I told my mother I would not leave my room till my wedding day. I could bear to see no one, not my father, not my mother, not Viola. I suspected that even if Lucrezia had come, I would not have had the stomach for a visit. told my mother I would not leave my room till my wedding day. I could bear to see no one, not my father, not my mother, not Viola. I suspected that even if Lucrezia had come, I would not have had the stomach for a visit.

I said I wanted to spend my last days in prayers and quiet contemplation, and no one questioned that.

On the morning of the last day before the marriage there came a knock at my door. Mama peeked in and with the shy look of a girl said I had a visitor. She moved aside to admit him.

Friar Bartolomo.

A moment later we were alone. I should have fallen at his feet then and asked G.o.d's forgiveness, but so many hours of silent solitude and despair left me mute.

Instead he came to me. He spoke gently.

"What have you done, my lady? Unless I am misinformed, you have signed a marriage contract with Jacopo Strozzi."

"I have no excuses, Father. I have failed to prevent this marriage despite my best-laid plans. My letter to Romeo asking him to come and fetch me away went astray." I could not hide the bitterness in my voice. "And he-my true husband-has made no attempt to write me. Neither has he come for me of his own volition." I fixed the friar with my eyes. "Why has he not come?"

"I cannot say," he replied slowly. "But listen to me, Juliet. I know in my heart that he wishes to come."

"In your your heart?" heart?"

"When Romeo came to beg me to marry you two in secret, I met a man so consumed with love, so undone with his pa.s.sion for you, with joyous hopes for a future family, with"-the friar struggled for the words-"the highest regard for the woman he would make his wife, I was overcome. He spoke, not only of your beauty-though he waxed ecstatic at the perfection of your features and the way every sight of you made him weak-but he made much of your thoughts, which he believed profound."

"My thoughts?"

"Yes. And poetry. He admitted ashamedly, but proudly, that yours was superior to his own. He loved the sound of your voice. Your philosophies, your many virtues that, while strange for a woman, were virtues nonetheless. He felt a better man in your presence."

"He told you all this?"

"Oh, much more. And I can say with all certainty that Romeo was sincere. These were not the ravings of a love-addled boy. He believed he had found in you his personal angel, much as his father had found in his beloved mother."

I turned away from the friar, angry tears stinging my eyes. "Why are you telling me this? There's nothing to be done." I wheeled on him. "Hear my confession, Father, and then you should go."

"Perhaps there is . . . something . . . that can be done."

I shook my head, baffled.

"I need to know if you have faith in Romeo's love."

I stared at him. "I told you, I have some doubt of it." "And what of that which I have told you today?"

I pressed my lips tight to keep from sobbing.

"Do you not believe me?"

"Actions speak louder than words," I said, more harshly than I intended.

Now the friar spoke gently, as he might have done to a small child. "Might you give your true husband benefit of the doubt? Allow that something-I know not what-has prevented him from a heroic rescue thus far?"

"And what if I did?"

Bartolomo's face lit and flared like a torch in a dark chamber. "If you did, I would give you a secret place and time to meet again."

I stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Tell me." My voice was hard and demanding.

"Lady Juliet . . . this plan is fraught with danger."

"What could be more dangerous than married life with Jacopo Strozzi?"

Friar Bartolomo smiled crookedly. His teeth were white, but crossed one over the other, top and bottom.

"Romeo told me you were brave. He saw as much in your coming out in the middle of the night with him in a boy's disguise. And I must agree. No other ladies I know would carry themselves to the top of the cathedral's dome."

"What is it you want me to do?"

With one final hesitation he drew from the pocket of his robe a small green gla.s.s vial-something that would have looked at home on the apothecary shelf of his cell.

He held it between our faces but did not speak. He closed his eyes, trying to find the words.

I felt my mouth go dry, for despite his silence I knew-if not the name of this potion-its terrible nature.

"If you drink this tonight, you will not wake up on your wedding morning."

"You wish me to take my own life?"

"No, no, my lady. Quite the contrary. This will allow you to live live your life . . . with Romeo. Come, let us sit. My knees are shaking." your life . . . with Romeo. Come, let us sit. My knees are shaking."

We put ourselves down on my bed.

"It is a sleep like unto death," he said, "but not death. You will grow cold and pale. Your breath will become shallow, so shallow that no physician can detect it."

