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understood his disappointment.
    As much from my own anger at the Fates as his, I lashed out at him with as much sense as a hedgehog. “What, did you not expect a woman of my age to be betrothed? Do I look like a spinster to you? Am I so hideous?”
    He was amused at my intemperance, refusing—like a stubborn fish—to take my bait.
    “Ah, I see.You test me,” he said. “You wish me to versify on the subject of your beauty.”
    “That was not my intention,” I insisted. He nevertheless said:
    Her color is the paleness of the pearl
She is the highest nature can achieve
And by her mold all beauty tests itself.
    I smiled at the well-chosen lines of our favorite poet.
    “Ah, she is mollified.”
    “Not entirely,” I said, enjoying the game. “I require one of yours.”
    “On the spur of the moment?”
    “Well, certainly you’ve written of other ladies’ beauty.”
    He was very quiet and displayed a look of bafflement.
    “Come, a winsome young bachelor like yourself . . .”
    “I am not a bachelor. I’m a scholar, only recently come from—”
    “Padua, I know. But you have written of love—your heart ‘the size of the sun.’ Is beauty so hard?”
    A slow smile bowed his lips and his eyes swept over my face.
    “No, my lady, not when the beauty is that of an angel.”
    I was growing keenly aware of the sensations this man’s near presence was having on my body. I strove to remain serene.
    He continued slowly, as the words flowed into his head.
    Not when the name evokes a precious stone.
Who is Juliet? How does her smile manage
to foretell the rising sun, her eyes
the brightest stars in the southern sky?
Who is Juliet, a lady on whose sweetly scented breath ride
surprising words that illumine the night and make
a poet’s heart sing with wonder at his good fortune to know her?
    “I am more than satisfied,” I said, deeply impressed with his agility and flattered by the sentiment.
    “But I am not.” He looked unhappy. “Who is your betrothed?”
    “My ‘nearly betrothed’ is Jacopo Strozzi.”
    Romeo’s face paled.
    “Do you know him?”
    “I know of him.”
    “ What do you know of him?”
    My young courtier was growing more uneasy by the moment, the magic vapors surrounding us suddenly evaporating.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    He remained stubbornly silent.
    “I have been honest with you, sir.You must do me the honor likewise. What do you know of Jacopo Strozzi?”
    “That he will soon be partners with an enemy of my father.”
    A sharp breath escaped me. “That enemy’s name is Capelletti,” I whispered.
    “It is. How do you know this?”
    “My father is Capello Capelletti.” I found myself anguished at speaking the next words. “Our families are at war with one another.”
    He turned where he stood but did not walk away. I could see his body trembling. My own felt suddenly weak.
    “What are you doing in this house?” My voice was urgent. “The Medici bear no more love for the Monticecco than do the Capelletti.”
    “I came to change that,” Romeo said, turning back to me. “These are ancient rivalries, and Don Cosimo is a reasonable man. He claims to want peace in Florence. I sought an audience with him. I was too late to see him before the ball, but I will speak to him before the night is over.”
    “Ah, Romeo . . .” Now it was I at a loss for words. I was a girl with knowledge of my father’s business with this family. I was not a traitor, yet I felt compelled to say: “Are you so sure this feud is ancient?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “What do you know of a sunken cargo ship?”
    “Nothing.”
    I could say no more. “I must go.”
    “No, wait.”
    He took my arm in a desperate grip. I looked down at his hand, square and strong, and wished my poem alive— Oh, that Romeo held my face tender in his palm —but I pulled from his grasp, refusing to meet his eye.
    Lifting my skirts, I ran from the garden. The palazzo vestibule felt small and stuffy, its pale green