured for thee and him?"

"I know not how to be a wife!" Silvia cried. "I have tried to please him, but he will have none of it, and Helena has called me a silly girl, and Valentine will always see Proteus. I know not how to love him as I ought, and surely he must go elsewhere now."

Juliet sighed. "Dear Silvia, I cannot soothe thy woes alone. Wilt thou accompany me to visit Clemenza? Though she no longer dwells in the world, her eye is keen and her heart is pure. Surely she may give thee some comfort."

"How may I do that? I know her not; I would not be permitted to see her."

"Oh, fear not," Juliet said with a smile. "Thou wilt be my cousin. The nun who guards the convent gate is old, and her eyes are growing dim. I doubt not but that she shall mistake thee for Helena."

Juliet's smile was so girlishly gleeful at the thought of this minor deception that Silvia could not resist the offer. And, had anyone pressed her, she would have admitted that she was more than a little curious. She had been educated in her father's home, and, though she had once attended a concert given by the choir of a convent in Milan, the sisters had been concealed behind a grille, and she had never actually seen one. Meeting Sister Clemenza would permit her to forget her woes for at least a little time, while she indulged her own curiosity.

Juliet rose and offered Silvia her hand. Silvia took it, wiped her eyes, and rearranged her veil, then followed Juliet to the convent.

The convent parlor reminded Silvia of the receiving room of the Innocents' Hospital. It was large, and its elegance lay largely in its simplicity. Nuns sat at small tables entertaining small groups of female relatives in quiet voices under the watchful eye of an older nun who served as chaperone. Juliet and Silvia sat down at an empty table. It was not long before a nun emerged from within and came to join them. She was young, and pretty beneath her wimple, and she smiled and clasped Juliet's hands. "Cousin," she said.

Juliet leaned close so that the chaperone sister would not hear. "This is Silvia," she said. "Though the sister at the door thinks she is Helena."

Sister Clemenza's eyes sparkled. "Sister Innocenza's eyes see more of Heaven than they do of earth."

"Silvia is but lately wedded to Valentine Rinuccini. Dost thou recall him?"

Sister Clemenza thought for a moment. "Ay. The brother of Mercutio. He was still a boy when I took the veil . . . has it been so long that he is married now?"

"Ay. Silvia is the bride he has brought from his sojourn at the court of Milan."

"The grace of God be upon thy marriage, Silvia," Sister Clemenza said.

Silvia sighed. "Perhaps less than thou wouldst think, Sister."

Juliet nudged her a little, and Sister Clemenza looked interested, so Silvia poured forth the whole tale, from the moment she realized that she had fallen in love with her father's shy new courtier to the moment when she had cast her husband forth from their marriage bed. It was a shameful tale, and her face burned at the thought of describing such sin to a nun, but Sister Clemenza listened intently, and if she thought less of Silvia, she did not say so. After Silvia had told her story, she sat and bowed her head, and the little group was silent for a moment.

"Well," Sister Clemenza said, a little louder than before, "I am glad that thou hast come to me, cousin, for I believe that I can tell thee the remedy for thy ailment."

Silvia started a little, for Sister Clemenza was not yet of that age when the minds of men and women might begin to wander.

Juliet leaned over and spoke low in Silvia's ear. "I believe Clemenza intends to give thee a message that the convent censors might not wish her to give, and she must therefore disguise her intent a little."

Meanwhile, Sister Clemenza had pulled a scrap of paper from her habit, and was busy writing a brief message on it. She babbled about herbs and how to boil them into some sort of syrup that promised to cure a mysterious female complaint, but Silvia could see that her words bore no relation to the message on the paper. When she had finished writing, Sister Clemenza slid the message across the table to Juliet.

"Convey this to Benvolio," she murmured. In a louder voice, she said to Silvia, "Take thou this remedy, and I shall say extra prayers tonight for thy well-being."

Silvia thanked her, and Juliet slid the packet of letters across the table. Sister Clemenza smiled as she tucked them away into her habit.

"I thank thee, Juliet. I shall read these later, at recreation."

A bell rang to signal that the visiting time had passed. Juliet tucked the message that Sister Clemenza had written into her sleeve, and all three women rose.

"Farewell, cousin," Juliet said. "I shall convey thy greetings to our family."

