Interlude: December 28, 1511

A/N: The following depicts the deaths of Cordelia and Caliban Capulet, who died trying to save their family from a deliberate act of arson intended to kill them and their children. There are no illustrations or graphic details. You do not need to read this interlude to keep up with the main narrative. This is just additional content for anyone who would like to know how these characters met their fates. 

"Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask."

It had long been Caliban's habit to retire to the library after supper. Nature had not given him a great love of books; he preferred physical activity. But as he and Cordelia wanted the children to value learning and knowledge, Caliban had found what books would let him lead by example. He was followed most nights by at least one of his daughters. Juliette would usually ask for fairy stories or poems. Hermia, his most likely companion, didn't mind the fairy stories but herself preferred accounts of grand adventures and triumphs. Those were Caliban's favorites, too. But tonight, he had come to the library alone. 

Supper had been the sort of ordeal to remind him why most parents did not dine with their young children. With Cordelia confined to bed all day with a stomach ailment, it had been up to Caliban to contend with three children and an unsatisfactory meal. The food had not been spoiled or rotten, but it had been prepared so poorly that every bite was bitter, ashy, or otherwise unpleasant. He had no more wanted to eat it than the children, and he planned to have words with the cook in the morning. But his children did not need to know that. He would rather that they learn to treat their servants with dignity and, above all, to understand their own good fortune. Many children made do with much worse every night of their lives – or with nothing at all. 

To their credit, the children had seemed to understand his lesson about the servants. It had been another matter entirely to wring out gratitude for their immediate situation. Tybalt, already of an age to be moody and made worse by the confiscation of his Christmas present, had goaded Caliban into sending him to bed early. While doing so, Tybalt had made several speeches that had been quite perfect for sparking malcontent in the girls. Hermia had been particularly impressed with the proposal to leave the food for "someone hungry enough to choke it down." Determined to show herself a lady, Juliette had pleaded to know why they could not politely request that a second, simple meal to be prepared. Both had looked relieved when he sent them to the nursery for the night. 

Caliban's rumbling stomach had inspired more sympathy for his children's point of view as he nodded off in his favorite chair. When he stirred, however, his stomach was of no concern at all. 

He opened his eyes to a room filling with acrid smoke and a fire taking hold on one wall. When he scrambled to his feet, he felt nauseated and extremely dizzy. He thus amassed a number of careless injuries simply by stumbling his way out of the library. It got worse still when he started out for his family's quarters: more fire and a roaring torch in the hand of a man he knew as Demetrio, the newest servant in their kitchen. The knave even had the gall to smirk at him, affirming that the kitchen's errors had been no honest mistake. What words could describe what Caliban then felt, to know he had welcomed this demon into their home and even helped him complete his foul deed? 

"Villain! What have you done?" Caliban bellowed. 

Demetrio smirked still, his eyes glinting with fire. "I've sent your little demons to the devil, m'lord, and your wife will follow you – compliments of my master."

Though reeling and unarmed, Caliban charged. The torch soon tumbled out of Demetrio's hand, and the two men brawled viciously for it. Caliban, weakened as he was, had the special ferocity of a father protecting his children. None of Cordelia's pacifism could have moved him, now a creature of pure rage. Soon, the torch had been pitched far into the heart of the flames, and he had his prey pinned to the floor. 

"Who is your master!"

Demetrio sputtered, "Should... shouldn't have listened..."

"Listened to who? Who?"

"You told them... to eat."

Demetrio's death was brutal and quick – and quick only because Caliban had no time to waste. He stood, quaking and hands dripping with Demetrio's blood. If he did nothing else with the rest of his life, Caliban swore he would rescue his children. The monster had spoken true, after all. 

