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and elegant.” He fixed me with one of his ghastly smiles. “You wear it well, my lady.”
    “How kind of you to say so,” I replied. I searched for any reasonable conversation. “Are brocades your specialty?” I seemed to remember my father had decided to bring the man into his textile business for some talent or another.
    But Jacopo’s concentration had been drawn elsewhere, as the pair nearby who discussed the curia’s holdings mentioned an astonishingly large sum of money.
    “And you were saying? Signor Strozzi,” I prodded him, annoyed at how tenuous was my hold on the attentions of my future husband.
    “I was saying . . . ?” He became flustered with his complete lapse in memory of our conversation.
    “Brocades are your specialty?” I prompted.
    “Brocades and wool,” he said, composing himself. “Many find wool a dull cloth, but I find it exciting.” He spoke the last word with little conviction, but in fact a dull gleam had come into Jacopo’s eyes. “It is all in the sheep, you see. . . .”
    Just then I saw Romeo enter the room. I struggled to hold my attention on Signor Strozzi, who was now droning on about the grazing habits of English ewes, while I followed the movements of my lithe and handsome young poet as he wove singlemindedly through the crowd toward Cosimo de’ Medici.
    “Have you noticed that? Lady Juliet?”
    “Oh, ah . . . so sorry. Have I noticed . . . ?”
    “That English wool is softer, less scratchy on the skin?”
    “You know, I have actually. I own a wine-colored wool gown that feels as smooth as silk.”
    “My point exactly,” he said with what, in this gentleman, must pass for delight. “If you show me that dress, I will be able to tell you the very county in which those sheep grazed.”
    “Really?” I coughed, covering my mouth, so I could turn away from Jacopo, for Romeo was now standing by Don Cosimo’s side, waiting patiently while he spoke to his wife, Contessina. Then she moved away. I coughed again. “Signor Strozzi,” I said in a weak voice, “would you be so kind as to pat me on the back?”
    “Of course, of course,” he said, and complied, though I noticed he took the opportunity to lean in the direction of the two men discussing the pope’s finances.
    Romeo had succeeded in gaining Don Cosimo’s attention. From the Medici’s expression I could see his young petitioner had wasted no time getting to his point. The older man’s look was grave, but he was nodding his head as Romeo spoke, passion animating his face, his hands—those beautiful hands—expressively slicing and chopping the air before him.
    “A few more pats and I will be fine,” I said to Jacopo, who was as distracted as I.
    Now Don Cosimo was speaking to Romeo, who listened with rapt attention to every syllable uttered. He looked as though he wished to reply, but Cosimo’s monologue had become a lecture—one that was, in fact, growing louder so that even across the room, with music still playing, I heard several fragments—“ancient hatreds” and “unlikely reconciliation.”
    The two had attracted attention to themselves, and now I saw a group of young men pointing to Romeo. A snarling face. A fist raised. He had been recognized—Daniel in the lion’s den!
    Commotion ensued and as the room erupted, I used the diversion to slip away from Jacopo’s ministrations. Romeo was making for the double doors, a gang of noble thugs gaining on him. I darted in from the other side, coming face-to-face with him for the briefest moment—long enough for him to revel in my need to see him.
    His smile was brilliant. “The cathedral, noon on Wednesday,” he said, then darted away and down the marble stairs.
    I planted myself square in the middle of the doorway with an innocent smile on my face. The toughs were forced to stop short to keep from knocking me down. I cried out, as if terrified by the sight of them bearing down on me. They moved to the right and I feinted right. They tried the