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It was a warm, sunny morning in Washington, DC. Scraps of white fluff trailed across the bare dome of the sky, a lacy lingerie more tease than cover. The air was damp and fragrant; the grass was just damp.

    It had rained yesterday. Rain was forecast for tomorrow. But it was not raining this morning. Cullen regarded it all — wet grass, sweet-smelling air, blue sky — with exhilarated wonder. “No r ain,” he pointed out to his best man. " They were predicting rain, you know.”

    “True,” Rule said. “It ha s remained true every time you've mentioned it.”

    So he was repeating himself. So what? He was getting married. A man could be foolish on his wedding day — was intended to be foolish, perhaps, on this one day, when past and future hinged on a moment that was nearly here. Nearly now.

    Nearly, dammit. Cullen was not good at waiting. “I should have gone. When she called--”

    “You think Cynna and Lily can’ t handle a flat tire?”

    “They shouldn’t have to, dammit! Not today.”

    “Which is why they took a taxi the rest of the way. A taxi that is pulling into the parking lot now.”

    Cullen sighed in relief. At last. Cynna was with Lily, and of course Rule knew where Lily was. The two women would head straight for the ladies' room where Cynna would put on her gown.

    “I’ve seen you jumpy before,” Rule said, “but you remind me of a Mexican jumping bean this morning. Scared?”

    “Of course.” Cullen waved that away as irrelevant.. “I'm not stupid.”

    Everyone was here but the bride and maid of honor. The priest waited at the fallen log they'd chosen as their alter. The guests stood talking quietly, not sequestered into his and her sides of the aisle as they would be in a more traditional wedding. Cullen didn't mind the omission of formal seating, though he resented the reason for it. The park authorities had been overruled about holding a wedding here, so they'd asserted themselves in typical bureaucratic fashion: no chairs allowed. No tables, either, so the food and drink for after the ceremony was parked in coolers over by the trees.

    Cullen wanted badly to move. “How long can it take to put on a dress?”

    Rule smiled. “You can ask?”

    Okay, dumb question. But Cynna wasn’t doing makeup. She seldom wore it anyway, and she'd liked the Wiccan practice Cullen mentioned of coming naked to their marriage. She'd decided to leave off all the chemical additions — hair gel, makeup, and such — in a symbolic baring, since the literal sort would have made most of their guests uncomfortable, not to mention Father Michaels. The priest was less hidebound than most, but nude ministers would exceed his tolerance.

    Ministers. That's how the Church saw Cullen and Cynna — as the ministers of the ceremony, with the priest being the chief witness or celebrant. Cullen was anything but Catholic, but he had a solid appreciation for the Church's grasp of ritual. He liked the idea that he and Cynna would minister the ceremony.

    He liked the idea that they would be life-bound in the eyes of Cynna's Church even more. “I don’ t see what's taking her so long.”

    “She just arrived, Cullen.”

    What is the significance of the wedding dress? A cool mental voice inquired.

    Does it have a ceremonial function?

    The voice belonged to the only guest who wasn't standing. Mika sprawled forty feet away from the cluster of human guests, a startlement of ruby scales in the green grass. His head rose well above the grass on the muscular stem of his neck, the great eyes focused on Cullen.

    Mika was the reason they were here rather than a more conventional setting. The dragon was curious about human mating rituals, so he'd graciously granted Cullen and Cynna permission to hold their wedding at the park, since he insisted on attending. Not that this section of Rock Creek Park was his in the eyes of its human keepers, but the authorities were disinclined to argue with the dragon.

    Cullen looked at