“Nurse! Come quickly!” Juliet’s shrilled from the hallway.

I frantically crumpled up the letter I’d been writing to Benvolio and shoved it into the bottom of my scabbard. “Coming, my lady!” I scurried out of my room and down the hallway to where Juliet was waiting impatiently outside her room. She was clearly bursting with news.

“You won’t believe what just happened!” she said. “Father just stormed in. There’s been a huge battle in the marketplace!”

“Doesn’t that happen about once a month?” I replied as I followed her inside.

“This time it’s serious,” she said.

I suddenly felt cold. “Why, did someone die?”

She flung open the doors to the balcony. “No, at least no one important.”

“Define important,” I said, surprised at how nonchalant I sounded when my heart was racing. Benvolio had been traveling for weeks, but he was due back any day now. Of all the days to come back...surely not even he could be that unlucky?

“No one died, silly. I’m just teasing,” said Juliet.

I frowned to conceal my relief. “I thought you said it was serious.”

“It is. You see, there was a huge fight—Tybalt said that some of the servants started it—Sampson and Gregory, and you know how it is with those two. And then of Tybalt got involved, and before you know it almost the entire Montague and Capulet clans are going at it more than they ever have before. The commoners and the merchants were furious with them for destroying the marketplace, and so they started fighting both sides. The Prince was so angry that he came out with his entire army to stop the fight. He threatened anyone who didn’t stop fighting with torture, and anyone who continued to feud with death. It must have been a pretty magnificent speech—Father is completely cowed.”

I sank down into a chair. “That should be it, then. Not that the risk of death has ever stopped any of your crazy relatives before, but this is a little more serious.”

Juliet sighed. “Oh, I hope it’s the end of the feud.”

“I’m afraid to hope too much,” I said. “But maybe we’ll get a few days of peace and quiet.”

Juliet giggled. “Not likely. We’re having a party tonight, remember?”

I rolled my eyes. “How could I forget?”

“Maybe more details about the fight will let us know how long the peace will last,” said Juliet. “I don’t dare to ask Father—he’s still steaming—but you could go to the marketplace and investigate! Would you, Nurse?”

“Of course, my lady,” I replied, gathering my skirts. “I’ll be back before dark.”

The marketplace was completely wrecked, worse than I had ever seen it before. Everyone had deserted the place, unwilling to face the massive clean-up job ahead of them. Tattered awnings blew feebly over splintered stalls. Everywhere there were goods smashed and scattered over the ground—a day’s work for some, a lifetime’s work for others. Glass and earthenware pots and jars lay in fragments. Pillows lay slashed open, their feathers floating and descending with the city’s steaming breeze. The flower stalls were the worst—bright, lovely roses, lilies, violets—all crushed and broken.

As I made my way around the wreckage of a large stall, I saw Benvolio and his cousin Romeo at the far end of the square. Benvolio was rifling through a pile of potatoes, while his companion wandered around in an aimless fashion. Since we appeared to be the only souls in sight, I went over to him. “You’re back!”

He leapt up from the potatoes with a start, then smiled when he saw me. “Yes,” he said. “Just in time for another battle. How have you been?”

“I’ve been all right,” I replied. “Better now that I know you’re still alive.”

“I would return the compliment, but I feel like you’re much too sensible to die,” he said.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“I was looking for a letter,” he said. “I lost it.”

“Is it important?” I asked, feigning nonchalance as I realized it must be my letter. I cast a questioning glance at his companion.

“Yes, fairly so,” Benvolio said, with an edge of sarcasm. “Oh, don’t worry about Romeo. He’s off in his own little world.”

“What?” asked Romeo. “I wasn’t listening.”

“Nothing,” Benvolio said, sighing. He moved over to the remains of the next stall, scrutinizing it for anything that looked like paper.

“Shall I help you look?” I asked, moving so that I was exactly beside him.

Suddenly his eyes grew wide. “Get down,” he said. He shoved me down behind the ruined stall, dropped down beside me. “Someone’s coming.”

We made ourselves still and silent. Tybalt’s angry voice floated towards us on the breeze. I touched Benvolio’s shoulder and motioned to the right. In our moment of panic, we had forgotten about Romeo. He was wandering slowly through the market with a blank, dreamy look on his face. I suppose he was daydreaming about Rosaline. Benvolio buried his face in his hands. I peered through a small opening in the stall, watching Tybalt approach. He hadn’t seen Romeo yet. Tybalt had stopped to pick up a piece of parchment from the road— a letter. He began reading it. I forgot how to breathe, wondering what Benvolio had written. After a few sentences his face grew purple with fury. He tore the letter into shreds and ground it into the dust, spewing curses as he did so. Tybalt’s cries brought Romeo to his senses, and he fled the market square. The noise caught Tybalt’s attention, and he gave chase, running straight past our hiding place after Romeo, and once again the square was empty. We remained still for a few moments before standing up.

