Four Funerals and a Wedding, Part 2
In which Severus and Helena begin to investigate Juliet's death, and discover some interesting things about Friar Laurence. See here for the first installment of "Four Funerals and a Wedding," and here for the entire saga.
Act Two: The Nurse and the Friar
“Had your cousin, Juliet, any particular friend to whom we ought to offer condolements?” asked Helena. Severus, she was sure, would be utterly useless at asking questions tactfully, so she had little choice but to take the task upon herself. She had decided to start with Rosaline, who seemed to be the most intelligent and levelheaded member of the Capulet family.
“No. My uncle hardly let her stir a step out of the house, unless it were to go to church or to confession with Friar Laurence; he would not even let her stay at the friar’s cell for lessons. He thinks that girls need to know how to read a prayer-book and ply their needle, and that is all.” Rosaline rolled her eyes. “Besides, he was afraid there might be Montagues there.”
“Were there?”
“Montagues? Of course there were. Friar Laurence was tutor to all the young gentlefolk in Verona, and treated us all alike.”
“And there was no trouble between you?”
Rosaline shrugged. “Not with Romeo and Benvolio. The feud is an old man’s quarrel. Or so it used to be, before Tybalt killed Mercutio and Romeo killed Tybalt. Now I suppose everyone will be out for blood. But before that, none of the young people thought much of it - well, except for Tybalt - and the servants, of course, but most of them would seize on any excuse for a quarrel. Romeo and I were friends. At least, we were friends before he decided to fancy himself in love with me, and became very tiresome.”
Helena made a mental note of this, but it did not seem to have any bearing on Juliet’s death. She wondered, in passing, whether Juliet might have been in love with Mercutio, who had seemed to be a favorite with the young ladies of Verona, but there did not seem to be any discreet way to ask about this.
At any rate, either the death of a beloved cousin or the prospect of an unwanted marriage might be reason enough for a sheltered young girl to kill herself; and if Juliet had been kept close at home, it seemed unlikely that the Montagues would have any particular grudge against her. Helena felt more certain than ever that Severus had no good reason to suspect foul play.
“You might,” said Rosaline suddenly, “go and condole with Juliet’s old nurse, if you wished to do her a kindness. Now that I think of it, I believe she was the closest friend Juliet had.”
* * *
“Bloody hell, what am I supposed to do with these?” Severus demanded from behind the enormous bouquet that Helena had conjured up.
“A gift for the nurse.”
Severus attempted to shift the greenery, but succeeded only in getting a mouthful of rosemary. “I think the nurse would rather have a bottle of firewhiskey, from what I saw of her at the funeral.”
“Do not judge her; Rosaline said her own little girl died young, and in losing Juliet she lost one who was very nearly another daughter to her. And this is a very proper gift for the occasion. Rosemary for remembrance, columbines for the Holy Spirit, and irises for the soul on her path to the next world. I would give you some narcissus, but they would wonder where it came from so late in the summer.”
“Well, thank God for that. You couldn’t have made it a bit smaller?”
Helena laughed. “Come, I’ll help you.”
Looking rather like a walking shrubbery, they made their way to Lord Capulet’s house.
* * *
“We are very sorry for your loss,” said Helena. Severus tried to present the flowers, but the nurse made no attempt to take them. He shoved them into the nearest receptacle, which happened to be a chamberpot. Luckily it was empty.
“Alas, alas and welladay!” The nurse burst into loud sobs, which did not exactly prevent her from speaking, but rendered much of what she said unintelligible. “My poor ladybird ... so young ... when ‘twas but a little, prating thing, ‘twas so cunning ... alas, that I should live to see the day ... and poor Tybalt, too, and ... oh, I dare not think what he might do when he hears the news! If I could write, I should have sent him word ... alack, there’s nothing but trouble in this world, and my old bones are weary ...”
“I’ faith, I am very sorry.” Helena patted the nurse on the shoulder rather awkwardly, and offered her a handkerchief.
The nurse blew her nose loudly. “Thanks, there’s a good girl. Oh, you put me in mind of my young lady! She was a pretty, pretty child, and so kind. If I had but stayed in her chamber that night -” She began to sob again.
Severus cleared his throat. They had been listening to the nurse ramble for long enough, as far as he was concerned. “What do you think she died of?”
“I know not - the ways of God are strange - His will be done.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Severus. “If you think she died because it was God’s will, God wouldn’t be likely to change his mind just because you happened to be in her chamber, would he? So, logically, that means you must suspect - OW!”
