In true Capulet fashion, Juliet decided to pretend that my angry outburst had never happened. She didn’t apologize, but she didn’t dismiss me either. She simply pushed me aside and increased the frequency of her interminable visits to Rosaline. Rosaline didn’t look like she wanted me to murder her anymore. I suppose winter had given Tybalt less time for feuding and more time for romance. I survived on letters from my family, the books Benvolio had given me, and the memory of both meetings with him. Despite my determination not to encounter him in the future, the memories became two sparkling points of light in my otherwise drab and fearful existence.

“Nurse! Do you know what Rosaline said?” Juliet demanded one Sunday afternoon as we were walking back from the church.

“I can probably guess,” I muttered. “Her conversation varies little from day to day.”

“Romeo Montague is trying to court her!” Juliet exclaimed. “A Montague! It’s shocking!”

Well, that was more than I expected. “For once, I agree with you. The boy must have even less intelligence than I thought.”

“Shocking!” Juliet giggled. “How can you say such things about Rosaline?”

“I didn’t say anything about Rosaline,” I said. “I merely insulted one of your hated enemies.”

“But you implied,” Juliet teased.

“Smart girl,” I admitted. “What does Rosaline think of his attentions?”

“She told him she planned to never marry,” Juliet said. “She also said that even if she had planned to marry, he would be the furthest from her mind!”

“Ouch. How tactful of her to make her refusal so impersonal.”

Juliet frowned. “Don’t you think that’s personal?”

“I was being sarcastic.”

She looked appallingly innocent. “Oh. Why?”

“Well, sometimes sarcasm can be funny, if it’s outrageous enough,” I replied. Then we walked around the corner into disaster. We could clearly see Tybalt standing in the alley with his sword raised over a Montague, about to finish him off. But the Montague wasn’t a stranger. It was Benvolio. He lay motionless in the dirt, blood trickling down his face. His kind, dancing eyes were closed. I didn’t have time to process the situation, to weigh the pros and cons. I could not watch him die.

“Juliet, go home,” I said, keeping my voice as low as I could. “Run and don’t look back. Don’t ask questions.”

Almost before the words had left my mouth, I was hurtling down the street. I snatched up Benvolio’s sword, and brought it up to block Tybalt’s blow. He swore in sheer surprise, then again with anger as I attacked. I kept on fighting him, deaf to the torrent of foul language that rained from his mouth. My fencing skills were rusty. I hadn’t practiced fencing since Mother sold our swords, and I had never fought in earnest. God must have been with me in my insanity, because the dim memory of many hours of practice came back vividly we fought down the sun-shadowed alleyway. One mistake could cost me my life. Somewhere fear was coursing through me, but I gave all my thought over to the deadly art of fencing; focusing entirely on making the next movie correctly. I was clumsy and hopelessly outmatched, but I was beginning to think I might actually survive, until I tripped over my skirts and fell backwards onto the ground.

In the next instant, the cold steel of Tybalt’s sword was against my neck. He leered down at me, laughing—and suddenly his laughter turned into a shriek of pain as another blade pierced his sword arm. Benvolio drew his sword out as quickly as it had gone in and shoved Tybalt to the ground. Tybalt cowered away from Benvolio, clutching his bleeding arm, and Benvolio’s sword was at his throat.

“That was a warning,” Benvolio growled. “If you dare to lay a hand upon her again, I will kill you. If you speak of this to anyone, I will make certain that it is known that today Verona’s finest swordsman was beaten at his own game by a woman and a Montague. Is that clear?”

Tybalt nodded vehemently, suddenly trembling all over, a monster without its claws. Then Benvolio knocked him out with the flat of his blade. Now it was Tybalt who lay motionless in the dirt. With apparent calm, Benvolio sheathed his sword. He turned towards me and then staggered and sank down beside me on the filthy ground. “Are you all right?” he gasped.

“Yes. Are you?” All the fear I had shoved aside came rushing to the surface. It felt as if the strength had evaporated from my limbs.

“Well, I didn’t exactly take a nap in the middle of the street for my own pleasure, but I’ll live,” he groaned. “At least, if I can get up before Tybalt does.’’ With some difficulty, he dragged himself closer to me. “Elena…Without you I would be dead by now. I--I know how much you risked. Thank you for saving my life.”

I smiled weakly. “Thank you for saving mine.”

He waved it away. “It was nothing. You were marvelous! How in the world did you learn to fight like that?”

“My father taught me,” I replied. “He told me that every rose needs to have its thorns to keep it safe. I’d hardly call it marvelous fighting--I’m horribly rusty. Haven’t practiced in years.”

“I doubt anyone’s keeping track,” said Benvolio.

“Where did you get that sword, by the way?” I asked.

