By the blood of Saint Peter, this hath been the longest night of my life.
I sit in the grass of the churchyard waiting for Rosaline and Romeo to emerge from the crypt. I lean against the trunk of the yew and watch Viola with the lantern. She has been teaching herself to read by using the epitaphs upon the tombstones as her primer. The sounds of a summer night fill the cemetery. The darkness is like a ghost; the heat is everywhere.
Rosaline mourns in the tomb, and when she comes out, I shall be here.