Helena trod heavily on his foot.
The nurse crossed herself. “‘Tis not for us to know,” she said. And then, wholly uncharacteristically, she went silent.
* * *
“Well, that was useless,” said Severus.
“She might have said more if you had not interrupted her!”
“Of course she would. And more, and more, and more. The old woman’s a fool. She wasn’t telling us anything useful.”
Helena frowned. “Did you listen to her at all?”
“For long enough. What next?”
“We might speak with Friar Laurence,” said Helena. “Rosaline told me he was Juliet’s confessor. He would know whether she had been troubled in her mind.”
“Right,” said Severus. “So we’ll go and ask this Friar Laurence whether he thinks she topped herself?”
“I think,” said Helena, “that it would be better if I did the asking.”
“Fine. I don’t like talking to people anyway.”
“Verily? You amaze me!”
* * *
At Friar Laurence’s cell, they found only a young novice who said that the friar was very busy, due to the unexpected spate of funerals. Severus and Helena declined to leave a message, and set off (at Severus’s suggestion) to call on Lord Montague.
They found him in the formal gardens behind his palazzo, wearing gardening gloves and bearing a sheaf of purple flowers. He seemed embarrassed to be caught at this humble occupation, and ill at ease in his guests’ presence.
Helena expressed her condolences about Mercutio’s death and Romeo’s banishment. Lord Montague accepted them, but absently. He had a shifty, furtive look, and Helena began to think, for the first time, that there might be something in Severus’s theory about Montague.
There was a sudden CRACK, and a heavy branch of one of the cherry trees fell on Montague’s head. He fell to the ground, stunned.
Helena rushed to his side. “He’s alive. Let me see to it that he takes no lasting harm.” She cast a healing spell and looked up at Severus. He seemed wholly unsurprised and unconcerned, and she drew in her breath, aghast. “Did you do that?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“In the name of heaven, why?”
“Accidental magic. The surprise factor. If he had been a wizard, it wouldn’t have hurt him.”
“Well, it seems that he is not a wizard.”
“So I see. Well, that’s one theory eliminated, then.”
“You very nearly eliminated him!”
Severus bent down to check Montague’s pulse. “He’ll recover. You said so yourself.”
“You had better pray that he does! If he had not, you would be his murderer! Does that not trouble you - even a little?”
“Well, yes, of course it does - but it isn’t likely that it would have killed him, you silly girl, not with a trained Healer standing by.”
“Which one am I?”
“Which what?”
“A silly girl, or a trained Healer? You must needs choose; you cannot expect me to be both.”
“All right, all right. You’re a Healer. A good one. Also - must you make me say it? - apparently you’re more sensible than I am. Are you satisfied now?”
Lord Montague blinked, stirred, and sat up. “I pray you, bear with me - I must have fainted - ‘tis an old man’s weakness. Pardon me. I must run. I have many duties.” As soon as he was on his feet, he took off for the house with startling speed.
“Very well,” said Helena. “I am satisfied.” Inwardly, she felt positively triumphant; even a grudging compliment from Severus was a rare tribute.
“Rather peculiar of him to run off like that, didn’t you think?” said Severus. “He looked frightened out of his wits.”
“So would you be if the boughs of the trees started falling on your head!”
“I think there might be more to it,” said Severus.
“What more, pray tell?”
Severus gestured toward the flowers Montague had let fall. “Foxglove. Very poisonous. Even Muggles know about it.”
Helena inspected the patch of foxglove. “Also cut within the last hour. The stems are still fresh. Think you that Lord Montague, the Muggle, has a Time-Turner? Or that the Capulets’ servants would let him into their house? If you mean to say that he killed Juliet, how do you imagine he did it?”
Plainly, Severus had not considered this dimension of the problem. He looked crestfallen for a moment, and then muttered, “I wish you would stop being sensible. It’s irritating.”
Helena laughed out loud, and after a moment, so did Severus.
* * *
Juliet was laid to rest in the family vault on the following morning. After the dueling funerals of Tybalt and Mercutio, Severus was unsurprised to see that this one was an even more lavish affair, although the flowers and the cake were all too obviously recycled from the wedding that had never taken place. He made a mental note to inquire into the state of Lord Capulet’s finances.
After the funeral, they finally caught up with Friar Laurence, who was walking in the garden near his cell.
“Benedicite, my children. I do desire better acquaintance with you both.”
“We are strangers in Verona,” explained Helena, “guests of Lord Capulet’s uncle, though not relatives by blood. We are troubled by the news we have heard of the feud.”
