I chafed at the Capulets’ rule against visiting my family, but I contented myself with exchanging frequent letters with them. One of them went as following:

Dear Mother,

I’m so pleased to hear that the boys are doing well and that Giovanni is finally making progress in his reading, and of course I’m delighted to hear that Father is on the mend! It makes my job seem so much more worthwhile. Make sure that he doesn’t try to go back to work before he’s completely well. As for me, I continue to survive-- Tybalt seems to be ignoring me for the present, for which I am most grateful. The Montagues haven’t given me any trouble at all, ironically enough. I’m practically invisible, which is good for survival but a bit lonely at times. Unfortunately, no, I haven’t made any friends with the other servants--they’re all afraid of me, or rather they’re afraid of getting on Tybalt’s bad side. It’s disappointing, as I always hoped that servants would make better friends than those silly society girls.Juliet is a sweet girl, most of the time, but naturally I have much more of her company than I would like. I miss you all terribly, but I carry on. Has the Prince come to visit as threatened? Tell David to practice his fencing every day for me. I wish I could practice here but I’m afraid it would shock the Capulets too much. How is Lorenzo getting on with his letters? Also, let me know if you hear of any flowers that grow in winter. Juliet is growing rather prickly without her garden. Send my love to all.

Your loving daughter,

Elena

Time went on. Juliet grew more beautiful. The wealthy and titled men of Verona began to cast appraising glances at her during Capulet parties. She noticed, of course. She and Rosaline and the others would spend hours discussing the merits of all the eligible men. Occasionally, she would ask my opinion. I offered a few guarded words that she could interpret however she wished. Considering that she would have to marry whomever her parents chose, I didn’t think it wise for her to get attached to any one of the bloodthirsty fobs in particular. She was much too young to marry, at least in my opinion. Juliet, however, was much less entertained by my frankness these days, and often warned me to keep a civil tongue in my head. I blamed the season. Juliet hated winter, and it made her irritable. Because she had to act mild, docile, and angelic with everyone else, she took her frustrations out on me.

“Nurse! Get out of my sight! Go find me a flower or something!”

“It’s the middle of winter, my lady,” I replied.

“I don’t care. Get out,” Juliet snapped. So I went.

A cold, careless wind shrieked through the deserted marketplace. The sky above was grey and heavy with clouds. My spirits sunk lower with every step. I was bitterly homesick for love and family and sanity. The sign for the bookseller’s shop swayed back and forth, creaking madly, its bright colors a welcome contrast to the bitter sky. Warm, bright firelight flickered on the dirty glass windowpanes. Deciding that Juliet’s real reason for sending me out was so that she could be alone for a while, I entered the bookshop. In her last letter, Mother had ordered me to set aside a little money to spend as I liked. “It’ll keep you from getting old before your time.” The silence of the shop soothed me as I browsed through the dusty volumes. It was almost like being home. Here were my old friends from that long-ago life of luxury and cheer; poets and heroes, villains and scoundrels, rested quietly on the shelves, waiting to begin their adventures anew.

Tybalt’s voice, somewhat muffled by the glass, shattered my peace: “Thou dog of a Montague! I’ll have your life!”

Purely by reflex, I cowered against the wall, hoping no one had seen or cared that I was inside. A harsh voice answered Tybalt with coarse, angry words, followed by the sharp clash of metal on metal. Another voice joined in, another sword struck, and another, and another. In a few minutes the roar of battle resounded from every window. Deep in the recesses of the shop, I heard the bookseller whimpering. Trying not to panic, I moved to a windowless section of the shop and tried to keep my mind on the books so that I wouldn’t think too much about the horrible things that were happening outside. There was only one door into the shop, and it opened directly onto the market square. I was trapped.

Afraid as I was, I still found books that I wanted. In fact, I was so preoccupied with the books that I failed to notice a loose board in the floor. I tripped on it and went sprawling, sending books in every direction and sending myself straight to the dusty floor of the bookshop. Collecting my wits, I scrambled across the floor, trying to collect them, when I heard someone scream in agony outside, and froze in fear.

“A pox on feuds,” I muttered, trying to unfreeze myself with irritation. “Wasting perfectly good lives to further some warped sense of honor.”

“You know, that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all day,” a male voice said.

Startled, I looked up to see a tall, well-dressed young man picking up the rest of my books. “Here, hand me those,” he said, gesturing to the few I’d collected. I did, and he set them on the counter with the others. “That fall was quite spectacular,” he said, helping me up. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, brushing off my skirts absentmindedly as I looked at his face. Although his lower lip was bleeding profusely, and he looked as if he’d just come in from the fray outside, he was distressingly handsome, with merry eyes and dark curly hair that was completely askew. I say “distressing” because I recognized Montague blue patterns worked into his purple tunic. “Uh…Yes, I’m all right, thank you. Are you?” I asked, drawing out my handkerchief and offering it to him.

He shrugged, and took it with a grateful smile. “I’ll live,” he said, pressing it to his bleeding mouth. “Thank you.” It came out a bit muffled because of the handkerchief, but I understood the gratitude in his eyes. He had wonderful eyes…dark in color and yet somehow still brimming with light and intelligence…oh no, what was I doing? No. Stop that. Keep your head. I drew a deep breath and tried to examine him in a more Platonic manner. “You’re one of the Montagues, aren’t you?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” he said, looking as if he genuinely regretted the fact. “Benvolio Montague, at your service. I’m the senior Lord Montague’s nephew.”

