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thee. Thou shouldst join me in teaching this canker-blossom a lesson.”
    The other man just lifted his sword higher and growled, “Not another word out of thy craven mouth, Orlino.”
    Then they were upon each other, and Rosaline gasped, her heart pounding as their swords slashed the air faster than her eye could follow.
    The fight was short but brutal. Rosaline could see that the two Montagues knew each other’s swordsmanship—they targeted each other’s weaknesses with terrifying accuracy. The younger man had the first touch, nicking Benvolio’s arm, and Rosaline cried out, certain her defender was defeated, but he ignored the slash on his sleeve and somehow twisted his foot with his opponent’s, and suddenly Rosaline’s foe was sprawled in the dust, his sword lay six feet away, and her savior had the point of his blade at the man’s throat.
    “Yield.”
    “Benvolio, ’twas just a bit of—”
    “Yield.”
    “Very well.” He raised his hands sullenly. “Now will you let me rise, cousin?”
    The other man stood frozen, as though he had not heard him.
    “Cousin? Benvolio? What—”
    Benvolio’s sword flashed, and then Rosaline’s assailant was crying out, hands clutched to his face. He pulled his hands away to stare at the red that coated them. Benvolio had given Orlino a long slash across his right cheek.
    “How dare you!” Orlino snarled as he struggled to his feet.
    Benvolio stepped back, lowering his sword at last. “I’d dare much worse against any man who raised his sword against a lady, no matter her name. Get thee gone, Orlino, and never touch her again.”
    Orlino glared at them both. His breath was coming in pained hisses. Blood was streaming down his cheek, coating his neck and staining his doublet, but his injuries did not prevent his face from twisting with anger. Rosaline’s sweaty hands clutched her gown. Had she really thought him a boy? No child’s face could hold such hate.
    “You’ll hear more from Orlino anon,” he promised. “Both of you.” Then he stumbled out into the darkness and was gone.
    “Are you well, lady?” The victorious Montague turned and knelt before Rosaline, and finally she saw her savior plain.
    He was young—not so young as her assailants, nor as the Capulet cousins they’d brawled with, but younger than she would have thought for such a skilled swordsman. No more than eighteen. But something in how he held himself made him seem much older.
    Even had he not named himself a Montague, Rosaline would have known him for one. Pale skin, proud features,dark hair that must have many times been the despair of a nurse’s comb—aye, here was one of the handsome, dark, devilish Montagues her mother had warned her of when she was a child. He looked familiar, but she did not think they’d ever met. She’d seen most of the young Montagues from a distance, at feasts and in the market, but Romeo was the only one she had ever spoken to at any length. Montagues and Capulets did not mix.
    “I am well,” she said, running shaky hands over her muddy gown. It took her a moment to be sure it was true. A bit bruised by Montague and Capulet feet, for she’d walked into this brawl before she knew what had happened, and her own kin were more interested in crossing swords with Montagues than helping her to escape. She would be black and blue tomorrow, but only her pride was seriously hurt.
    He extended a hand, and when she flinched, he laughed at her a little. “Come, lady,” he said. “They have all gone, leaving only me, who neither threatened you nor trod upon you.”
    The crooked smile flared and disappeared from his face in an instant, but Rosaline was surprised to find it warmed away some of the icy fear in her breast. “ ’Tis true. Mine own cousins, well-meaning though they were, could not say the same, as you can see from the boot prints on my gown. Good sir, I thank you.” She extended her hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet.
    He sketched a bow.