"Farewell," Silvia echoed.

"Go with God," Sister Clemenza said, then turned to Silvia. "I think that I shall not see thee again," she added in a low voice, "but I am glad to have met thee once."

Feeling oddly comforted, Silvia followed Juliet out of the convent.

Chapter Text

8. Better Deeds Than Words

Though the visit to Sister Clemenza had lightened the burden on Silvia's heart, it had still not entirely solved her problem at home. After the lighthearted pleasure of gossiping with Juliet, now Silvia must face the evening meal where the royal family awaited her. Well, there was no way to escape that. Silvia supposed that the only thing she could do was to be brave and silent. She made sure her hair was carefully arranged and that her clothing was in order, and then swallowed the lump of fear in her throat and entered the dining hall.

Most of the family had already arrived, but to Silvia's shameful relief, Valentine was not there yet. His absence allowed her to compose herself a little, and she was able to greet the Prince and the others with at least a little grace. Valentine appeared shortly afterwards. He said no word of reprimand, but kissed her hand as awkwardly as he had when he had first met her. If the family noticed, they spoke no word about it.

Supper consisted of a selection of marvelous little pasties filled with roast pigeon and accompanied by cheese and a compote of figs. Though the aromas tickled Silvia's nose, she was so nervous that she could barely swallow. She took a deep breath to reassure herself, and earned a wry smile from Paris.

"Thou art among friends," he murmured, just as the Prince was preoccupied with something Helena was telling him. "Thou shouldst eat. Uncle is already at his wits' end with one young person for whom meals are a chore. Wouldst thou find thyself fainting away in the salon as well?"

Reflexively, Silvia glanced across the table. Mercutio was valiantly, if unenthusiastically, working at his own plate. Benvolio spoke no word to him, but waited until Mercutio glanced away, and then quickly slid more figs and cheese onto Mercutio's plate. He caught Silvia's eye and winked conspiratorially at her.

Silvia sat amazed for a few moments, not knowing quite what to make of this gesture. It spoke of a love that was scandalous and shameful, but which was undeniably real. A hot blush rose in her face, and suddenly she found that she did have an appetite after all.

To everyone's relief, the lenticular fever at the Innocents' Hospital abated, and within a few days, it was gone altogether. On the first day that the place reopened its doors to visitors, Helena prepared a basket of eggs and a few tidbits, and took Silvia with her to deliver them. Silvia was not sure that she could bring herself to enter the place, but Helena's gentle voice kept urging her until at last she gave in. Silvia did not speak along the way, resolved that, if she had to see her brother-in-law and his . . . consort, Juliet had said - as if that deceptively normal word could quite describe what was being enacted here - she would simply remain as still and untouched as she could possibly be.

When they arrived, Helena took the basket to the kitchen herself, leaving Silvia to sit in the receiving room, alone with her thoughts and the portrait of Donatella, which regarded the room with a grave, thoughtful expression. Idly, Silvia looked out a window. She could see a small pleasure garden that adjoined the fruit orchard. Mercutio sat on a bench in that garden, his back to the window, watching the children who flitted among the trees. One of them approached Mercutio, and Silvia caught a glimpse of distress on the child's face. The boy spoke briefly to Mercutio, and then climbed up onto the bench next to him. Mercutio put his arm around the boy and drew him close. Silvia's stomach lurched to see it.

"Do not fear for the boy."

Benvolio's soft voice startled Silvia so that she nearly fainted. With a sharp gasp, she turned to see him standing just inside the doorway.

"How long hast thou stood there?" she demanded.

"But a moment only. Helena said that thou wast here, and I had come to welcome thee. Thou didst not hear my footsteps, I think. I beg thy pardon for frighting thee."

"Of course," Silvia said, before she remembered that she did not wish to speak to him.

Benvolio came into the room and pulled a chair closer to Silvia's bench, and sat down in it. He did not meet her eyes, and they both gazed out the window for a while at the scene in the garden.

"There are few in Verona who would have guessed it," Benvolio said, "but Mercutio has an extraordinary ability with children. All those who thought him mad . . . sometimes I wonder what they would say to look upon this sight."

Recalling her earlier resolve, Silvia said nothing.