“Idiot!” Benvolio snapped. “I almost hope Tybalt catches up with him.”

“Does he need your help?” I asked as we ran over to inspect the remains of the letter.

Benvolio shook his head. “Maybe Tybalt will knock some sense into his woolly head. That was way too close. You need to get out of here.”

“You’re one to talk about close,” I retorted. “What about the letter?”I picked up the scraps of the letter and tried make sense of them. “This isn’t your handwriting,” I added, passing him a piece of parchment.

“No,” Benvolio said, examining it. He began to chuckle. “I think this is one of Romeo’s famous love letters.”

I giggled nervously.

“Now go,” he said. “Before anyone else comes. I’ll worry about the letter.”

I nodded and ran, searching the ground as I went. Spotting another piece of parchment lying in two halves on the ground, I snatched it up. I instantly recognized Benvolio’s handwriting.

“Found it!” I called to him, waving it in the air in triumph.

A relieved smile spread over his face as he raised a hand in farewell. I grinned back at him and fled the market square. As I turned into a busier street, I resumed a more dignified pace, folded the letter into a tiny square, and shoved it into one of the pockets I had added to my dress. Oh, but it had been close. Much too close for comfort. I wondered what would have happened if Tybalt had found Benvolio’s letter. He was more a man of action than of words, so he might not have understood it. We still wrote in code, never using proper names of people or places, so he might have mistaken it for one of Romeo’s ridiculous declarations of affection. Then again, if he actually read the whole thing he might begin to wonder, for Benvolio’s letters contained an intelligence and wit not found in Romeo’s letters. I doubted Tybalt had enough intelligence to find the true writer of the letter, but someone like Rosaline might see past all our precautions. I had been a fool to think that letters held no risk of discovery. The logical thing to do would be to stop communicating with him altogether, at least for the time being. The thought made me sick, but something would have to be done. Despair and frustration settled over me as I unlocked the garden gate and slipped inside. Hearing male voices, I paused in my trek to Juliet’s room.

It was Lord Capulet speaking. “Let two more summers wither in their pride ere we think her ripe to be a bride.”

Her? Juliet? I slipped behind the hedge and crept closer. Another voice—a young man’s, aristocratic and persuasive, answered him. “Younger than she are happy mothers made.”

“And too soon marred are those so early made,” Lord Capulet replied.

That was the most sensible thing I’d heard Lord Capulet say since the day I began my service to the Capulets. Maybe he was beginning to change, after all. He continued, “But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart; my will to her consent is but a part. And she agreed, within her scope of choice lies my consent and fair according voice.”

Paris. The young man was Count Paris, the Prince’s much younger cousin. I had known him before we became poor, and seen him often on errands to the other nobles’ houses. Lord Capulet added, “This night I hold an old accustomed feast, whereto I have invited many a guest, such as I love, and you among the store: one more, most welcome, makes my number more.” So much for common sense. Lord Capulet was just employing negotiation tactics.

Oh dear. I edged along towards the house as quietly as possible, then picked up my skirts and practically flew up the stairs to Juliet’s room. For once, she wasn’t irritated with me for running late. She was sitting on her bed, contemplating her wardrobe with an anxious frown on her young face.

“Juliet! You won’t believe what I just heard!” I exclaimed.

Juliet looked up at me. “What news?”

“Count Paris has asked your father if he can marry you! He’s out there in the garden right now!”

“What? Did Father give his consent? What does he look like?” Juliet asked, jumping up and rushing towards her balcony.

“You can’t just go out there and stare at him!” I hissed, stopping her.

“But he’s right out there! Don’t you think I should be allowed to see him if I might have to marry him?” Juliet protested, glaring at the balcony in frustration.

“You will,” I said. “Lord Capulet has invited him to the party tonight.”

“Oh gracious,” Juliet said, fluttering around the room like an agitated hen. “Then tell me all about him. “What is he like? What does he look like?”

“Do you mean to tell me that in all your gossipy conversations with Rosaline you never discussed Count Paris?” I asked, surprised. “From what I’ve heard, he’s considered the most desirable man in Verona.”

