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H earing Cal address his father, stare at the place where the ghost hovered—that was eerie and unexpected and . . . validation.

Cal didn’t wait for his father to recover his ability to speak. “Lady Rosaline will lead all Verona, show what a princess must be, for she’ll set her own stamp on the task.”

I wanted to lift my arms, dance the moresca, ring the bells. Instead I smiled demurely, folded my hands, enjoyed the thoroughly spooked expressions on every attendant’s face, and waited on this outcome.

Cal continued, “I love you, Papà, and to have discovered your assassin and dispatched him lays rest to the gnawing guilt within my soul. This I could not have done without mi cara, Rosaline, my singed-winged messenger of compassion. We’ll wed and, as all couples must, find our way into the future together. While you . . . must go on.”

I couldn’t remain demure a moment longer. “I told you so,” I said to Elder.

For the first time, Elder seemed at a loss. “I don’t know the way.”

“Escalus, I’ve been waiting to show you.” Eleanor’s soft voice brought my head around, and Cal’s head around.

Elder put his hand to his chest as though he had a heart to beat.

She was there/not there, a form of silver light, a warmth and a beauty so rich, I had to squint to see her.

She offered her hand.

Elder took it. “Eleanor.” Emotion choked his voice: love, guilt, joy, thankfulness.

He was profoundly affected, yet she sounded practical and natural. “Escalus, before we go, do you want to offer your son any patriarchal advice?”

“Of course.” Elder cleared his throat importantly. “Son, never pass up a chance to pee. Never waste an erection. Never trust a fart.”

In identical gestures of horror, Eleanor and I put our hands over our eyes.

“My thanks, Papà,” Cal said. “I will remember.”

As Elder and Eleanor moved off, she winked at me.

Cal sank down in his chair and, clearly shaken, stared at the place where they’d been. Turning his head, he viewed me with a grave reservation. “Should we marry—”

“When we marry,” I corrected him.

“Will your ghost sightings be seasonal or constant?”

“Depends on whether you have more relatives who rest uneasily in their graves.” What I meant was— Blessed Mother Mary, forbid. I never wanted to view and hear another specter as long as I lived. “Whenever I hear a soft, clear voice, I’ll think of Princess Eleanor.”

“I know what you mean. Whenever I fart, I’ll think of Dad.”

I fell into a fit of giggles. Sometimes, despite the evidence, it seemed that Cal would fit into my family very well.

When I calmed, we stared at one another, weighing each other’s thoughts, expressions, trying to see a way forward.

“Our wedding will be an event of great circumstance and importance.” He spoke as if him saying it would make it so.

How lovely it would be to make a pronouncement and know it would be done! “I promise I’ll do all in my considerable organizational power to create a pompous, peaceful occasion that will honor our two houses.”

“Peaceful? Of course. It’s a wedding, not a war.”

“No . . . I suppose not.”

“What’s wrong?”

I hated to burst his bubble, but—“Whenever the Montagues and the Capulets get together, there’s always a great sharpening of knives. Let us not forget other Veronese families have their rivalries, the men pee on the bushes—”

Cal chuckled indulgently.

“Those would be your treasured exotic bushes getting drenched with pee.”

Those lazy eyes widened in fury. “I’ll run them through!”

“Adulterers collide in the corridors, someone always steals the silver—”

“On the occasion of my first marriage, the great golden Leonardi lion vanished.”

“See? It’s not a memorable celebration unless there’s a disaster or two.” I beamed at him.

“You seem to take great delight in pointing out the possible catastrophes. Are you sure of your decision?”

“What decision?”

Cal looked at me.

“Oh! You mean . . . I’ve made up my mind to marry you for many good and logical reasons. I see no reason to change it.”