[i]Trouble?[/i] Lavinia thought, the word clenching in her stomach as she watched Constable Macbeth head off toward the two men talking. They were both well dressed, haughty looking types—not a terribly uncommon sight in Stratford. One smoked a cigarette with a disdainful look on his face, the other smiled easily and held a chalice of wine. Both were older than her but younger than Lucas; she pegged the smoking one to be around Quin’s age, but the smiling one was older. 

She didn’t know why she followed Macbeth. She didn’t want to be anywhere near those two men, yet, when the constable was about halfway across the square, she started off behind him, taking a seat on a bench not too far from the drama. A woman in yellow was sitting there too, daintily gripping a caramel apple on a stick. She was alone, and Lavinia only wondered why briefly when she heard the smiling man’s response to Macbeth’s inquiry. His accent was foreign, and though he’d responded sincerely enough she heard a tint of irony in his voice. [i]A delightful evening?[/i]

Perhaps he was one of those Montague boys, always trying to infiltrate the Capulet masquerade. Though the feud had gotten bad before, it had never involved neutral citizens, so she and her brother and nephew were safe. He could go have his delightful evening and she and Lukie would make masks. Right?

She was reading far too much into this. She sighed, noticing her hand was wrapped around the bench armrest in a death grip. She should have never followed the constable, she thought, as she relaxed her arm and leaned back. Now she’d spend the whole evening looking over her shoulder and lord only knew she didn’t need that. None of her family did.