“According to whom?” Juliet asked.

“According to the parents,” I replied, grinning. “He’s wealthy and titled. There’s rumors that someday he’ll be Prince himself.”

“That’s all very well,” Juliet said, unable to hide her smile. “But what do the young ladies say?”

“They say he’s as handsome as Prince Paris of Troy,” I said, picking her discarded gowns up off the floor.

“And you? You’ve seen him. What do you think of him, Nurse?” Juliet demanded.

I considered this. “I have seen him before, on a few trips to the palace. He’s handsome enough.”

“Dreamy?” demanded Juliet.

I shrugged. “I don’t find him dreamy. I never fancied Paris of Troy, either. He didn’t have any sense at all.”

“He was in love!” Juliet said. “People in love aren’t sensible. That’s part of the fun!”

“Paris of Troy wasn’t in love,” I said. “He was a brat who wanted what he couldn’t get. I’m sure he could have had the pick of any unmarried girl. Surely there were lots of beautiful women in Troy. Achilles certainly thought so.”

“Well, is our Count Paris like that?” Juliet demanded.

I thought hard, trying to remember everything I could. “No, I don’t think so. He’s conceited and rather…colorless. Like a statue of a man, rather than a human being. A beautiful statue, for certain, but no life. But this is all subjective—he’s just not the sort of man I would want to marry. You might find him wildly attractive and passionate.”

Juliet giggled. “I hope so. What kind of man do you find attractive, Nurse? Describe him to me and I’ll see if I can find him tonight and introduce you!”

I laughed, but I knew I was in trouble. The word ‘dreamy’ had instantly called Benvolio to my mind. “Oh, let me think. I know you don’t care about personality but he must be intelligent. As for looks…dark curly hair and dark eyes.”

“That’s a description of about half the men in Verona, to say nothing of every other city-state within a thousand miles,” Juliet pointed out. “Can’t you do any better than that? Be poetic.”

I groaned. I had been trying to be as vague as possible. “Chicken poetry isn’t exactly the same as love poetry. Let me see… my kind of man has eyes like a clear summer night-- dark but with millions of stars dancing in them, appearing and disappearing in a moment.”

“That doesn’t sound very masculine,” Juliet said.

“I’m making this up as I go,” I retorted. “Night can be masculine.”

“Fine. Continue.” Juliet said with a flourishing gesture.

“He’s nice to look at, but his soul is what makes him incredible. I think you would find him strange and alarming, like the night. He’s so different from anything you consider ordinary or even romantic. But he’s kind and courageous, and he’s never far from a smile,” I finished, embarrassed.

Juliet laughed. “You never told me you had that much imagination!”

I shrugged, hoping Benvolio never heard about this. “Oh, making up dreamy men is easy. Reality is the hard part.”

“Oh, don’t be such a drag,” Juliet said. “Help me pick out a dress to impress the ardent Paris!”

“I think you’ve already impressed him,” I said, flopping into a chair.

“Dear oh dear what am I going to wear?” Juliet moaned happily. “I wonder if he can dance?”

I grimaced. “He can’t--or at least he couldn’t when I was still rich enough to dance with nobility. Of course, that was a long time ago. He may have improved since then.”

“I hope so,” Juliet said. “Fetch me a snack, Nurse! I’m famished!”

“As you wish, my lady,” I said, rising reluctantly from my chair to do her bidding. Before my adventure in the marketplace, I had been scurrying around like a mad hen, helping to prepare for the party. My entire body ached. I was almost grateful that I wasn’t expected to dance. I stumbled down the stairs and collided with Lady Capulet on the ground floor.

“Watch where you’re going, oaf!” she hissed.

“A thousand apologies, my lady,” I stammered, backing away before making the customary curtsey.

“Nurse! Where’s my daughter?” she demanded. “Call her forth to me!”

I nodded and hurried back up the stairs to Juliet’s room. “Juliet! My lady Juliet!”

Juliet threw down the dress she’d been examining in irritation. “What now?” she fussed.

“Your mother wants to talk to you,” I replied.

Juliet groaned and followed me back down the stairs. Once we stood before Lady Capulet, Juliet slipped into her role of Perfect Daughter.

“Madam, I am here,” Juliet said with an angelic smile. “What is your will?”

“This is the matter,” Lady Capulet began, but then she broke off. “Nurse, give leave awhile. We must talk in secret.”

Guessing what the ‘secret’ was, I curtsied and headed for the kitchen.

