Excerpt from Fair Rosaline by Natasha Solomons, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Better. But one would think you'd never actually seen a man. Did you never fight your brother with a wooden sword?"

"Valentio clouted me once on the head, declared himself the winner, and that was it."

Caterina adjusted the angle of her hat and studied her. Rosaline wriggled, uneasy beneath her scrutiny. "Stand still. Men don't squirm. Better. But even in the dark you're too rosy-­cheeked for a boy."

Caterina reached down and, dipping her fingers in the crumbed earth of the molehill, smeared a little on Rosaline's cheek. "That will have to do for the shadow of a beard. I should have thought to use charcoal. And you must drink wine or it will seem strange. But not too much. And do not wince if the men swear before you."

"Zounds, I shall not."

"And don't say that word! You'll damn yourself to hell!" Caterina sighed, defeated. "Why you would want to go to that dreadful Montague place, I cannot fathom."

Rosaline smiled. "It whispers of dark delights."

They had nearly reached the far end of the track, where the Montague house and the path leading to the gardens were lit up with a parade of torches dissolving the night. Music and voices sang out into the shadows. Rosaline's breath caught in her throat, and she clutched Caterina's hand, squeezing it with her own inside its too-­large, borrowed glove.

"If you are afraid, we can yet go home," said Caterina hopefully. "No one will know we were ever here."

"No," said Rosaline. "Hark at the music. There is nothing terrifying in that!" Releasing Caterina's hand, she followed the sound, led on like a ravenous man sniffing the scent of a joint on a spit.

"Wait! Let me tie your mask." Caterina held up the mask. It was not the comely white one Rosaline had worn to previous carnivals or masquerades but curved and black, a proper gentleman's disguise. She waited impatiently as Caterina pressed it against her skin, prodding at the earth with her boot. The toe was stuffed with paper, the boots being several sizes too large.

The mask fit snugly around her eyes, leaving her cheeks, nose, and mouth exposed.

"It itches."

"Fie."

Rosaline allowed Caterina to fasten the ribbons and then, bidding her anxious companion farewell, hastened toward the music once more.

She paused on the edge of the pool of light, listening. The rest of the garden lay hidden, the cypress trees lining the driveway tall quills dipped in the thick ink of night. She was later than most of the guests and she traveled the path alone. A vast grotesque shape materialized out of the shadows and blocked the path. Her breath caught in her throat. A towering ogre, its cavernous mouth agape, its open jaws the height of a man, a pair of blazing torches pinched in its claws. It leered at her with hollow, cadaverous eyes and she tamped down the urge to turn and run. After a moment she realized that the music was drifting out through the black hole of its throat. By the flicker of the torches, she could just read the words inscribed on the ogre's forehead: Ogni Pensiero Vola—­abandon all reason.

If she wanted to enter the feste, she must do so through the mouth of Hell. Rosaline took a breath and stepped into the ogre's mouth.

She emerged into a glade where frenzied gods cavorted and battled. Hercules tossed Cacus to the ground upon his head, while a sphinx turned her gaze upon the Furies. Great dragons grappled with howling lions and tried to beat back the jaws of frantic hounds. A giant turtle with a nymph balanced upon its back rested by a waterfall where a river goddess bathed. Yet all were caught and turned to stone, as if by Medusa in a single long-­ago glance. Their faces were brushed with black moss and silver lichen, and ivy groped long fingers along the hems of granite robes.

Rosaline paced the glade, surveying the statues in wonder. The gardens thronged with masked revelers. No one looked at her. More open-­mouthed ogres sneered at her from the shadows at the edges of the wood; some had stone tables for tongues, set with food and drink. She was neither hungry nor thirsty, for also in the glade was the source of the music.

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.