"What will I feel? Will I dream? Or is it all blackness?"

He shook his head helplessly. "I cannot say."

"You cannot say!"

"I would lie if I said otherwise."

"This is a mad scheme. You tell me to drink poison and pretend to die."

"Well, of course there is more to it."

"You'd better tell me quickly. Where is this 'time and place' you promise me and Romeo?"

"Ah, that is the magic of it."

"So I'm giving myself over to magic magic?"

"No, no. It is medicine. Just a deep sleep. Long enough to see you p.r.o.nounced dead, mourned, and buried. That is the 'time.' "

"Oh, Father, I do not much like the sound of this."

"Hear me out. You will be taken to your family's tomb.... That is the 'place.' " He saw my expression. "I know, I know . . . but here is where you call upon your courage."

"So I am to be buried alive?"

"Yes. But a courier will ride swiftly to Verona. . . ."

"No!"

"Why 'no' ?"

"There is no trustworthy courier. The last I sent was bribed and betrayed me."

"This one will not betray you." He set his face, determined.

"You?"

"Yes."

"On a mule?"

He laughed. "No. I am a good rider. At least I was in my youth. San Marco has a fast horse. I will tell them my mother is ill."

"Friar Bartolomo . . ." I was overcome. "You would lie to your order for Romeo and me?"

"It is not a lie. My mother has been ill for years."

Now it was I who laughed. But a moment later I grew serious.

"Why, Father? Why would you do such a thing? And why suggest that I pretend the mortal sin of suicide?"

He looked away; his smile vanished. He fingered the crucifix at his chest, then suddenly let it drop as though it had burned his hand.

"I once knew love," he whispered. "I was very young and she was . . ." The friar looked away, his sad shaking head the only description of the girl he could manage. "In our flights of pa.s.sion, lost as we were in the pages of Vita Nuova Vita Nuova, I had forgotten I was a second son." His fist covered his mouth. "Destined for the priesthood. There was nothing could be done. I entered the church. She was betrothed to another. The prior of my order saw how deeply torn I was in my faith. So he had me marry them."

"Oh!" My heart quaked at the still evident pain this man suffered.

"So will you do it?" he asked.

I stared at this wild cleric. Thought for a final second about the prospect of life under Allessandra Strozzi's roof and of Jacopo's bony fingers on my bare flesh.

"Yes."

"Good." Bartolomo pressed the vial into my palm. "It is bitter. They say it tastes like cold death. But you must drink it all. Then lie yourself down as if you'd gone to bed. And you mustn't be afraid. Because Romeo and I will be there when you wake. Before Before you wake. Then he can spirit you away and take you far from here. The rest is your doing." you wake. Then he can spirit you away and take you far from here. The rest is your doing."

"You will tell this to Lucrezia Tornabuoni?"

He nodded.

"Wait! Perhaps she should not be told. She will disapprove. She'll fear for my life. Try to stop me."

"Would you rather she believed you dead?"

I thought hard about this. "For now perhaps. It is better that way. She will be grieved, but later, once Romeo and I are settled, I will write to her. Through you. Will you give her my letter?"

"Of course."

Suddenly the warm flush of this mad plan chilled me. "How do you know . . . how do I know for certain of Romeo's accord in this?"

"You cannot know," he said simply. "Very little is certain in this life, my lady. What I am sure of is your husband's love for you. What you must find before you drink from that bottle is whether you you trust in that love." He pressed my hand. "Now I must go. I will await news of your death." He went to the door and grinned back at me with his crooked white teeth. Then he was gone. trust in that love." He pressed my hand. "Now I must go. I will await news of your death." He went to the door and grinned back at me with his crooked white teeth. Then he was gone.

News of my death. The words were strange and awful. And yet, I thought with a smile, they were the most hopeful I had ever heard. The words were strange and awful. And yet, I thought with a smile, they were the most hopeful I had ever heard.

I would die in order to live.

Chapter Thirty-one.

Romeo, O Romeo, shall I place my faith in you?

Mover of mountains, Lord of the River's flow.

We had lived, one heart between us, that gift sweet Heaven bestowed.

Can I place my faith in you when only silence comes from yonder hills?

No sight, no sound at my door, no tap at my windowsill.

O Romeo, send the smallest sign from Verona you'll come.

Take me home to your heart, make a place on your throne.