“Ah. The Montagues and Capulets. ‘Tis an old, old quarrel, so old that no one remembers how it began; I had such hopes that the young folk would be the ones to heal it. But alas! God’s will was otherwise.”
Privately, Severus thought that there had been entirely too much talk of God’s will already.
Helena had begun to express her grief for Juliet’s death - at much greater length than the extent of her actual acquaintance with Juliet seemed to warrant. There seemed to be little that Severus could add to this conversation, so he took advantage of this opportunity to observe the plants around him. A number of rosebushes had been stripped of their thorns, and Friar Laurence seemed to have been using a great deal of peppermint lately. Two other herbs, which he found far more suggestive, had plainly been cut within the past few days.
“‘Tis a sore grief for parents to bury their children,” said Friar Laurence, although Severus wondered whether the Capulets really were all that grieved. At the funeral, they had seemed to be rather enjoying the attention.
Helena assented to this, and remarked that this must be a particularly heavy blow for the Capulets to bear in the wake of Tybalt’s death.
“Ah. Tybalt.” Friar Laurence shook his head sadly. “A great waste of young life. He had a young man’s faults - I will not pretend otherwise - but five years would have ripened him into better wisdom.”
“Was Juliet particularly close to him?” Helena asked.
Friar Laurence looked up sharply. “If you have heard any slander touching Juliet, I would not have you give it any credit. There are always wagging tongues in Verona, and too many foolish creatures think to curry favor with one family by insulting the other. The poor child is dead; let her rest in her grave.” He turned away, and began to pick raspberries in silence.
“I see you are busy, Friar. We will not keep you.”
“Good day,” said Friar Laurence, with a definite air of finality.
* * *
“Shut up like a clam,” Severus remarked. “And you can’t blame me this time. I never said a word.”
“No,” agreed Helena. “He knows something about Juliet. Or suspects something.”
“Did you notice his garden?” Severus asked.
Helena nodded. “Yes, I marked the plants well. The man is plainly a wizard. As a churchman, I can understand why he would want to keep it quiet.”
“There’s more. He was growing asphodel and wormwood.”
Helena drew in her breath. “The Draught of Living Death!”
“Yes. And they had both been cut, but not as recently as Montague’s foxgloves.”
“Then it could have been done before Juliet’s death.”
“Exactly. Are we sure Juliet is dead?”
“But why should he give the Draught to a young girl, and cause her to be buried alive? If he sought her death, there are poisons that are surer and safer.”
“Perhaps he isn’t seeking her death at all. He wants her alive, but he wants the Capulets to think she’s dead. All right. Why would Friar Laurence want that?”
“The Friar would not,” said Helena at once. “Juliet might. If she were very unhappy, and particularly if her family were the cause of her unhappiness.”
Severus was about to ridicule this idea, when he recalled that he had fantasized about faking his own death more than once when he was Juliet’s age. “Fine. But Friar Laurence would have to be the one who suggested it to her. Muggle girls aren’t in the habit of knowing about the Draught of Living Death.”
“Then we are where we were before: Why should he want to help her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he means to hide her in his cell and make her his love-slave, for all I know.”
“A churchman do that!”
“Being a clergyman is no guarantee of holiness. Ask the Borgias, if you dare,” said Severus, hoping that they had been born by now.
“But still - I cannot believe that of Friar Laurence. But perhaps Juliet knew something - something that he had rather she not tell.”
“Like what? I think we’re back to him wanting to make her his love-slave.”
“Oh!” Helena caught her breath. “Suppose he knew that she was married already!”
“Married - already? She’s not old enough!”
“I am of your mind - but ‘tis plain to see that her mother and father thought she was old enough. Perhaps she thought so too.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The nurse...” Helena looked upward, as if straining to remember something. “The nurse said something that made me wonder - something about how she knew not what someone would do when he heard the news, and how she would have written to him if she knew how. Who is ‘him’?”
“How should I know? Paris?”
“Paris would have known hours before we spoke with her. The first thing the Capulets did was send a messenger to him. Severus - I think Juliet did have another man who cared for her. If she was not married, she may at least have been betrothed. The nurse would know of it, but you saw yourself that the nurse is too afraid to talk - about something.”
“The nurse wouldn’t know about this,” said Severus. “The Draught of Living Death, I mean. She’s the Muggliest Muggle that ever lived.”
“No,” Helena agreed. “We shall have to see what Juliet says when she wakes. If she wakes.”