But now gravely injured as well as addled, Caliban listed too far too the left as he tried to traverse the corridor. A smoldering tapestry needed almost none of his weight to be pulled down, instantly smothering him. His clumsy attempts to free himself only made his predicament worse. He thrashed about with no notion of his balance or direction. He had no idea at all that he had stumbled toward a table before the back of his head struck it at an angle that could only be described as a mercy on this one night. Within moments, his concealed body became indistinguishable from the general destruction of the house. 

---

The groaning of the house couldn't drown out Cordelia's sob when her son finally left her sight. When she had taught the children to flee, to hide, she had only considered it a good habit. She had never expected her own branch of the family to actually fall victim to such calamity. How could it? Neither she nor Caliban expressed or harbored the sort of immoderate ambitions that invited such violence. Her most wicked desire was to die in her husband's arms (for she could never imagine living without the man who loved her so wholeheartedly, even when she could not love herself.) He was her peace. Their children were her joy. And they had worked so very hard to build their little family up, well out of the fray, so they all might have long, quiet, and happy lives together. 

I was so naïve.

Beneath it all, Cordelia's blood still ran crimson and gold. She knew how often the Montagues had attacked her ancestors with fire. She knew why her children had been dosed until they were too ill and weak to save themselves, why she hadn't seen any living servants, why the guards patrolling the estate hadn't raised the alarm. Her family had been marked for an excruciating death, the kind that made anyone think twice about aligning themselves with the House of Capulet. The servants' corpses would burn where they had died, and fallen watchmen would be found all across the estate come dawn. She would mourn them all. She would avenge them all. But she would save her family – and if she had to learn to be as shrewd as her mother and as cold as her sisters, Cordelia would never let them be harmed again.

Her heart broke as she moved away from the staircase, though she had every confidence that Tybalt would get himself and his sisters to the Manor safely. It just wasn't enough to know they would be safe. Cordelia wanted to hold them again. She wanted to kiss their foreheads, to wipe away their tears, and to promise them that they were safe because Mother wouldn't rest until the world was set to rights. But how could she leave without even trying to find Caliban? 

With fresh tears stinging her eyes, she started back into the heart of the house. Caliban was most likely unconscious in the library, just as their children had been in their beds. Unfortunately, the library was on the far side of the house, where the fire had looked thickest when she had been ushering the girls out of the nursery. The further she went, the hotter the fire grew. Cordelia could hardly stop herself from imagining the worst.

“Caliban! Caliban!” As she choked on he words, she prayed to God that Caliban had somehow overcome whatever had sickened the children and come some way toward her. She knew now that there was no hope of reaching the library. “Please, Caliban, can you hear me?” 

Faced with another terrible silence, she threw up her arms to shield her face from the heat and dashed with unnatural speed into the thick of it all. She was determined to go as far as God would allow. “Caliban, please! Please, answer me! Come to me! I’m here, Caliban, please!”

As she cried out, the house matched her. A tremendous thud sent her sprinting even deeper into the smoke. When she dared look back, she expected to see the roof on the floor of the corridor. There was no moonlight spilling into the corridor, however, and the debris that was there was not insurmountable if she had to come back this way. Nearby, there was also a window which had a trellis beneath it. They could climb down from there or even jump, if they both had wits enough to only break an arm or leg in the fall. It would be a small price to pay.

Too soon, she met gapless flames. She could not see a way though without setting herself alight. Anything nearby that could have smothered a flame was already burning. She spied a door to the servants' passage, but a hopeful hand met dreadful heat. Cordelia whirled back around and jumped on the spot to try to see toward the library. She saw nothing but destruction. Wrecked with pain and confused more every second by the effects of the fire, she doubled over and cried out one last time. She heard so much in reply, but not a single word.

Forgive me, my love. 

Eyes and lungs burning, she wrapped herself in her own arms and ran. She staggered as quickly as she could down the corridor again. The effort and the bad air told her she couldn't make it to the staircase, only to the window with the trellis. The roof groaned above her as another of its bones snapped. With her head tucked down and her heart on fire, Cordelia tried to outrun the thunder at her back.