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Authors: Shannon Leigh
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anger dissolved. Mostly. “Believe it or not, I love the both of you. But I can’t be around you unless you call off this, this, engagement, or whatever you want to call it.”
Her father lowered his eyes for the first time since Jule had sat down at their table. The bud of near panic she’d felt in Valerio’s office bloomed into full-blown dread.
“I can’t, Jule. I can’t,” he said without raising his head.
Jule glanced at her mother in question, who in turn looked at her father, concern furrowing her brow.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Jule asked.
“I already spent the money he gave me.”
…
Rom pushed the stick shift into neutral and set the parking brake, stalling for time as he looked through the Mercedes’ windshield to Piazza Bra. Beyond the tops of the evergreens growing in a small central park, he could make out the imposing edifice of the two thousand year old Roman Arena.
On the surface, the gateway into the heart of old Verona hadn’t changed much in the 600 years he’d been gone. The Portoni della Bra—the twin, barrel-vaulted stone arches topped by fourteenth century battlements—still stood at one end, admitting pedestrians to admire the majesty of the Roman Empire and all it had wrought. Visitors passed through on their way to the Arena, built 1400 years before Rom ever took his first breath of Veronese air.
Lined by palaces newly built when Rom left, the open market area still teemed with people. Here, locals and foreigners alike shopped, ate, drank espressos, and simply passed through to other streets pin-wheeling off the piazza. But under the larger than life remnants of the Roman Empire and the grandeur of the Venetian Republic, Rom took note of the modern changes.
Commercial signage of the 21st century decorated much of the piazza, along with scooters, public phones, and scaffolding blanketing the Arena. Tourists in hiking shoes and backpacks wandered freely across the triangle shaped plaza, stopping to take pictures and listen to street performers. Everywhere, people had cell phones, either pressed to an ear or in hand.
The liston—marble pavers fronting the buildings—were new, too. Put down for the ruling classes over 200 years ago to save their feet from the dust, Rom agreed with the red and cream tones of the marble as it suited the square.
He lowered the window on the Mercedes, letting in the surrounding street noise. The coos of nearby pigeons provided a soft undertone to the human chatter. The same sounds he’d heard as a young man. But yet not the same, Rom decided.
Different languages reached his ears. English and Japanese.
The subtle fragrance of the river Adige, a longtime friend embracing the ancient city like a mantle, reached him through the open window. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat, letting the sounds and smells take him to the banks of glassy green waters.
...
“But why me, Lawrence? Why choose me to test your potions on?” Romeo leaned his head against the cool stone of his monk’s cell, temporary lodgings since he could never show his face in Verona again while those he knew and loved still lived.
He could return when they died, but he saw no point then.
“I didn’t choose you, dear boy. That is what I have been trying to tell you. I didn’t know the potion would work, but I had to try. I had to do something.”
Lawrence folded his hands into the wide arms of his friar’ s robes and looked forlornly around the room. With nothing to distract his attention but a single cot and bedside table with a solitary candle, Lawrence’s tormented gaze fell on Romeo again.
Romeo knew Lawrence felt compelled, nay, responsible for him and therefore insisted on visiting him in this abandoned side of the monastery. Its ancient and moldy rooms, built hundreds of years before the newer wings of the building, appealed to Romeo’s mood and his need for isolation. But Lawrence wouldn’t let him alone.
“You should have left
Her father lowered his eyes for the first time since Jule had sat down at their table. The bud of near panic she’d felt in Valerio’s office bloomed into full-blown dread.
“I can’t, Jule. I can’t,” he said without raising his head.
Jule glanced at her mother in question, who in turn looked at her father, concern furrowing her brow.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Jule asked.
“I already spent the money he gave me.”
…
Rom pushed the stick shift into neutral and set the parking brake, stalling for time as he looked through the Mercedes’ windshield to Piazza Bra. Beyond the tops of the evergreens growing in a small central park, he could make out the imposing edifice of the two thousand year old Roman Arena.
On the surface, the gateway into the heart of old Verona hadn’t changed much in the 600 years he’d been gone. The Portoni della Bra—the twin, barrel-vaulted stone arches topped by fourteenth century battlements—still stood at one end, admitting pedestrians to admire the majesty of the Roman Empire and all it had wrought. Visitors passed through on their way to the Arena, built 1400 years before Rom ever took his first breath of Veronese air.
Lined by palaces newly built when Rom left, the open market area still teemed with people. Here, locals and foreigners alike shopped, ate, drank espressos, and simply passed through to other streets pin-wheeling off the piazza. But under the larger than life remnants of the Roman Empire and the grandeur of the Venetian Republic, Rom took note of the modern changes.
Commercial signage of the 21st century decorated much of the piazza, along with scooters, public phones, and scaffolding blanketing the Arena. Tourists in hiking shoes and backpacks wandered freely across the triangle shaped plaza, stopping to take pictures and listen to street performers. Everywhere, people had cell phones, either pressed to an ear or in hand.
The liston—marble pavers fronting the buildings—were new, too. Put down for the ruling classes over 200 years ago to save their feet from the dust, Rom agreed with the red and cream tones of the marble as it suited the square.
He lowered the window on the Mercedes, letting in the surrounding street noise. The coos of nearby pigeons provided a soft undertone to the human chatter. The same sounds he’d heard as a young man. But yet not the same, Rom decided.
Different languages reached his ears. English and Japanese.
The subtle fragrance of the river Adige, a longtime friend embracing the ancient city like a mantle, reached him through the open window. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat, letting the sounds and smells take him to the banks of glassy green waters.
...
“But why me, Lawrence? Why choose me to test your potions on?” Romeo leaned his head against the cool stone of his monk’s cell, temporary lodgings since he could never show his face in Verona again while those he knew and loved still lived.
He could return when they died, but he saw no point then.
“I didn’t choose you, dear boy. That is what I have been trying to tell you. I didn’t know the potion would work, but I had to try. I had to do something.”
Lawrence folded his hands into the wide arms of his friar’ s robes and looked forlornly around the room. With nothing to distract his attention but a single cot and bedside table with a solitary candle, Lawrence’s tormented gaze fell on Romeo again.
Romeo knew Lawrence felt compelled, nay, responsible for him and therefore insisted on visiting him in this abandoned side of the monastery. Its ancient and moldy rooms, built hundreds of years before the newer wings of the building, appealed to Romeo’s mood and his need for isolation. But Lawrence wouldn’t let him alone.
“You should have left
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