Marco has taken us to a wedding.

The ceremony was held earlier at the warm end of the day. The church was made of heavy stone, and painted the day's light blue and purple between the leading of the windows. It looked a small place, but it held us all easily in comfort. It became cozy within, filled with candles, the thin stream of grey blue smoke from the censer, and people wishing well. The stout doors kept the cool air without, and left it to play on the steps with the leaves. The place focused us, giving slow and lovely weight to a ceremony which seemed, after, to take no time at all.

We are at the gathering after, now. It is being held on the grounds of the Castle Metle, on a wide and ranging lawn made comfortable and close with plantings and well placed screens. There is something roasting over fire over there, and another over here. Tables groan with fruits and breads and cheeses, and a gentleman in Friar's costume is deftly making highly alcoholic coffees for all who ask. The wind scents us with the aromatics of the nearby pines. The smells mean to overwhelm us. Torch light dances over everything.

There is a square of well-mortared paving stones in the center of the lawn for dancing. The stones are smooth, but the dancers are being careful not to trip, and fall laughingly into each other's arms when they do. The bride and groom are both very good, and have spent the evening taking turns leading each other. I am sitting at a table, hewn from wood. My chair is quite comfortable, and my fingers take heat from the coffee cup they cradle. Marco is standing nearby, with a drink; he looks relaxed.

Two men approach Marco; they are too carefully dressed to be part of the party. I can hear them clearly, but I try not to look like I notice them.

"Marco," one of them says. "You are a difficult man to find."

Marco shrugs at that. "My home is not hidden."

The other man laughs at that. "Perhaps," he says. "Perhaps you live on a road with no signpost. And perhaps your neighbors give poor directions." He has a drink, and he takes a sip.

The first one speaks again: "Well." He has a careful smile, but it is rough with use around the edges. "We have found you now. We would like to ask you some questions."

"Certainly," Marco says. He is swaying back and forth a little, letting the ice in his glass make small music. "Please, first: who are you?"

"Marco," the first one says, holding out his upward hands. "We are police."

I think Marco was ever sober, but he shows it now. His back becomes straight, and the glass stops. The second man is clumsily pulling identification from his pocket, but Marco pats his arm. "Come," Marco says. He leads them off into the shadows of the castle gardens.

Juliet is dancing with a tall and silent man. I cannot complain; I cannot dance. Juliet enjoys it. His light hair falls around his face against the dark of his jacket, and he steps with care, drawing both of them slowly back and forth across the stone. He is gentle, and his arms are strong. The air is cool, and Juliet winks to me.

She moves within them like liquid.