He pointed to the far end of the street. “From the blacksmith. His shop’s just down there.”

I looked in the direction he pointed, and saw Juliet coming towards us. As usual, she hadn’t listened to me. “Oh no,” I moaned, struggling to my feet. “Our lives aren’t going to be worth much if she recognizes you.” There was nowhere that we could run. Thinking fast, I snatched up a soiled Carnival mask in a pile of refuse, and handed it to Benvolio. “Put this on!”

“Good thinking,” he agreed, putting it on as he stood up. He swayed uncertainly. “Ugh. It smells awful.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked. “You don’t have to do this to impress me. I promise I’m already impressed.”

“I’ll be all right after a few bandages and some rest,” he said, steadying himself. Juliet began to run towards us, shrieking something unintelligible. “I’d better go,” he said. “Here, take this.” He handed me the sword from the blacksmith’s.

I made another split-second decision. “I’ll meet you at the bookstore tomorrow if I can get away.”

He flashed me a smile and then stumbled into a yawning doorway in the alley and disappeared.

To say that Juliet was hysterical would be an understatement. She only became intelligible a few minutes after she reached me. Before that, she just shrieked words and parts of phrases. “Have you lost your mind?” was the first thing she said that I understood.

“Probably,” I gasped, leaning against the wall. “I suppose you could argue for temporary insanity.”

“What--what were you thinking? You attacked my cousin! You-- you dueled him! Women don’t--don’t duel!”

“He was going to die! I couldn’t watch him die!”

“Why not? People die every day! You could have been killed! You could have killed him!” Juliet wailed.

“If you don’t calm down, there’s still a good chance that I will be killed,” I said, regaining my breath somewhat.“We need to get out of here before he wakes up. Why didn’t you just go home?”

The sight of Tybalt stirring spurred me into action. I picked up my skirts and began running down the street. Juliet cast a frightened look at her cousin and followed me. “I thought I could reason with him! I thought he might not hurt you if he saw me watching!”

“You can’t reason with men when they’re like that,” I said. “Especially Tybalt.”

We stopped to get our breath by the wishing fountain, and then proceeded at a slower pace so we didn’t draw attention.

“Please don’t tell anyone about this,” I begged Juliet.

“I won’t,” she said. “But don’t do anything like that ever again!”

“I can’t promise that,” I said.

“You knew him, didn’t you?” Juliet said. “The man in the mask.”

I hesitated, trying to decide how to answer her. “Not very well. I’ve run into him once or twice before.”

“He knew you,” she said. “He acted as if he knew you very well.”

I shrugged, unwilling to say any more. Anything else would be a lie.

“You can’t just do things like that without any explanation and expect me to keep it a secret!” Juliet whined.

I sighed. “I can’t reveal his true identity. He is a man of intelligence and compassion. He does what he can to protect the innocents caught up in the feud. I could do no less for him.”

“Oh,” Juliet said. “So I was right! He does know you well!”

I laughed. “Hardly.”

“Still…” Juliet looked worried. “What about Tybalt? Will he come after you?”

“He’s been ordered not to by both the Capulets and the Montagues. He shouldn’t. Still…perhaps I should brush up on my swordsmanship. Would you like to learn to fight, Juliet?”

A look of horror came over Juliet’s face. “No! I want a man to do the fighting for me.”

A smile sprang to my lips as I remembered how Benvolio had come to my rescue. “Of course you do. So do I. But they aren’t always there, you know.”

Juliet shook her head. “I won’t. It’s shocking! Shocking, I tell you!”

I giggled.“It is, rather. I am a little shocked myself.”

She began to giggle with me. “You know, Nurse, when I first met you I thought you were boring.”

True to her word, Juliet didn’t speak of what had happened that afternoon. She made up for it, however, by chattering incessantly about everything else under the sun. As she prattled on, I began to wonder how I could see Benvolio tomorrow, and to second-guess my decisions. If I said or did anything unusual, Juliet would demand to know more of the truth about the mysterious masked man. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself. What had I done? What was I doing? Would my parents be proud of me or horrified if they found out? There was no way of knowing.

My mind continued to torment me with second-guessing long after I had fallen asleep that night. I dreamed that I saw myself and Benvolio both dead upon the ground, his bloody hand outstretched towards mine. Tybalt was cackling above us, dripping with blood. Suddenly his cackling changed into the sound of chickens in the street below me, and I sat up, gasping, wide awake. It was morning. At least neither of us were dead yet. But what if--what if something had happened last night? Or today?

Oh no. No. This way lies insanity. I banished the awful images from my mind and went about my day, but the sense of dread remained. The fight had taken a greater toll on me than I first thought. I ached in places I didn’t know I had. While Juliet supposedly worked on some fancy embroidery, I contrived to make a scabbard for the sword. In the end, the scabbard had the appearance of a rather clumsy and stiff sash. Honestly, it was a bit of an eyesore, but it would have to do.