"I think it derives from his sympathy with them," Benvolio went on. "Though Mercutio has the body and the mind of a grown man, there are times when I think that his is still the soul of a child. He knows the ways that they hurt, and how best to offer comfort."

Some of the stories that Silvia had overheard as a girl drifted back into her mind, and she could not suppress a shudder at the thought of what other "comfort" such a man as Mercutio might be inclined to give.

Benvolio turned to face her, and Silvia was surprised to see the intensity of his eyes and the firm set of his jaw. "Silvia," he said. "Sister -"

"I am no sister to thee!" she hissed.

A muscle tightened in Benvolio's jaw, and his eyes flashed, but otherwise, he did not move. "Perhaps," he said. "But whether or not thou dost name me brother, I am the only one in the world who shares with thee the joys and the challenges of consorting with a son of Giacomo Rinuccini. And even if thou wilt not speak with me again, I pray thee, hear what I have to tell thee, for thou wilt profit from my words, if the recent chill between thee and Valentine tells me true."

"What canst thou know of marriage, thou catamite?"

"Less, perhaps, than thou." Benvolio smiled a little. "But perhaps more, as well. Certainly I have known and loved thy husband longer than thou hast - nay, do not look as though thou hast bitten a lemon. Valentine has always been a friend to me, and of late, I have dared to name him brother in my heart, but that is all. I have watched him grow from a swaddling babe into a man, and this I vouchsafe unto thee: never has he loved as he loves thee."

Benvolio spoke quietly, but there was such force behind his words that Silvia's eyes began to prick with tears. She quickly blinked them away unshed. "He proves his love poorly," she said, and her voice was less sharp than before.

Benvolio nodded. "He does, and I will speak to him about that. I fear that I have been remiss in that duty, for Valentine has no great skill in love, and he must be taught."

Something shifted inside Silvia. She recalled a silly prank she had played on Valentine in Milan, fooling him into writing to himself the love letter that the rules of propriety would not allow her to write to him. He had never quite understood her intent, even after she had explained the joke to him. At the time, she had thought him less than bright, and had briefly wondered how true his love really was. But Benvolio's words opened up a new realm of possibility. She glanced over her shoulder at the portrait of Donatella, and recalled that Valentine had been but three years of age at her death.

"It is a shame that his lady mother died so young," she ventured. "Truly, could no one teach him how to love a woman? Paris, perhaps?" The name of Mercutio had been on the tip of her tongue, but of course, he would not have done so.

Benvolio shook his head. "Paris is kind, and loves his cousins dearly in his own way. But he cannot teach Valentine how to prove his affections for thee. I fear that this task must fall to me, and to thee. To thee, for thou art his wife, and he loves thee more fiercely than I had thought it possible for him to do. And to me, for I have already taught a son of Giacomo Rinuccini to love."

A dull shock flowed over Silvia's skin. "Thou didst bring Mercutio to sin?"

Benvolio sighed. "The world may call it so. Perhaps it is. I am no longer certain, and I find that I care not if it is a sin. It is far from the worst sin I have witnessed, for love sits at its heart, not hatred."

Silvia knew not what to say about that. She had always known that the sin of sodomites was lust, a failure to control the appetites of the body. But she could not deny Benvolio's claim of love, either, not after having been witness to his countless small flatteries and kindnesses to Mercutio. And had Juliet not also seen love before lust in Benvolio's eyes?

The silence began to grow uncomfortable. Benvolio did not seem inclined to break it, so Silvia swallowed and ventured a question. "How comes it that a boy may grow into a man and yet not know how to love? Even a motherless child must have some tutor. I myself had no mother, yet I know how to love my lord husband."

Benvolio's mouth quirked at that last statement, but he did not otherwise comment upon it. Instead, he indicated the portrait of Donatella. "The tale is not mine to tell. But this I will tell thee. There hangs the image of the former lady of this house. Once it was accompanied by a portrait of her husband - I am told that it was a commission for an anniversary of their marriage. When next thou dost speak with Mercutio, ask him wherefore Giacomo Rinuccini's portrait no longer hangs in this room. Then thou wilt begin to understand the miracle that is the very existence of love in Mercutio's heart, sinful as thou mayst name it."

"And what of Valentine?"

