Act I Scene V: The Party

(It would be cool if I owned all of this, all these characters of Shakespeare . . . but I don't. It's very sad.)
The rest of the afternoon was a bustle to make ready the house for the party. I was not needed and kept out of the way, wasting my time in the garden attempting to teach my cowardly friend some technique to fencing. The lesson ended when I grew overexcited and accidentally lopped one of the buttons off Petruchio's good doublet.

"Aren't thou not to fight, besides?" he asked irritably, trying to reattach the button.

"Thou wouldst know for certain had thou stayed this morning," I pointed out, rather bitterly. "And thou be not a Montague. And I, not a Capulet, either."

Petruchio laughed. "So, in truth, thou truly can kill a Montague and not be put to death?"

I laughed along but wished that truly were so; I felt slightly sick recalling that the Prince had spoken the decree directly to me.

We went in the house once the guests began to arrive. Petruchio started off following Rosaline, but he blew a kiss to my cousin Livia. I hadn't wanted to go in so soon, for there was nothing to be done but sit out in the hall as the final preparations were made. We retired, along with my page, outside the door opposite the foyer. I didn't wish to greet guests. I took off my mask, adjusted my rapier in its hilt, and leaned leisurely against the corridor wall while Petruchio peered coyly down the hall at Livia or Helena or some other cousin of mine whom I couldn't court anyway.

A voice rang out from behind me. "Dost thou really need thy sword?"

I looked up suddenly to face my uncle, who was done up proudly but had no weapon himself.
I stood up straight and patted the hilt. "'Tis the fashion, uncle. See, Petruchio wears one." Petruchio, hearing his name, looking up suddenly but then went back to his flirting.

"Perhaps 'twould be more fitting to between the fashion of wearing no sword at all," he said edgily, "for safety."

I frowned, pretending to not catch his meaning.

Lord Capulet sighed. "Thou canst resist the temptation to fight if thou hast a weapon on thy person. Thou shouldst not need it tonight. 'Tis a festival."
I frowned perversely. "Thou seems awfully worried of the Prince's law. Dost thou not trust me?"

"No," he said shortly, looking me in the eye, appalled that I had the daring to challenge his opinion of me. If we were equals, it could be grounds for a duel. I knew it well, and yet I stood it out. "I do not. Look here; put thy sword away."

I stiffened. "'Twould ruin the night an a Montague enter," I argued firmly. "'Twould bring disrepute on the entire house."

"No," insisted my uncle, still touchy with his voice, hinting that I ought to back down for my own good.

"'Twould show the Prince and our enemies that we are above such fighting. Put thy sword away." His lips were in a thin line and his eyes were hard and cold. He was commanding me; I had to obey the lord of the house.

Though thoroughly furious with my uncle, I obeyed, slipping off my sword like a soldier being disrobed. I kept my eyes on him as I handed the weapon to my page. Petruchio had bothered to look up and watch, the time I would have preferred he didn't. To add insult to injury, he both retained his sword and patted it proudly.

"Shall we enter withal?" he asked.

I nodded forcibly and we went in. Soon we were surrounded by the usual crowd, all of whom had swords. I felt deprived and different without mine and the indignity was obvious. Why did not the great fencer and leader carry a sword when all of his companions did?

I could not avoid socializing with guests, however. Paris came to me and asked if I knew where Juliet was. "Thither," I pointed. "As she's been all e'en." Paris seemed remarkably nervous for a courter nearly twice Juliet's age.

"Thanks, good Capulet," Paris patted me absent-mindedly on the shoulder. Capulet. He was either really stupid or really apt to flatter.

The night wore on and I grew more and more bored as everyone else grew hotter and drunker and more passionate. Petruchio had left me for the dancers ages ago and gradually all of my friends followed suite. I turned down a few bold, tipsy girls myself, preferring to observe the festivities rather than partake in them. To keep my mind occupied, I checked up on my friends every few minutes. I'd spot Petruchio-- there, with Rosaline, wasting his time (why does she dance if she looks not for men?); Livia had found another one of my comrades; Mercutio, not a friend but an acquaintance, was rather entertaining to watch, as he kept snatching women away from his stout, masked companion, often equipped himself with two ladies while the other boy had none. There were, I noticed, an awful lot of unfamiliar faces--though disguised by masks. I wondered if perhaps I would recognize them without their guise, but at this hour of night I was too tired to sort out who was who without a face to judge by. I hadn't seen my uncle in a while, and Juliet . . . ah, there by the wall, standing out a dance. She needed it; all of the young gentlemen, even Petruchio and particularly Paris, had taken a turn with her. Even now another anonymous masker was approaching her. I slipped quickly and discreetly along the wall to listen in on him, my curiosity piqued.

He did not speak to Juliet, but stood at a distance. After a moment, he turned and whispered to a servingman, who shrugged. The youth than tiptoed forward, keeping his distance as a wild cat stalks its prey. He leaned wistfully against a column and stared at my young cousin, who was still oblivious to him.

She stroked her long hair absentmindedly, twirling her curls about her fingers, watching the crowds sleepily.
I snuck up to the column behind him and was finally able to hear him speak to himself, just as I had heard Juliet do so many times. I had been right; it gave away much.

"Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear! Beauty too rich for use, for earth to dear!"

He certainly spoke her fair. That much earned him my favor. Still, there was something I didn't like about him, something familiar . . . something in his voice. I kept watching.

"So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love 'til now? Forswear it, sight; For I ne'er saw true beauty 'til this night."

And then it hit me. I knew his voice. I knew his hair, his skin. I would recognize his face if the mask were off. The mournful voice, the listless walk . . .

Romeo Montague was in our house.