“Couldn’t you have chosen a more putrid color?” she asked when I held it up for her inspection.

“I was trying to make it inconspicuous,” I replied. “And this putrid material is fabric from that dress you gushed over last season, until you practically ripped it to shreds during dance lessons.”

Juliet’s face grew red. “How was I supposed to know that they were growing cactus in those pots? Enough of your impudence. Go, take this letter to Rosaline.”

Even with the ridiculous scabbard-sash, I practically skipped all the way across Verona. Taking a letter to Rosaline was a perfect excuse for stopping at the bookshop. After delivering the letter, I did just that. I found Benvolio sitting in the floor with his back up against the counter and his nose in a book. He looked up when I came in, and the smile he gave me was worth everything that had happened yesterday.

“You’re all right!” I said, smiling back at him.

“Thanks to you,” he replied. “Come on, we can talk more freely in the back. No one goes there except the shopkeeper.” He led me into a pleasant, if somewhat dusty, little nook in the back of the shop where all of the dullest volumes were kept. Two chairs had been dragged there from elsewhere--possibly from the shopkeeper’s quarters above the store. A begrimed window let in enough light to see.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you from your reading,” I said, fussing a little with my skirts as I sat down in the chair. To be honest, I had spent much longer than usual waffling back and forth on which dress I should wear. Normally I simply threw on the cleanest one.

He grinned. “Please, disturb my reading any time you like. I know—I know how much you risked yesterday. Did they fire you?”

I shook my head. “No. Juliet’s bee wonderful. And don’t say things like that. I don’t want you to feel as if you owe me anything, much less your life. It’s much too dramatic. Besides, you did a fair share of risking and saving yourself.”

“But it’s my fault! If I hadn’t--“

“It isn’t your fault that Tybalt’s crazy. How did he get to you, anyway?”

“He’s been after me since he was born, Elena. I’m surprised I avoided him as long as I did. Of course, we’ve crossed swords before. It’s unfortunate that the best swordsman in Verona was on the Capulets’ side. He trapped me by sending two of his cronies in my direction. Always wishing to avoid a fight, I stepped into that alley, planning to take the back way home. He was waiting for me. Caught me completely off guard. If I say so myself, I put up a fairly good fight, but I made mistakes. One little slip and—”

I grimaced. “I know how it is.”

“You do!” he said, his voice full of admiration. “You were brilliant. With some practice you might be a better fighter than I am. It’s a pity that fencing practice is a rather conspicuous pastime.”

I laughed. “As it is, we made a pretty good team.”

His smile this time was thoughtful. “We did.”

He didn’t ask me why I had finally decided to meet him. I wasn’t certain that I could give him an answer that didn’t sound selfish or desperate. Perhaps I was desperate and selfish, finally caving to my baser instincts over sacrifice and self-denial. Yet as we spoke, I began to feel, and some hidden part of me began to know, that I was meant to be here. For a few hours, everything was as it should be.

Then, of course, came the inevitable question: “Will I see you again?” asked Benvolio, with forced calm.

I hesitated, than began to shake my head. When I spoke, the words came out fast and confused. “You know I can’t. I just came today because I was worried about you. It isn’t you—I mean, it is you, it’s because of who you’re related to—and maybe if it was only my own life that I had to risk. It isn’t that I don’t want to be around you—I do.”

My words stumbled to a halt, failing me.

He threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “What do I say? I suppose I could threaten to paste poems pontificating on my sorrow all over Verona if you refuse.”

“That would be effective,” I said. “Oh please don’t do that! I would die from humiliation if the Capulets don’t get me first.”

“True, we would probably both end up dead,” he agreed solemnly.

“Wouldn’t you think less of me if I said yes?” I asked.

“Not at the moment. It would convince me that you’re human. Perhaps in a few decades, looking back, when I’m older and supposedly wiser, I might think less of you, but only for a moment.”

We sat for a moment in shared silence. Why had I come today? What was I doing? If we were caught, it would be the end of us both. My family would starve. Why had I risked so much for him? I wasn’t in love with him. I didn’t know him well enough. It would be horribly inconvenient to be in love with Benvolio. Oh, but I wanted to know him well. I wanted to fall in love with him slowly with every word we spoke and every laugh we shared. In some rebellious part of my mind it made complete sense. Somehow, we went well together. It was completely bizarre. In the end, there was too much sense in me to let my heart completely take over. I settled on a compromise.

“Letters,” I said. “It’s too risky for us to meet often, but we can leave letters for each other here. We’ll have to use coded language in case anyone finds them. I do it in the letters I send my family. It’s part of the fun, really.”

