I sent the Joans away. I watched the petals on the roses in the garden below. I looked at the garden wall. Beyond it was my love. I wished that fiery horses would drag the sun down the sky; wished to close the curtains on the day. Let Romeo fly here on the wings of night. I had bought the mansion of my love, but not yet crossed the threshold … Tonight he would come and claim me, with the Prince’s blessing. Tomorrow, my mother would glare, my father shout, but I would be gone, my hand in my husband’s. I tried to imagine the days after that. We would breakfast in our rooms at first so I would not have to face Lord Montague, for he would be angry too. But surely his anger would pass as he realised his son would now inherit the Capulet wealth? I tried to imagine the next Christmas feast, with our families at the table together, a babe in my arms with eyes like Romeo’s. But I could see nothing. How could I dream my love so clearly and not be able to see our years ahead? Why could I imagine Guigemar’s long life, happy with his love, but not my own?
