Much Ado About Mistletoe

Book 0: Daughter of Montague

by Christina Dodd

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Romantic Suspense; Historical Romance; Holiday books

Synopsis

Fair Verona celebrates the most joyful Christmas season in all of this flat earth, and for spirited20-year-old Rosie Montague, sleuth and daughter of Romeo and Juliet (alive and well and still passionately in love), the season holds a thrilling new kind of mystery . . .

My famously optimistic and romantic mother, Lady Juliet, has declared, “I’m determined the Montagues and all of Verona shall experience a peaceful start to this holy Christmastime!”

Mamma . . . what were you thinking? Why would you so challenge the Fates? This season already promises to be especially eventful because Prince Escalus the younger is to be married. To me, Lady Rosaline.

Now a P.R. visit to Verona’s market with Prince Escalus is dampened by a fortune teller’s dire prophecy, a blaze in Verona’s orphanage forces Verona’s tempestuous citizens to unite to save their city from ruin, and I discover more about Escalus, his secret kindnesses and his many masks. And much to my discomfort, I also make discoveries about myself, and realize that Mamma's resolve may indeed be exactly what we need to create a joyous Montague family Christmas.

Release date: October 28, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 96

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

I don’t like to brag (a lie, I love to brag,) but Christmas in Verona is the most interesting, warm, loving Christmas celebration anywhere on this flat earth. The Montague family preparation begins months in advance, with careful harvesting of friends’ and relatives’ wants and needs, then intense secret crafting of gifts both funny and useful.

For instance, my mamma, the radiant Lady Juliet, is great at passion and romance, the production of children, and maternal advice and affection. Yet because she remains a total loser when it comes to household management, this year from me she’ll receive a carefully curated and illustrated list of tasks to make her life easier upon the occasion of my imminent marriage and departure from Casa Montague.

Katherina, at thirteen, will be the recipient of the real list, with instructions like What to Do when Mamma Forgets We Need to Eat on a Regular Basis and How to Not Hurt Mamma’s Feelings about Her Forgetfulness.

For Papà, Lord Romeo, I’ve prepared a thoughtful list of suggestions on how to soundproof the bedroom he and Mamma share. I wish I’d thought of that years ago…

For my twelve-year-old sister, Imogene, who is frankly bitter that I’m to be wed and leave home, I used a double-sided list of why marriage was better than any alternative like finding Strega Nona’s woodland hut made of candy or having a sleepover with Grande Lupo Cattivo disguised in Nonna’s nightie.

And so on.

All are done with liberal injections of my humor (of which you are well aware) and crude sketches. (I’m taking lessons from a poor young artist named Gentile da Fabriano, but to his frustration have proved to be a clumsy and inept student.)

All must be ready by December 12, the eve of La Festa di Santa Lucia, when it’s said that St. Lucy arrives on her donkey to distribute gifts to the children. For us in Verona, this blessed day is the beginning of the long and holy Christmas season. Since I’m frightfully efficient, my gifts are finished and hidden in the secret cubbyhole in my headboard.

Because there are so many of us—our immediate family alone boasts Papà, Mamma, and my eight siblings—the family rule is that the amount spent on each gift must be small and each should be in some way handmade. This last is difficult for those of us who are lacking in crafting abilities. I’m not being modest (see the first line of this story,) merely suggesting my talents lie in a different direction. I’m an apothecary in training with our dear Friar Laurence, and I recently delivered the newest Montagues, my twin brothers, Adino and Efron.

I would rather, by the way, not do that again. The responsibility of preserving Mamma’s life as well as two tiny lives has literally given me nightmares, and with the recent life traumas I’ve suffered, claiming that is the worst is saying something.

Every year, as Christmas grows near, sprigs of mistletoe sprout from the arches and doorways—as if we needed encouragement to kiss; we were an affectionate family. And every year, the level of secrecy and excitement grows greater in the Montague household. This year more than ever because, as I said, I’m to be married. Although I’m twenty—I was recently called “a trifle overripe” by the ghost of Prince Escalus the Elder—this is not the first wedding celebrated in our family. My two younger sisters Susanna and Vittoria are married and living respectively in Venice and Florence with their husbands…gentlemen who happen to have been betrothed to me until it was pointed out to them they loved another… I may have managed that myself. I was formerly quite determined to remain single and in charge of running the Montague household, and being a spirited aunt to the nieces and nephews I knew would be produced in typical Montague abundance.

Due to an unexpected turn of events—nay, several unexpected turns of events—I’m now betrothed to Escalus the Younger, the prince of Verona. Of my own free will, I’ve now committed myself to the marriage and, needless to say, am in charge of planning this massive, festive event which, by my lord’s decree, will occur on the first day of winter.

You may wonder—why would Prince Escalus ordain a wedding day sure to add pressure to an already busy holiday? Because:

That one probably should have been first. He’s made it quite clear that he intends our marriage to be similar to my parents’—that is, overwhelmingly passionate, if not quite so loud. One hopes.

So while I’m digging around in the Christmas cupboard, retrieving the presepe, the Montague family’s revered nativity scene, Mamma and my siblings are gathered around the round table in the atrium, draped in cloaks and blankets and shivering in the onset of cold winds from the north. Mamma is reading aloud the Christmas story in Latin (in the critical eyes of Verona society, all of us female Montagues are tastelessly over-educated). Our new baby boys are swaddled and tucked up in blankets and sleeping under the table where all of us take turns to rock their cradles with our feet.

Supervised by Nurse, my other siblings are hard at work cracking walnuts for our Papà’s candy gift.

Papà is absent on a secret mission. Secret because he’s under the impression he’s fooled us all by claiming to hunt for a red deer. When he returns in two days, we’ll commiserate with him on the arrow that landed oh-so-close to his target, and in turn be excited when he reveals his real mission was to harvest a giant Yule log for the fire pit in our atrium.

Oddly, our Papà, who is known as the best swordsman throughout Veneto and never hesitates to take offense at any small slight to himself, his family, and most especially to his darling Juliet, cannot bring himself to kill a deer. When I once asked him about his reluctance, he mumbled something about their big brown eyes looking at him.

My papà (Lord Romeo, I should mention) is exuberant, passionate, fierce, short-tempered, but so soft-hearted every child who lives on the streets knows his name and reputation for generosity. He also has a fart for every occasion. But I digress…

The doorplate on our great front door thumped once, loudly.

“It’s early for guests to arrive,” Mamma observed.

For the wedding, she meant, friends and relatives who would travel from out of town to see poor Rosaline get married at last—and to a prince!

The outpouring of surprise had been less than flattering.

Our footman and my assistant, Tommaso, put down the manger and strode toward the door to answer it.

Imogene said, “Not guests, Mamma. Visitors. Visitors are to be expected. They attend the Christmas market in the square and come here bringing their tired feet and their heavy purchases.”

“You’re right, dear.” Mamma stuck her finger between the paper pages of her book. “But a few days alone with the family before we’re inundated with company would be appreciated.”
. . .