Silvia and Benvolio glanced out the window. As they watched, the little boy that Mercutio was holding suddenly became more animated. He climbed into Mercutio's lap, then rose to his knees and embraced Mercutio fiercely. Mercutio returned the embrace, then set the child down on his feet. The boy waved and ran off to resume playing with his friends. Mercutio seemed to wilt for a moment, but then regained control and resumed watching the children at their games.

"Valentine was fortunate," Benvolio said at last. "Never have I seen an older brother care for a younger brother in the way that Mercutio cared for him. When they were boys, I think that Valentine was the only thing that Mercutio knew how to love."

Silvia imagined a child-Valentine being cared for by a slightly-older Mercutio as Mercutio had cared for the small orphan in the garden. Something inside her seemed to release.

"He is cold to me," she offered. Benvolio looked puzzled, so she attempted to explain her strange words. "Valentine. He . . . he is distant, sometimes, and shy. I know not why he does what he does. I feel that I know him not, though he has made me his wife, that he . . . that there is a wall around his heart that has no door."

"But there are chinks in the wall," Benvolio said, "though they are not easy to find. With thy leave, I would speak to Valentine of this. He must know of it, and the news may be more easily broken by a brother than by a wife. Have I thy leave?"

Silvia nodded. "Ay."

"But my aid comes at a price." Benvolio sat up a little straighter. "Give me thy word that thou wilt speak truly to Valentine. Tell him what thou hast not told me."

Silvia bit her lip. "I know not whereof thou speakest."

"I speak of what I see in thine eyes. It is a hurt that I have seen on occasion in children who are newly arrived at the Hospital. In thy case, I guess that it is connected with Valentine in some way, for I see it when thou dost speak of him. I know not all of what transpired between him and thee, but I beg of thee, speak to him about it."

"He is my husband," Silvia murmured, averting her gaze. "I must deceive him no longer."

"He is thy love," Benvolio countered. "Thou must afford him the chance to soothe thy pains."

Silvia spent the walk home from the Innocents' Hospital lost in thought. Helena respected her unspoken wishes and did not attempt to engage her in conversation. When they arrived at the palace, Silvia went to the chapel and knelt before the altar. She did not pray, not exactly, but she did spend a long time lost in thought. She considered all that Benvolio had told her, and wondered how she could begin to speak to Valentine of the fear that had consumed her since her wedding day.

Dost thou not . . .

I fear that thou wilt . . .

Wherefore didst thou . . .

She could not think of a way to open such a difficult subject gracefully, nor could she imagine how to arrange a time and a place to hold the conversation that Benvolio had asked of her.

She mulled over the problem for a while, but finally had to admit defeat. With a sigh, she rose to her feet and crossed herself, hoping that a solution would present itself soon.

When she retired to her chamber two nights later, Valentine was not there. That did not surprise her; she knew not where he slept when he was not in their bed, but she suspected that, wherever it was, he would remain there until she invited him back. What surprised her was a small package that lay in the middle of the bed, labeled with her name in Valentine's hand. She opened the package to reveal a small book, a collection of the romances of Chrétien de Troyes, with a letter tucked inside it. She unfolded it.

My dearest Silvia,

I pray thee accept this token of sorrow from my unworthiest hand. I recall that thou canst read a little French; therefore, I hope that thou wilt read and derive pleasure from these tales of love. I dare to wish that, when thou hast read, thou wilt deign to come to me, for I would make things right between us. Perhaps this book may ease that passage.

Thy truest of loves,

Valentine

Well. Here, it seemed, was a way to open a conversation with Valentine. Silvia flipped through the book. The stories inside were not long, and the French was simple enough that she could read it without much difficulty. Unwilling to wait until morning, she lit the taper on her desk and sat down to read the tales of Arthur and his knights.

Chapter Text

9. For Fear Of Burning

It had taken Silvia two days to read through the book that Valentine had given her, for her French was not quite as fluent as she had assumed. It took her most of another day to muster the courage and the will to seek him out after she had finished reading. After taking several deep breaths to calm the fluttering in her stomach, Silvia realized, with some irritation, that she did not know where Valentine was. She would have to ask someone, and her heart quailed anew at the thought of the sorry picture she would make in doing so. After a few more deep breaths, she decided to ask Helena, who had been her first friend in Verona.

