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only thing that had perfumed Romeo’s long-worn travel clothes had been the alehouse floor where he and Laurence had slept.
    “Be calm, Friar. Who would harm two pilgrims in a strange land?” Romeo crossed himself quickly, hoping their piety would be noted by the people turning up their noses all around them.
    He’d come too far on his quest to reunite with his true love to be done in by a group of courtiers.
    The man who walked with the prince spoke rapidly, close to the Prince’s ear, and Romeo could not make out what they talked of. The barriers of language and volume made it too difficult, but Romeo believed he understood what was happening in front of them. The prince had invited them inside, and his advisor didn’t like it.
    Well, that set him on equal footing with the prince, didn’t it?
    What kind of a prince spent his nights in ale houses, utterly unprotected? There had been no guards around him, no elaborate disguise. He hadn’t covered his pale blond hair or obscured his face, which bore what seemed to be a permanent expression of disdain. Perhaps everyone in the north looked that way, and they couldn’t tell each other apart.
    Furthermore, what sort of castle was kept in the disarray the prince had brought them to? In the room they entered, books and papers covered every available surface. Some stacks stood waist high, and precious volumes splayed open on the floor. Trenchers of untouched food lay rotting beside the door, and half-eaten loaves of bread grew stale sitting about on desks and chests. There was a pile of clothing beside the wardrobe, and rivulets of candle wax had frozen beneath their sconces on the walls.
    “Pardon,” the prince’s advisor said in halting Italian. “The prince was not expecting company.”
    “The prince himself invited us,” Romeo said pleasantly, but he narrowed his eyes.
    “Yes, I did,” Hamlet interrupted, brandishing a sheet of parchment, which he handed over to Romeo. “I wanted to hear more about this quest of yours. Specifically, the poison.”
    Frowning, Romeo quickly scanned the page. “I don’t understand—”
    “It is a list of poisons commonly used by assassins in Europe and as far away as China. If you could so kindly point out to me what you poisoned yourself with, and tell me the antidote—”
    “That’s what this is about?” Romeo snapped angrily. “The poison?”
    Hamlet blinked his icy blue eyes.
    When he did not speak, Romeo crumpled the parchment in his fist. “I’m no apothecary, I know nothing about poisons.”
    “Neither did the apothecary who sold you your poison, or it would have worked.” The prince rubbed his chin. “This is troubling. I thought I might be able to help you in your quest, but if you cannot help me—”
    “How the hell would you help me?” It was wrong to speak to a prince that way, Romeo knew well enough. The prince of Verona would have had him flogged for such impudence. But they had come so far, and for nothing. All the while Juliet was trapped in a dark and lonely death. They stood at the seat of a dead king, as the witch had told them, and still they’d received no answers. Now this spoiled, heartless cur was making a game of his quest?
    A change came over Hamlet’s features. A moment before, he’d been a pompous, irritating boy. He now looked a dangerous man, with dangerous thoughts and the wealth and status to back them up. Romeo wished he had not spoken so rashly.
    Though he expected that the prince’s next words would be something like, “take him to the dungeon,” instead, Hamlet gestured to a chair piled high with books. At once, Horatio swept them onto the floor, and Hamlet lifted his chin, saying, “I have been rude. Please sit down, Romeo. I would like you to tell my friend Horatio the tale you told me last night.”
    It was not a story he wished to share, not in front of this young man who would likely mock it, but he’d already been impertinent, and he did not wish to offend the prince