First out the orchard gate that morning was a very strange young woman in a soldier's doublet and little else, fleeing from the direction of the guests' quarters and shrieking curses most unseemly.

Hot on her heels was none other than Signior Benedick, rubbing a purple stain from his eyes with his nightcap and shouting after the girl with improvised love-oaths and rhymes even more unseemly.

From their vantage behind a crabapple tree, the Lady Beatrice and her newfound friend shared a congratulatory fistbump, careful not to bruise either flower that the other held, the purple or the white.