Teach the Torches to Burn: a Romeo & Juliet Remix by Caleb Roehrig

Author:Caleb Roehrig
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

18

When morning breaks, I am in my bed again, and reluctant to leave it. For the second day in a row, I roll away from the light and bury my face in the sheets, trying to return to the satisfaction of my dreams. If I keep my eyes closed, my mind suspended just a while longer, I can keep experiencing Valentine—his touch, his words, his taste—as many times as I like.

But the cock crows incessantly, and Hecate, who continues to sense that her affections are even more of a nuisance than her antipathy ever was, kneads my shoulder with her dainty paws. She demands attention, putting more gusto into pummeling my flesh than the Widow Grissoni has ever employed against one of her bread doughs.

At last I am forced to rise, groggy with contentment and a lack of sleep. My nightshirt is covered in grass stains, my hose completely ruined, and I will have to find a way to dispose of them before they are found and explanations are demanded.

I am in such a lighthearted mood that I even agree to breakfast with my parents, bearing their unfriendly scrutiny with as much patience as I have ever been able to muster. My mother is horrified by what she has heard about the spectacle in the piazza, and how my public shaming at the hands of the prince will reflect on our family. My father is enraged that I would attend a Capulet soiree for any reason, and accuses me of disloyalty.

“Those people,” he fumes, “are neither our friends nor our equals. To their very marrow they are conniving and duplicitous! I have raised you with more sense than to allow some sloe-eyed trollop like their Juliet to turn your head.” Leaning across the table, he slams his fist down in front of me, making my cup and plate jump. “Do you have any idea how much you have weakened our image? My only son, an easy mark for the Capulets! A foolish little lamb, obediently led to the slaughter.”

There is no point in telling him that Juliet’s story was counterfeit, and that I infiltrated the masquerade at Benvolio’s instruction; he would simply widen the framework of his anger to make room for the new facts.

“I could almost respect your willingness to fight with that coxcomb Tybalt,” he continues, “had the result not been so humiliating. Had your willing treachery against your own blood not been announced to one and all before the prince himself!” His glare pins me to my seat. It’s almost shocking how swiftly he can reduce me to a cowering mouse with so few words. “I have been too lenient with you. This is my fault.”

“It is not your fault, my love,” my mother assures him, looking wounded on his behalf. “Do not blame yourself.”

“But I must. It is clear that I have not acquitted myself properly as a father.” He leans back in his chair—and the way he gathers himself makes the hairs on my neck rise.

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