Helena listened to the request without comment, then directed Silvia to the garden. Silvia thanked her and hurried away, before her courage could falter.

As promised, Silvia found Valentine sitting on a small stone bench in the garden. As she approached, she saw the small mound nearby, and realized that Valentine was at the grave of his dog. He held the dog's old collar, winding it through his fingers, seemingly lost in thought. Silvia coughed a little, and Valentine looked up.

When he saw her, he sprang to his feet and brushed a stray lock of hair from his face. His swollen, red eyes glittered, and she realized that he had been weeping. They stared at each other in awkward silence, neither able to make the first gesture of reconciliation.

At last, Silvia could bear the silence no longer. She waved the little volume he had given her between them. "I - I have read this book," she blurted out. "And I have come to thee, at thy command."

Valentine blinked, as if startled from a dream. "No command, but a wish only. A wish kindly fulfilled," he added, ducking his head.

"They are fine tales," Silvia said, "the ones in the book. But I cannot see how they might help us to mend our quarrel."

"My brother - Benvolio, for that is how I see him - had words with me, and Mercutio did likewise. I heard much wisdom from them."

"Oh?" Silvia was not certain how she felt about her husband receiving advice from men such as Mercutio and Benvolio, but she did have to admit that she was curious to know what they had said.

"Wilt thou sit with me? The day is warm, and I would not fatigue thee."

Silvia chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then moved to the bench and sat down on one end. Valentine sat on the other end, though the bench was small, and there was only a little space between them.

"I had guessed that thou wouldst be with Proteus," Silvia said.

Valentine shrugged, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "This is not a sorrow that I would wish to tell to Proteus." He wove the old dog collar through his fingers again, gazing upon it as though it could tell his fortune if he only looked hard enough. "Wilt thou speak?" he asked. "I will listen. Prithee, dearest Silvia, why art thou so angered? What may I do to mend this offense?"

Silvia gritted her teeth. "Thou canst tell me -" and she stopped, as her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and tried again. "I beg of thee, tell me . . . dost thou truly love me?"

Valentine snapped his head up to stare at her, disbelief and horror spread over his face. "Silvia, I love thee with all that I am, more deeply than I had known I could love."

His shocked, wounded look pushed Silvia over the edge. "Then wherefore, oh loving husband, didst thou make a gift of me to thy friend Proteus, who would have had me by force?" she cried. "How mayst thou do such a thing and then say 'I love' to my face? Tell me true. Is it Silvia that thou lovest, or is it Proteus?" Tears of anger rolled down her cheeks, and she swiped them roughly away with her hand.

All of the color drained from Valentine's face. His mouth worked soundlessly, and for a moment, Silvia thought that he might faint. The thought frightened her, but it irritated her as well. Fortunately, Valentine found his voice before anything unseemly could occur.

"Dearest Silvia," he stammered, "in a word, I know not how to tell thee how I love. When first I saw thee, I believed that an angel had come to bless the court of Milan with its favor. Thy beauty and thy gentleness spoke of thy celestial origin, and indeed, it was only with the passage of time that I came to see that thou art a mortal woman. The day that thou didst let slip that thy heart had turned toward me was as a dream for me, one from which I was loath to awaken, lest it be proved false."

"Thou art a flatterer," Silvia said, though she could not quite muster up as much of a chill in her voice as she had hoped.

Valentine looked away from her face for a moment, and swallowed. He laced his fingers together, then disentangled them. "The day that I knew it was not a dream was the day that terror first crept back into my soul," he murmured.

This was news to Silvia. She had known from the beginning that Valentine was shy, and had thought it charming, befitting a passionate young lover. She had never considered that his bashfulness had concealed real fear. "I suppose thou didst fear my father," she offered. "He wished to give me to Thurio, but I assure thee, I know his ways, and he would not have denied me thy love, if I had begged with full heart."

"I know that now, and I am glad of it," Valentine said with a little smile. "But even then, I did not fear thy father. The will of a loving father may be swayed by the pleas of a daughter. I saw that when Signior Capulet allowed Lady Juliet's marriage to stand. Instead, I feared for myself, that my good fortune would vanish, as it has done so many times in my life." His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath.

Silvia frowned. This was not at all how she had expected the conversation to unfold. She desperately wanted to hear what Valentine would say next, but her fingertips tingled and her jaw ached with foreboding.