Benvolio smiled. “Brilliant! What’s your code?”

“It’s a terrible muddle,” I said. “We use roses for the families-- the Capulets are the red roses, and the Montagues are the blue roses.”

“Because of the family crests?”

“Exactly. We don’t ever use proper names, just odd nicknames.” I said.

“What should I call you, then?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, flustered. “As long as it isn’t insulting and you think I’ll understand—and don’t call me Laura!”

“All right,” he said, with a mischievous grin. “As long as you don’t call me Petrarch or Francisco.”

“Never. Besides, I don’t think Laura ever wrote him a single letter. Not even ‘Petrarch, leave me alone! I’m quite happy without you! But I really should be going.” I rose, and started for the door.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, rising.

“You can’t! They’ll see you!” I said, alarmed.

“Oh, you’re right. As always. For a moment I had forgotten what an uncivilized world we live in. Goodbye, Elena. I shall miss you.”

“I—I shall miss you as well, Benvolio,” I said, giving him one last look as I left him between the shelves.

Though I left with reluctance, I left him that day with my heart much refreshed. We exchanged letters often as spring melted into summer. Unfortunately, I had to burn them after reading. I do recall however, that the first one he sent me began something like this:

“To the Inimitable Lady Who Should Be Feared by Her Enemies but Unfortunately Isn’t,

Greetings and Salutations!”

My dear friend, so far I have escaped the clutches of the fearsome prat. He appears to be laid up on account of a bee sting in his arm. I’m making a business trip to Genoa in a few days. Have you ever been there? It’s beautiful—more so than Venice, in my opinion, mostly because the people are friendlier. Someday, you’ve got to go there, and Florence as well. Florence is dangerous, but no more so than here, and there’s so much going on. I’m trying to persuade my cousin Loverboy to accompany me. It would do him some good to get out and see the world and get away from the ridiculous Rose Queen. I very much enjoyed the book you recommended. How are you getting on with the Divine Comedy? I promise that it gets better once you’re out of Hell. I’ll send a longer letter from Genoa since I won’t have relatives everywhere.

Affectionately yours,

The Purple Philosopher

I was afraid that I would awaken the entire household with my laughter. I had to read the letters at night after Juliet had fallen asleep. I nearly burned down the house several times trying to burn my letters on the candle. Benvolio and I seldom spoke of the feuding families in our letters, unless we had a grimly humorous anecdote to laugh over. There was so much more to talk about: books, politics, art, music, and the cities outside of Verona, to name just a few subjects. Sometimes we would plan an imaginary city-state, as different from Verona as night is from day. So I drifted through the difficult days with Juliet with a secret store of delight. With her usual eloquence, Juliet noticed.

“You know, you’re a lot less crabby than you used to be, Nurse” she said while primping her hair in the mirror one morning at the beginning of summer.

“I am glad my improved manner pleases my lady,” I replied with a touch of sarcasm. “Perhaps it is the result of your constant piety.”

“You’ll never get anywhere as a messenger, though,” she added. “You seem to take twice as long to deliver letters these days.”

“I just don’t understand why you and Rosaline have to exchange letters that say everything that you have already said before. I would hardly consider Rosaline’s conversation worth meditating on twice. Is that Montague boy still after her?”

“He is. Apparently he’s taken to writing poetry and sticking it in odd places where she might see it.”

“How ridiculous,” I said, relieved that I had successfully directed the conversation away from me. “He’s exposing himself to town’s open contempt. I wonder that his parents don’t say something. The Montagues don’t exactly suffer from an excess of humility.”

“Actually I think it’s romantic,” Juliet said, giggling. “But I’ve seen some of it, and his skills at poetry don’t really compare to his ardor.”

“I can almost pity Rosaline,” I said, suppressing a laugh. “If a man ever wrote poetry for me, I’d want him to whisper it to me in secret, not plaster it on the walls of Verona for everyone to see.”

“I’m not sure you’re the most poetic subject, Nurse,” Juliet said.

“Nonsense,” I said, a bit sharply to let her know that she had once again insulted me. “You can write poetry about anything. Even chickens.”

Juliet giggled. “Dead or alive?”

“Both,” I said.

“Do it,” she said.

“Alright, give me a moment to think,” I replied.Then, struggling to keep a straight face, I recited the following:

“Oh lovely chicken

Thy clucking is the music

Of fields pastoral

Thy fat feathers glisten despite the dust

And I’m sure the cook will make

A tasty supper out of thee!”

Juliet collapsed in a fit of giggles. “That’s actually better than Romeo’s,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

“It’s amazing what hunger can do to help creativity,” I replied. “Let’s see if supper is ready.”