If I, the aforesaid Rosie, blushing bride, noted cynic and sleuth, were asked to identify when the pre-wedding events spiraled out of control, I'd point to that moment when elderly Princess Ursula observed the display of gleaming swords and bared teeth and announced that she would hold a public séance to determine the future of the marriage . .
With the aid of Yorick's skull and her own considerable dramatic nature, Princess Ursula prophesied three things: the marriage would be joyous and fertile (the guests yawn,) a long-lost treasure would be found . . . and foul and most unnatural murder would disrupt the fragile peace of Verona.
Before the day was done, two prophesies had been fulfilled. Hint: not the fun fertility one. As one death follows another and it's clear a skilled poisoner lurks among us, coming ever closer to striking down those I love, I use all my wit and skill to discern the reason for the vendetta and uncover the killer's identity . . . for I would have the holy church bells that now ring a sad lament peel instead for the wedding ceremony and the joyous and fertile future foretold. . .
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