“She’ll wake,” said Severus. “They found her at six o’clock yesterday morning, and the draught lasts forty-two hours. We’re watching at the grave tonight.”
Act Two: The Nurse and the Friar
“Had your cousin, Juliet, any particular friend to whom we ought to offer condolements?” asked Helena. Severus, she was sure, would be utterly useless at asking questions tactfully, so she had little choice but to take the task upon herself. She had decided to start with Rosaline, who seemed to be the most intelligent and levelheaded member of the Capulet family.
“No. My uncle hardly let her stir a step out of the house, unless it were to go to church or to confession with Friar Laurence; he would not even let her stay at the friar’s cell for lessons. He thinks that girls need to know how to read a prayer-book and ply their needle, and that is all.” Rosaline rolled her eyes. “Besides, he was afraid there might be Montagues there.”
“Were there?”
“Montagues? Of course there were. Friar Laurence was tutor to all the young gentlefolk in Verona, and treated us all alike.”
“And there was no trouble between you?”
Rosaline shrugged. “Not with Romeo and Benvolio. The feud is an old man’s quarrel. Or so it used to be, before Tybalt killed Mercutio and Romeo killed Tybalt. Now I suppose everyone will be out for blood. But before that, none of the young people thought much of it - well, except for Tybalt - and the servants, of course, but most of them would seize on any excuse for a quarrel. Romeo and I were friends. At least, we were friends before he decided to fancy himself in love with me, and became very tiresome.”
Helena made a mental note of this, but it did not seem to have any bearing on Juliet’s death. She wondered, in passing, whether Juliet might have been in love with Mercutio, who had seemed to be a favorite with the young ladies of Verona, but there did not seem to be any discreet way to ask about this.
At any rate, either the death of a beloved cousin or the prospect of an unwanted marriage might be reason enough for a sheltered young girl to kill herself; and if Juliet had been kept close at home, it seemed unlikely that the Montagues would have any particular grudge against her. Helena felt more certain than ever that Severus had no good reason to suspect foul play.
“You might,” said Rosaline suddenly, “go and condole with Juliet’s old nurse, if you wished to do her a kindness. Now that I think of it, I believe she was the closest friend Juliet had.”
* * *
“Bloody hell, what am I supposed to do with these?” Severus demanded from behind the enormous bouquet that Helena had conjured up.
“A gift for the nurse.”
Severus attempted to shift the greenery, but succeeded only in getting a mouthful of rosemary. “I think the nurse would rather have a bottle of firewhiskey, from what I saw of her at the funeral.”
“Do not judge her; Rosaline said her own little girl died young, and in losing Juliet she lost one who was very nearly another daughter to her. And this is a very proper gift for the occasion. Rosemary for remembrance, columbines for the Holy Spirit, and irises for the soul on her path to the next world. I would give you some narcissus, but they would wonder where it came from so late in the summer.”
“Well, thank God for that. You couldn’t have made it a bit smaller?”
Helena laughed. “Come, I’ll help you.”
Looking rather like a walking shrubbery, they made their way to Lord Capulet’s house.
* * *
“We are very sorry for your loss,” said Helena. Severus tried to present the flowers, but the nurse made no attempt to take them. He shoved them into the nearest receptacle, which happened to be a chamberpot. Luckily it was empty.
“Alas, alas and welladay!” The nurse burst into loud sobs, which did not exactly prevent her from speaking, but rendered much of what she said unintelligible. “My poor ladybird ... so young ... when ‘twas but a little, prating thing, ‘twas so cunning ... alas, that I should live to see the day ... and poor Tybalt, too, and ... oh, I dare not think what he might do when he hears the news! If I could write, I should have sent him word ... alack, there’s nothing but trouble in this world, and my old bones are weary ...”
“I’ faith, I am very sorry.” Helena patted the nurse on the shoulder rather awkwardly, and offered her a handkerchief.
The nurse blew her nose loudly. “Thanks, there’s a good girl. Oh, you put me in mind of my young lady! She was a pretty, pretty child, and so kind. If I had but stayed in her chamber that night -” She began to sob again.
Severus cleared his throat. They had been listening to the nurse ramble for long enough, as far as he was concerned. “What do you think she died of?”
“I know not - the ways of God are strange - His will be done.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Severus. “If you think she died because it was God’s will, God wouldn’t be likely to change his mind just because you happened to be in her chamber, would he? So, logically, that means you must suspect - OW!”
Helena trod heavily on his foot.
The nurse crossed herself. “‘Tis not for us to know,” she said. And then, wholly uncharacteristically, she went silent.
