Verona, to Ophelia, is somewhere plays happen -- far away enough to be exotic, close enough to be familiar. It's a name she might hear on the lips of ambassadors circling through court, the ones her father speaks to but bids her keep her peace around. He warned her, once -- more than once, but he he would repeat himself -- about Italianate men and their rash humors. "Ophelia, sir," she says. "Of -- the house on the lake. It does not have a name." It seems to her unfortunate, but none of the houses have names here.