“I was afraid of that,” I said. “I--I’m sorry--but I have to go--I can’t be seen with--with you.” Something about being with him must have made my head fuzzy, for I left the books on the counter and started for the door, the raging battle outside completely forgotten.

“Are you mad?” Benvolio asked, catching hold of my arm. “They’re still fighting out there! They’ll kill you!”

Startled, I turned again to face him. “They’ll probably kill me if they see me with you-- or fire me, which might be worse.”

A faint smile appeared on his face. “They will certainly kill you if you go out there now. And don’t you think you’ve got your priorities a little mixed?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said, straining to hear if the battle had stopped and unwilling to admit how fluff-brained I’d been.

“Why not? Because I’m a rich spoiled ninny who knows nothing about earning a living?” Benvolio asked.

“I didn’t say that. Please let go of me.” I tried to keep my voice cold and aloof, but in spite of my efforts my voice quavered a little.

He released me gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please don’t go. I’d hate to be the cause of your death, for one thing and it’s been so long since I’ve spoken to a reasonable human being…I scarcely know how to act.”

The last sentence caught me as surely as his hand had moments ago. His words mirrored my feelings exactly. Surely one conversation while trapped in a bookstore couldn’t be terribly dangerous...it had been so long since I’d had a real conversation with anyone other than Juliet.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Elena Carafa. I’m Juliet Capulet’s nurse.”

“And Lord Carafa’s daughter, I presume?” he asked. “I thought there was something a bit familiar about you. Not that you look like him. It’s your manner more than anything. You’re very beautiful.”

I stared at him, wondering if my expression conveyed my astonishment and confusion. I had been called many things, but never beautiful by anyone other than my parents. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“I don’t think it, I know it,” he said. “Beauty isn’t a matter of opinion. It exists whether others can see it or not.” He didn’t appear to be embarrassed or uncomfortable in the slightest. Instead, he continued the conversation, his eyes alight with fascination. “What is it like, working for the Capulets? What are they like around people they don’t hate?”

It took a moment before I could recover my wits. “Well…”

A pained look must have come across my face, because he said “You don’t have to sugarcoat it. Just be honest. It’s not like I have any credibility with the Capulets.”

I grinned in spite of myself. “On the surface, it’s not that difficult of a job. The Capulets treat me well, according to their standards. I’ve never been a servant before, so I don’t really know. And…underneath the surface—well, if you really want the truth I’m afraid I’m going to slowly go insane. Juliet, Lord Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt--they’re all crazy! Everyone in this city is crazy. They pretend to be cultured and refined and then they go murder people. I’m terrified.”

“If it’s any consolation, neither side is very effective at murdering the other, with the exception of Tybalt. ” he said. “But even he isn’t as skilled as you might think—at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Believe me, I know exactly how you feel--with the exception that I have the comforting knowledge that I was born into a family of fools and murderers, and not just working for them.” He began examining the books that he had set on the counter, his bruised mouth set into a grim line. “But to each his own problems, I guess.”

As he read the titles of the books, his expression softened and a slight spark came back into his eyes. “Are these all for you?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Juliet has a fine library but doesn’t care for reading.”

“An impressive selection,” he said. “History, comedy, tragedy, poetry…but I think you’re missing something.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “But I won’t be able to afford all of these, let alone get any more. What do you think I’m missing?”

He grinned. “A love story, my lady.”

I somehow found myself smiling back at him, perhaps out of shock. “Don’t you think you’re being rather abrupt?”

“Well, as our famous Petrarch is so fond of saying, none of us are promised tomorrow, or even the rest of today. I fear my life is a short one and I would like to make the most of it,” he said.

“And what do you think that means?” I asked. “Making the most of life?”

“So the rumors are true,” he said, with a mix of teasing and admiration. “Your father has been teaching you the Socratic manner of inquiry.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling a little defensive. “Most people find it horrifying.”

He replied “I find it fascinating. To answer your question, I used to think that the way to make the most of life was to have an abundance of adventures, a few good friends, and a little money for emergencies. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Why?”

“Coming home always shakes me out of complacency.” He went around the bookcase and peered out at the market square. “It looks like they’ve gone. Maybe the cold chilled their hot-blooded veins.”

“Thank goodness” I said, reaching for my books. “I should go.”

“Are you ready to pay?” the bookseller inquired.

“I’m afraid so.” Benvolio said. To my astonishment, he gave the bookseller a handful of golden coins. “Keep the change.” To me, he added “Consider it an apology for ruining your handkerchief.

“Sir--please--you musn’t--” I spluttered. In my servant's budget, those books were worth a fortune.

He grinned. “But I want to…unless you find me objectionable for personal reasons?”

“No,” I said. “You’re very--you’re not--I--I really need to go now,” I finished lamely, gathering my books and backing towards the door.

Great. Now he was practically beaming. “Ah! Then there’s hope.”

I stopped a moment, confused. “For what?”

“Hope that I might…run into you again,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Farewell, Elena.”

“Farewell,” I mumbled, moving as fast as I could with both arms full of books, promising myself that, handsome and kind as he seemed, I would not, could not “run into him” again. Still, I felt unaccountably warm and bubbly as I made my way home.