* * *
“Well, that was useless,” said Severus.
“She might have said more if you had not interrupted her!”
“Of course she would. And more, and more, and more. The old woman’s a fool. She wasn’t telling us anything useful.”
Helena frowned. “Did you listen to her at all?”
“For long enough. What next?”
“We might speak with Friar Laurence,” said Helena. “Rosaline told me he was Juliet’s confessor. He would know whether she had been troubled in her mind.”
“Right,” said Severus. “So we’ll go and ask this Friar Laurence whether he thinks she topped herself?”
“I think,” said Helena, “that it would be better if I did the asking.”
“Fine. I don’t like talking to people anyway.”
“Verily? You amaze me!”
* * *
At Friar Laurence’s cell, they found only a young novice who said that the friar was very busy, due to the unexpected spate of funerals. Severus and Helena declined to leave a message, and set off (at Severus’s suggestion) to call on Lord Montague.
They found him in the formal gardens behind his palazzo, wearing gardening gloves and bearing a sheaf of purple flowers. He seemed embarrassed to be caught at this humble occupation, and ill at ease in his guests’ presence.
Helena expressed her condolences about Mercutio’s death and Romeo’s banishment. Lord Montague accepted them, but absently. He had a shifty, furtive look, and Helena began to think, for the first time, that there might be something in Severus’s theory about Montague.
There was a sudden CRACK, and a heavy branch of one of the cherry trees fell on Montague’s head. He fell to the ground, stunned.
Helena rushed to his side. “He’s alive. Let me see to it that he takes no lasting harm.” She cast a healing spell and looked up at Severus. He seemed wholly unsurprised and unconcerned, and she drew in her breath, aghast. “Did you do that?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“In the name of heaven, why?”
“Accidental magic. The surprise factor. If he had been a wizard, it wouldn’t have hurt him.”
“Well, it seems that he is not a wizard.”
“So I see. Well, that’s one theory eliminated, then.”
“You very nearly eliminated him!”
Severus bent down to check Montague’s pulse. “He’ll recover. You said so yourself.”
“You had better pray that he does! If he had not, you would be his murderer! Does that not trouble you - even a little?”
“Well, yes, of course it does - but it isn’t likely that it would have killed him, you silly girl, not with a trained Healer standing by.”
“Which one am I?”
“Which what?”
“A silly girl, or a trained Healer? You must needs choose; you cannot expect me to be both.”
“All right, all right. You’re a Healer. A good one. Also - must you make me say it? - apparently you’re more sensible than I am. Are you satisfied now?”
Lord Montague blinked, stirred, and sat up. “I pray you, bear with me - I must have fainted - ‘tis an old man’s weakness. Pardon me. I must run. I have many duties.” As soon as he was on his feet, he took off for the house with startling speed.
“Very well,” said Helena. “I am satisfied.” Inwardly, she felt positively triumphant; even a grudging compliment from Severus was a rare tribute.
“Rather peculiar of him to run off like that, didn’t you think?” said Severus. “He looked frightened out of his wits.”
“So would you be if the boughs of the trees started falling on your head!”
“I think there might be more to it,” said Severus.
“What more, pray tell?”
Severus gestured toward the flowers Montague had let fall. “Foxglove. Very poisonous. Even Muggles know about it.”
Helena inspected the patch of foxglove. “Also cut within the last hour. The stems are still fresh. Think you that Lord Montague, the Muggle, has a Time-Turner? Or that the Capulets’ servants would let him into their house? If you mean to say that he killed Juliet, how do you imagine he did it?”
Plainly, Severus had not considered this dimension of the problem. He looked crestfallen for a moment, and then muttered, “I wish you would stop being sensible. It’s irritating.”
Helena laughed out loud, and after a moment, so did Severus.
* * *
Juliet was laid to rest in the family vault on the following morning. After the dueling funerals of Tybalt and Mercutio, Severus was unsurprised to see that this one was an even more lavish affair, although the flowers and the cake were all too obviously recycled from the wedding that had never taken place. He made a mental note to inquire into the state of Lord Capulet’s finances.
After the funeral, they finally caught up with Friar Laurence, who was walking in the garden near his cell.
“Benedicite, my children. I do desire better acquaintance with you both.”
“We are strangers in Verona,” explained Helena, “guests of Lord Capulet’s uncle, though not relatives by blood. We are troubled by the news we have heard of the feud.”
