"Then I shall never forgive you."
He laughed. The baby opened her eyes. Julian stared.
Then he whispered, "Hello."
Eliza watched him. The man who had once feared marriage now looked terrified by love. She smiled.
"You are going to be a good father."
"How do you know?"
"Because you care enough to be frightened."
He looked at her. "I love you."
"I know."
"And her."
"I know."
He looked down at their daughter. "I never thought this would be my life."
"Neither did I."
He smiled. "Would you change it?"
"No."
"Not even the bird?"
She laughed. "Especially the bird."
Years later, their daughter would tell the story differently: according to her, the bird had chosen her parents; according to Julian, the bird had committed repeated acts of theft; according to Eliza, both accounts were true.
Their daughter inherited the necklace when she was old enough. Julian gave her one instruction: "Never leave it near an open window."
She nodded solemnly. "Why?"
He looked at Eliza. "Family history."
The girl laughed. The bird was still alive—old, slower, and considerably less interested in jewelry—but whenever it appeared on the garden wall, Julian checked the necklace anyway. Eliza always laughed.
One summer evening, she found him standing beneath the same tree where they had once discussed the possibility of marriage.
"You are thinking again."
"I am."
"About what?"
"The first night." She smiled. "I remember I was an idiot."
"Yes."
"I thought I could solve marriage by leaving it to chance."
"You almost did."
He looked at her. "No."
"What?"
"I didn't marry the first woman who entered that room."
She smiled. "You did."
"No." He took her hand. "I married the woman who made me want to become someone worthy of her."
Eliza looked at him. "That is much better."
"I have had years to improve."
She laughed. He kissed her hand.
"And I would choose you again."