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A Novel
by Natasha Solomons
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She glanced around for Pan himself or Puck, for who else could it be who played in such a world? The musicians, however, were mortal—stout and perspiring fellows. From their flutes, viols, and a pair of lutes, they played a honeyed motet, accompanying a singer, a woman with a rasping, sugarplum voice.
Rosaline was breathless with joy. As she listened the night became filled with color; she watched the notes rise up and perforate the sky with glowing pinholes. O, to have real music, at last! This was nothing like the drab devotionals in church. How could God not prefer this gilded altarpiece of sound? These were the notes of heaven yet whirling around a wild revelation of hell. She drew closer and closer, elbowing her way to the front of the gathered audience, like a dog nosing to the warmest spot on the hearth on a winter's night.
The singer, seeing Signior Rosaline so enraptured, was amused and pretended to serenade her. A cup of wine was thrust into Rosaline's hands. She sipped and nearly spat it out again. The wine was sour, like tart mulberries not yet ripe, and made her wince. In an instant her cup was filled again. Shuddering, she drained it. The torches blazed and whirled. The music played on and on, and masked dancers wove in and out among the trees and statues, caterwauling with pleasure.
The wine dulled her nerves. Curious, Rosaline glanced around for faces that she knew, but most wore masks—black, white, crimson, harlequin, and here and there horned devils. A few sported hook-beaked masks and dark capes, like those the physicians wore during the outbreaks of the plagues. She did not like to see them; they haunted the party like ghosts of the dead, reminding Rosaline of the fleetingness of this delight.
As the night wore on, and the festivities grew wilder and more drunken, masks became loose or were discarded among the trees; she noticed among the crowd the faces of Signior Martino and Lucio from across the hill. She wondered who among them were the infamous Montagues. Were they the hooded figures of Death and his companions, Despair and Pestilence, who lurked among the guests? She could not tell. There was a tall fellow sporting a diablo mask. Was he a Montague? Or him? She watched a man as he kissed along the line of a woman's neck, lapping at the ridge of her collarbone as she thrashed and gasped, his hand burrowing beneath her skirts. Rosaline had never seen such a carnal display before, and she stared, appalled and fascinated. They stood brazenly beside Poseidon's pool, while the god observed unabashed, trident in hand.
The torches spurted wax and gathered moths, and finally the musicians paused their playing to carouse. The evening waxed late. Rosaline spied a lute left upon a bench. It seemed to call out to her. She tugged off her gloves, picked it up, and plucked upon the strings. At once a steady calm suffused her, and her head, which whirled from the wine, steadied. The instrument was excellent, its throat deep and sweet. She knew that she must not sing or they would discover her secret, so she simply played, her fingers deft and certain. A small crowd gathered to hear her while the music fell from her fingers like rain, cool and restorative in the heat and closeness of the night.
A man drew close. He did not wear a mask. He was neither too tall nor too short, but the ideal height and leanly muscled. He tipped his head to listen better. As he did so, Rosaline noticed that his eyes had an intense expression, as if moved by her song. Beneath his hat, his hair was almost as dark as her own. As she finished each piece, his cheers were the loudest, his applause the most heartfelt and rigorous.
After playing for a full half hour, Rosaline began to feel warm and sick, her mask too tight and slick with sweat around her eyes; she longed to take it off but knew she must not. Glancing up, to her dismay, she noticed a friend of Valentio's who would know her and could betray her, and panic rose in her stomach, hot and acid. She put down the lute and wondered where she could hide. But before she could turn and leave, the stranger's arm was draped around her shoulders, firm but not unfriendly. She smelled pine and leather.
Excerpted from Fair Rosaline by Natasha Solomons. Copyright © 2023 by Natasha Solomons. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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