“Nurse!” Lady Capulet called. Startled, I whirled around to face them. “Come back again. I have remembered, thou’s to hear our counsel. Thou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.”

I strode back towards them, nodding. “Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour,” I agreed politely.

Lady Capulet nodded. “She’s not fourteen.”

I would like to take this moment to say that I have all my teeth and don’t tell rude stories about Juliet. Sarcastic and cranky stories, yes, but never rude ones.

“Marry,” Lady Capulet continued, sounding puzzled. “Marry is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me daughter Juliet, how stands your disposition to be married?”

“It is an honor I dream not of,” Juliet replied, trying to look demure.

I choked back the laughter rising to my lips. Lady Capulet also looked a little surprised. “Well, think of marriage now. The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.”

There was an awkward silence. Juliet’s eyes were wide, but not with delight. The gravity of the situation suddenly hit her.

“What sort of a man is he?” she asked. The eager smile that followed her eyes could not hide her trembling voice.

Oblivious of her daughter’s sudden fright, Lady Capulet beamed. “Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.”

“In faith, a very flower,” I said, putting an edge to my words. Night can be masculine, but flowers are not. Juliet glared at me.

“What say you?” Lady Capulet wheedled. “Can you love the gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our feast and find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.” She paused, apparently expecting us to be overwhelmed by her eloquence. Juliet and I exchanged glances and did our best to look awestruck.

“Speak briefly,” Lady Capulet continued. “Can you like of Paris’ love?”

Juliet smiled. “I’ll look to like, if looking liking move, but no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.”

Lady Capulet looked so bewildered that I had to disguise my laughter as a coughing attack.

“Wonderful!” she said finally, ever the optimist. Then she hurried off, probably already planning the wedding.

I gave Juliet what I hoped was a sympathetic look. “Are you still hungry?” I asked.

“Yes!” she said. “Bring me the best treat you can coax from Cook!”

I fetched Juliet’s treat, and somehow survived the agony of dress selecting. She fluttered endlessly between dresses like a butterfly in a flower garden, unable to make a decision because of the sheer abundance of blossoms. After several hours, she settled on the gown I knew she would-- her new one that had been specially commissioned for the occasion. Naturally, the gown was incredibly gorgeous, the best that money could buy, crafted of rose-colored silk and smothered with glittering jewels. Of course, Juliet decided that she needed to select my dress as well. I nearly ran out of the room screaming at the top of my lungs, but somehow I managed to smile and nod with false calm while she scrutinized me and my wardrobe.

“Dear me,” she said. “You certainly can’t wear that.”

“This is my work dress,” I said. “I wasn’t planning on wearing it to the party.”

“And you can’t wear pink, because I’m wearing pink,” she added.

“What about blue? I said. “I love blue!”

Juliet gasped in horror. “That’s the Montague color!”

“I know,” I said, laughing. “I’m just trying to get a rise out of you.”

I will spare you my sufferings of the next hour. Suffice to say that Juliet informed me that I was old and ugly at regular intervals. I ended up wearing an elegant, if somewhat out of style burgundy dress that would outshine no one. After styling Juliet’s hair, I retreated to the kitchen to regain some of my sanity. The kitchen was in a state of barely organized chaos. Savory smells mingled with sweets and spices as servants ran to and fro, trying to make sure that every little detail was perfect. The new cook was glad to have an extra hand for a few moments. As I joined the mad bustle, I remembered my own parties from long ago. I became conscious of the ghosts that flitted near me, not spirits of the dead, but my memories of the living ones I missed. My heart and imagination brought them with me wherever I went. I could imagine my mother peering through the doorway, scolding my little brothers as they begged sweets from the cook, then catching my father “sampling” the soup. I could imagine Benvolio too, cheerfully hauling kegs of wine from the cellar, grinning at me as he walked by.

“Nurse!!” Juliet called.

I sighed, handed the platter to Peter the serving boy, and hurried to Juliet.

“I’m sorry,” she said, leading me back up to her room as she spoke. “I was terribly rude. I—I’m a little frightened by Paris and I don’t really know…”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Just see if you like him. Nothing’s definite yet. And if… something bad happens, we’ll find a way out.”

Juliet brightened a little. “We will?”

“Of course we will,” I said, smiling. “And thank you for apologizing.”

Juliet just shrugged. “And now let me fix your hair, will you? You’ve got flour in it, for goodness sake.”

“Only if you promise to restrain your disparaging comments about the quality of my hair, my lady,” I replied.

She grinned. “If you wish.”