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E lder’s dry, curious voice echoed in my head. “I cannot wait to see what you do now.”

“What else should I do but avail myself of Prince Escalus’s blessing on my union with Lysander?” A knee-jerk reaction, a reply to his taunt.

“You, madam, are as close to a princess as any woman not yet crowned with the sacred circlet must be. How do you respond to a man who saves you from certain death, who clearly loves you, yet who declares he’ll forgo all his rights and his desires and yield you to an inferior man—”

Fiercely I turned on Elder. “Lysander is not inferior. He’s a younger son of unusual creativity, much respected for his inventions, handsome and true.”

“As you say, madam. I know not the youth who’s the object of your idolatry.

I only know my son declares he’ll do all for your happiness, although that will mean none for himself, and indeed, all Verona will laugh at him, and even when he finds a bride, she’ll be political and appropriate, none of his taste and all of his propriety. ”

I confess, I didn’t like the idea of Younger taking a diplomatic bride. “Cal’s a good man, if ruthless in his pursuits of—”

“You? How unusual is that, do you think, that Prince Escalus should abandon his thoughtful caution to gain you, your mind and your body, for his own? Are you not flattered?”

I suppose, looking at it that way, it could be construed as flattering. Irritating, high-handed, but flattering.

Elder continued. “Moreover, when the moment came when he must save you from certain death, he never doubted the scene before his eyes and killed the villain with a clever stratagem and a sharp point. He placed his weapon at your feet and declared all he wants is your happiness and you must gain your One True Love, no matter the loss to himself. So, madam, what will you do? Will you allow this noble prince to sacrifice himself to mockery and scorn so you may have your One True Love?”

“My family’s history guides me to my One True Love.”

“You, Rosaline, are not your family. Have your affections altered? What does your duty demand?”

Merda! Who knew Elder could ask the tough questions?

I rubbed the sides of my forehead with my fingers. “Let me think.”

“Think quickly, for Cal will swiftly carry out his intention.”

I closed my eyes and raised in my mind a portrait of Lysander, lovingly painted in my most precious colors, golden and smiling, handsome and droll and loving.

My mind clung to him, praised him, saw only him .

. . but an awareness grew of a man who stood in shadow, clad in dark clothes, unsmiling, through no fault of his own bound tight by the cords of duty.

While appearing to have every privilege, he cared for none of them, but he did care for me.

Unbidden, my mind produced a parade of images: Prince Escalus’s fondness for his sister, his appearance on the Montague moonlit terrace to present to me his dagger, his seduction in the dark garden.

Only then, I began to think of him, not as a stallion to be led to a mare of my choosing, but as a man who directed his own destiny—and interfered with mine without care to my desires.

Yet when in the Montague garden, he pressed that kiss to my palm, folded my fingers over it, and told me to keep it close to my heart. That moment made me look at him, not as the cold and distant prince, but as a man who, for reasons I knew not, maneuvered me into a most acrimonious betrothal.

Acrimonious on my part, anyway.

What had he just said before he released me and gave me his blessing?

Someday, perhaps on my deathbed, I’ll not regret the loss of you, dear Rosaline, dear shining spirit whom I adore.

Now I opened my eyes and realized I once again held my closed fist against my chest, as if that garden promise kiss had branded me in ways I never knew.

I looked at Elder.

He watched me gravely, with sorrow heavy and evident.

“Love is not common. Love is not to be lightly tossed aside. Yet love is not all. Minds and hearts that look through the same eyes at life and see a similar vision. A hand to help you up when you fall. Devotion Cal gives you. Passion he feels for you. What I would give to have what you so readily intend to abandon! I did that. Now, when I can do nothing, when I can no longer bring justice to an event, a life of my own making—now I know. I have a second son.” He indicated Friar Camillo.

Friar Camillo, who was done with the holy rites and now grieving over his most murderous uncle, heard not a word of his father’s ghostly monologue.

Elder said, “I can never know him. I can never know Princess Isabella. I can never reunite with my beloved Eleanor. I can’t look for them in heaven or hell. For my sins, I’m bound to this palace.”

“Wait!” In the gravity of this moment, I was glad to change the focus from my burdensome decision to Elder and (hopefully) his going. “You’re here because you needed to know your killer. You do now. You can go.”

“You’re right. I can. I should be able to. Watch this!” He frowned intently.

Nothing happened.

“You look constipated,” I observed.

“I’m not!” he snapped.

“Of course not,” I snapped back. “Stop concentrating so hard! Relax and”—I wiggled my fingers—“float away.”

He reacted with irritation. “Like you would know. You’re alive.”

“It looks as if I know as well as you!”

He narrowed his eyes at me, took a breath, and loosened his neck, shoulders, hands. His ghostly form remained as solid as ever. Which wasn’t very solid, but definitely here rather than there.

He looked astonished, a man used to accomplishing what he set out to do. “This is a pigeon egg pickle.”

“Maybe you have another task to perform. What would it be?”

“I don’t know. I told you—”

“I know. No ‘Welcome to the Afterworld Reception.’ ” To my surprise, I’d grown fond of Elder. Not fond enough that I wanted him haunting my footsteps forever, but enough that I wished he could finish his earthly existence and move on to . . . whatever came after for him.

As with me, he seemed glad to abandon his issue and return to mine, proving we did have something in common: evasion.

“Never mind me. It’s you who must make a decision.

I have eternity and I have no life to worry about.

Cal won’t delay in upsetting this baggage cart of a wedding.

” When I rubbed my forehead in distress, he added, “Of course, if you’ve decided to marry Lysander, you need do nothing.

You can leave Cal to face the scandal alone. ”

Elder held a bubbling pot o’ muddy guilt and scooped with a big ol’ ladle.

My usual clear thinking had abandoned me. Papà and Mamma were right; love opened a new world for me. Joy, yes. Passion, yes. Glory, yes. But also madness and confusion, choices made in haste that guaranteed the dawn of regrets on my horizon—

A thunder of footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Elder looked in that direction and muttered, “Che schifo.”

Of course, Elder was disgusted, for Lysander, my One True Love, appeared in the doorway.