"When Proteus came to Milan, I rejoiced at first," Valentine went on. "Think on it! My dearest friend and my dearest lady, both dwelling at court with me. But in the flush of my joy, I forgot that what one has, that may one lose, as swiftly as day turns to night. My mother was killed in the blink of an eye, and has left me without even a memory. My father became a monster and was banished from Verona in a single night. Even my brother - I thank the Lord that he lives, for never shall I forget the day when Romeo came to me and said that Mercutio had been struck down and lay near death. Life and love are such fragile things, Silvia - how can I not fear to lose that which I hold closest to my heart?"

"Didst thou think me so untrue?" Silvia asked, a scowl flitting over her face.

"After I was made outlaw, I was sure of nothing. I could not hope that such a fair and noble lady could love such a despised man as I had become. In one stroke, I had lost my dearest friend and my dearest love, and I fell prey to despair." Valentine covered his face with his hands.

"But thou didst not lose me. All of Proteus's wooing only turned my heart further toward thee. I ran into the forest, alone, without even Ursula to help me, all for thy sake. How couldst thou doubt my love?"

"Was not Proteus a worthier man than I?" Valentine cried. "He is brave and bold, honest and forthright in his wants. All that I lack, he has. All that he desires, he receives in abundance. When I came upon him and thee in the forest - Silvia, I swear it unto thee, my mind was confused, and I could not comprehend what he did with thee. I saw only that he desired thee, and I knew that I was no longer worthy of thy love. I thought . . . nay, I did not think. It was too sudden. Canst thou understand? I had already lost thee, and I did not wish to lose Proteus as well. I thought, if Proteus wedded thee, that all would be well. He would have the fairest lady in all Italy, and thou wouldst have my friend, a gentleman of noble countenance and high standing, to be thy lord."

Tears dribbled down Valentine's face at the memory. Silvia, too, had lost any pretense of cold judgment. She reached out and took Valentine's shaking hands in hers. Valentine tried to speak further, but no words came out. Silvia kissed his hands and smoothed the hair away from his heated brow.

"And thou?" she asked. "What would become of thee in this tale?"

Valentine took a few deep breaths. "I would be unchanged," he replied, and Silvia wondered if he truly believed his own words. "I would not lose my friend to a quarrel over love, but neither would I be faithless to thee. Hadst thou married with Proteus, thou wouldst have kept my heart, outlaw though I was. I would adore thee from afar, and watch over thee and protect thee. I would be the truest of knights, as I have read in these tales." He picked up the book of French romances from the ground, where it had fallen, and laid it reverently in Silvia's lap.

Valentine's tale was so absurd that Silvia could have laughed, had she not been convinced that Valentine meant every word in utter truth. But it was that absurdity that won her over. Any foolish gentleman might tell a fine story to cover a sinful lust, but Silvia could not imagine that any would dream up a tale so twisted and complex. And she had to admit that Valentine's tale fit perfectly with Benvolio's account of his behavior.

"Didst thou truly take inspiration in love from tales of Arthur and his knights?" she asked.

Valentine nodded, a little sheepishly. "I have always loved those tales," he said. "They are romantic, yet I recognize my life in the foolishness and tribulations of the knights. Had I met thee in Verona, I might have asked Romeo or my cousin Paris how to woo. Perhaps I might have asked my brothers, though I know not if thou couldst be courted in such a fashion as Benvolio courted Mercutio. But in Milan, I knew not whom to ask. And I have done thee wrong by it, and I would offer thee every apology." Valentine slid off the bench and dropped to his knees before Silvia, bowing his head as if awaiting judgment.

Silvia's mind whirled. She thought about Valentine, and how the intensity of his love was matched only by the ineptitude of his expression of it. She thought about the portrait of his mother, his only connection to that lady, and the empty space on the wall of the Innocents' Hospital where Mercutio had removed the father's portrait. She thought about Valentine's careful respect toward her own father, and about his willingness to go along with the scheme to deceive the Duke by smuggling Silvia out of her tower chamber. And she thought about Valentine's clear love for and loyalty to Proteus, and his envious awe of his friend.

