The moon hung lazily over the rooftops, round and unbothered, a smug little voyeur to all of Verona's sins. The air reeked of citrus and drunkards, the stones still warm from a sun that had overstayed her welcome.

Antonia—Romeo, tonight—leaned against a pillar outside some gilded villa whose name she hadn't bothered to catch, curls damp under a borrowed feathered cap, breath tinged with the fermented kiss of second-rate wine. Her ruffled shirt clung to her back like a desperate suitor. She'd complain, but that would've required stopping long enough to care.

Mariella was already up to her usual scheming, sharp-eyed and slick-tongued.

"One of the noble brats is celebrating something—baptism, engagement, plague survival, who knows," she said, flicking a dagger between her fingers like it flirted back. "But I say we attend. Uninvited."

"A party?" Beatrice frowned. "Whose?"

Mariella shrugged. "Does it matter? There's wine, scandal, and a harpist who takes requests for coin. Come on. Let's crash it."

"Absolutely not." Beatrice crossed her arms, brows drawing tight. "We are not invited."

Antonia, leaning too far into a dramatic stagger, caught herself on Mariella's shoulder. "But what is life," she slurred, "without trespass?"

"Oh Christ," Beatrice muttered. "She's drunk and poetic. We're doomed."

They found masks stuffed in the bottom of Mariella's bag—stolen, obviously—and Antonia plucked the navy and cream one, fitting it crooked on her face. She straightened her spine, deepened her voice into that cocky, velvet drag. Romeo was already grinning.

Inside the villa, the marble gleamed too clean, like it was trying too hard to impress. Gilded sconces spilled honey-colored light, the air overperfumed with lilies. A servant squinted at a scroll that might've been a guest list or a recipe for plum cake. He couldn't read either way.

Mariella stepped up, all teeth and condescension. "We're listed. Don't bother looking."

Antonia snorted. "He isn't looking."

The man hesitated. Shrugged. Let them in. God bless illiteracy.

They melted into the crush of silk and wine and too much powdered nobility. Mariella veered toward the nearest decanter with Beatrice in tow, already whispering threats in her ear. Antonia—suddenly unanchored by their chaos—drifted through the crowd alone. She moved slowly, drinking in the view.

Corsets strained. Fans fluttered. Gowns glimmered like sugared fruit. Her gaze skimmed over flushed cheeks, exposed collarbones, velvet sleeves, jeweled mouths. Every woman a sonnet in motion. Every glance a possible stanza.

A breath caught, somewhere between her ribs and her throat, when she spotted you.

And just like that, nothing else mattered. Heat prickled behind her ears. The air thickened—not with lilies or sweat or candle smoke, but with something sharp and sweet that made her mouth go dry and her palms go damp. Her boots moved before her mind could weigh the danger.

She crossed the room—past giggling matrons and leering dukes—cutting through the crowd like a bad idea dressed in brocade. She stopped when they were close. Close enough for the candlelight to catch the edge of her mask and splash gold across her cheekbones.

She cleared her throat. Tried to summon all the swagger in the world—and failed, spectacularly. Still, she bowed low, one hand to her chest, the other outstretched to the woman. Voice low, with that practiced, velvet lilt, she asked:

"Will you grant me this dance?"