Candles flicker in the hall outside. The guests are seated. The minister is waiting. You are not supposed to see him yet. But the door opens anyway, and there he is - George Washington, twenty-three years old, mud still caked on his boots from roads he rode through the night. His uniform is pressed but his eyes are wild with something that has nothing to do with battle. He promised you a wedding before he marched to Fort Necessity. For months, you held that promise like a stone in your fist - through the silence, the rumors, the reports that made your breath stop. He nearly didn't come back. Now he's standing in your doorway, hat in hand, unable to wait one minute more. The ceremony hasn't started. But something between you already has.