Hesitantly, she reached out and caressed Valentine's jaw. He looked up at her then, and she gasped to see the expression on his face. Love and desperate hope were there, boldly displayed for all the world to see. But deep in his eyes, so deep that she had never noticed it before, she saw the naked terror of a small child left without guidance in a world he barely understood.

Valentine needed her, Silvia realized. The thought came as a shock, for she had never before considered that a man could need a woman. Men loved women, indulged them, used them, ignored them, punished them, or abandoned them, but she had never known that men could need them. And Valentine had been willing to give up someone he needed so desperately, in the sincere, if mistaken, belief that it would be better for her. Would he have given up food or drink or sleep so willingly? Who had taught him to sacrifice himself thus? Who had taught him that Proteus's happiness was worth the price of his own misery?

She had named Benvolio's love a sin, but he had taken it in stride. It is far from the worst sin I have witnessed, he had told her, for love sits at its heart, not hatred. Whoever had taught Valentine to destroy himself for the sake of a false friend must have hated him, Silvia decided. Anger boiled in her heart at that person, and her own quarrel with Valentine withered in that heat.

"I forgive thee," she said, and Valentine slumped at her feet in relief. "But I shall not forgive Proteus so easily," she added. "I know that he is thy friend, but I cannot look upon his face without fear. I pray thee, do not make me see him any more than propriety demands."

"Never, if thou so desirest," Valentine said. "I only wish that I had recognized more clearly what he intended to do with thee. I shall chide myself forever for having tried to give thee to him in his treachery."

"Nay, chide thyself not, gentle Valentine," Silvia said with a laugh. "Too much of scolding hast thou had. Kiss me instead, and I shall call it quits."

Valentine rose from the ground, but did not leap upon her immediately. Instead, he resumed his seat on the bench at her side, and kissed her hand, as though he had first been presented to her in her father's court. She gave him her most encouraging smile and held out her arms. And at last, he fell into her embrace with a sigh of relief, as though he had just returned home from a long journey.

When Silvia woke the next morning, she thrilled to the warmth and weight of Valentine wrapped around her, his hand once more resting atop her breast. Their reunion the night before had been fiery but deliberate, each one conscious now of the fragile parts of the other. Once more, Silvia's muscles ached, but now she welcomed each twinge, for it reminded her that it was a man, and not a god, who lay at her side. Valentine snuffled a little as he moved towards waking. It was a sound that was not divine at all, but it was his, and it was meant for her ears alone, and Silvia adored it because of that.

She waited patiently for a few minutes. Slowly, Valentine's eyes blinked open, and he took in his surroundings. "Ah," he murmured. "It is no dream. I am home."

"And I am glad of it," Silvia replied, with much more fervor in her voice than she had intended. She and Valentine both laughed. "Perhaps I shall give thee a son soon," she suggested, running her hand over her belly.

"Perhaps," Valentine said, "but I do not think there is a need, just yet. I should rather have time to acquaint myself fully with thee."

Having said this, he rolled out of bed, and began to gather his clothes together. Silvia watched him, puzzled, until he prodded her shoulder. "It is time to rise now," Valentine said. "Today is an important day."

Silvia wondered what could possibly make the day more important than it already was. She rose from the bed and called for Ursula, realizing that this was the only way that she would find out.

When they were dressed, Valentine took her hand, and they walked through the garden to the kennels. As soon as she realized where they were going, Silvia's heart began to beat faster, and she actually let out a little squeal when the kennel master emerged to meet them, carrying their little gray pup with the ribbon around her neck. Silvia held out her arms to receive the pup, and laughed as the creature sniffed her and began to lick her face.

Valentine embraced both of them, kissing the pup and scratching behind Silvia's ears to make her laugh harder. "Now we need not allow our secrets to fester unspoken any longer," he said. "What we cannot say to each other, we may say to the dog, and so gain the confidence to speak to each other. What wilt thou call her?"

Silvia considered the pup for a while, admiring her large, liquid eyes and the white stripe down the middle of her face. "Fiducia," she decided. "To remind us both to deal fairly and honestly with each other."

"Fiducia," Valentine said. "That is a good name."

Fiducia yipped, as if she approved and were already responding to a call. Valentine ruffled her fur, then leaned in to kiss Silvia with all the passion and twice the assurance of their wedding day.

END