“Ah. The Montagues and Capulets. ‘Tis an old, old quarrel, so old that no one remembers how it began; I had such hopes that the young folk would be the ones to heal it. But alas! God’s will was otherwise.”
Privately, Severus thought that there had been entirely too much talk of God’s will already.
Helena had begun to express her grief for Juliet’s death - at much greater length than the extent of her actual acquaintance with Juliet seemed to warrant. There seemed to be little that Severus could add to this conversation, so he took advantage of this opportunity to observe the plants around him. A number of rosebushes had been stripped of their thorns, and Friar Laurence seemed to have been using a great deal of peppermint lately. Two other herbs, which he found far more suggestive, had plainly been cut within the past few days.
“‘Tis a sore grief for parents to bury their children,” said Friar Laurence, although Severus wondered whether the Capulets really were all that grieved. At the funeral, they had seemed to be rather enjoying the attention.
Helena assented to this, and remarked that this must be a particularly heavy blow for the Capulets to bear in the wake of Tybalt’s death.
“Ah. Tybalt.” Friar Laurence shook his head sadly. “A great waste of young life. He had a young man’s faults - I will not pretend otherwise - but five years would have ripened him into better wisdom.”
“Was Juliet particularly close to him?” Helena asked.
Friar Laurence looked up sharply. “If you have heard any slander touching Juliet, I would not have you give it any credit. There are always wagging tongues in Verona, and too many foolish creatures think to curry favor with one family by insulting the other. The poor child is dead; let her rest in her grave.” He turned away, and began to pick raspberries in silence.
“I see you are busy, Friar. We will not keep you.”
“Good day,” said Friar Laurence, with a definite air of finality.
* * *
“Shut up like a clam,” Severus remarked. “And you can’t blame me this time. I never said a word.”
“No,” agreed Helena. “He knows something about Juliet. Or suspects something.”
“Did you notice his garden?” Severus asked.
Helena nodded. “Yes, I marked the plants well. The man is plainly a wizard. As a churchman, I can understand why he would want to keep it quiet.”
“There’s more. He was growing asphodel and wormwood.”
Helena drew in her breath. “The Draught of Living Death!”
“Yes. And they had both been cut, but not as recently as Montague’s foxgloves.”
“Then it could have been done before Juliet’s death.”
“Exactly. Are we sure Juliet is dead?”
“But why should he give the Draught to a young girl, and cause her to be buried alive? If he sought her death, there are poisons that are surer and safer.”
“Perhaps he isn’t seeking her death at all. He wants her alive, but he wants the Capulets to think she’s dead. All right. Why would Friar Laurence want that?”
“The Friar would not,” said Helena at once. “Juliet might. If she were very unhappy, and particularly if her family were the cause of her unhappiness.”
Severus was about to ridicule this idea, when he recalled that he had fantasized about faking his own death more than once when he was Juliet’s age. “Fine. But Friar Laurence would have to be the one who suggested it to her. Muggle girls aren’t in the habit of knowing about the Draught of Living Death.”
“Then we are where we were before: Why should he want to help her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he means to hide her in his cell and make her his love-slave, for all I know.”
“A churchman do that!”
“Being a clergyman is no guarantee of holiness. Ask the Borgias, if you dare,” said Severus, hoping that they had been born by now.
“But still - I cannot believe that of Friar Laurence. But perhaps Juliet knew something - something that he had rather she not tell.”
“Like what? I think we’re back to him wanting to make her his love-slave.”
“Oh!” Helena caught her breath. “Suppose he knew that she was married already!”
“Married - already? She’s not old enough!”
“I am of your mind - but ‘tis plain to see that her mother and father thought she was old enough. Perhaps she thought so too.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The nurse...” Helena looked upward, as if straining to remember something. “The nurse said something that made me wonder - something about how she knew not what someone would do when he heard the news, and how she would have written to him if she knew how. Who is ‘him’?”
“How should I know? Paris?”
“Paris would have known hours before we spoke with her. The first thing the Capulets did was send a messenger to him. Severus - I think Juliet did have another man who cared for her. If she was not married, she may at least have been betrothed. The nurse would know of it, but you saw yourself that the nurse is too afraid to talk - about something.”
“The nurse wouldn’t know about this,” said Severus. “The Draught of Living Death, I mean. She’s the Muggliest Muggle that ever lived.”
“No,” Helena agreed. “We shall have to see what Juliet says when she wakes. If she wakes.”
“She’ll wake,” said Severus. “They found her at six o’clock yesterday morning, and the draught lasts forty-two hours. We’re watching at the grave tonight.”