Epilogue
Flames licked the alembic with enthusiasm, suffusing a pleasant warmth into Semras’ hut. Spring had come a few days ago, and with it, the sight of growing leaves and flower buds outside her window. Even so, the lingering touch of winter still chilled the red stone walls of her home.
Clay bowls and glass jars of various sizes lay on the apothecary table in front of the witch. Humming a silent tune, she selected the one labelled ‘dried valerian root.’ Its faint, earthy scent mixed in pleasantly with the smell of dried mint and thyme that drifted down from a rope above her head.
The soothing syrup she was working on came from a newly tweaked recipe—one she was confident she’d get good results with now that she had found the right dosage.
It always came down to the right dosage, after all.
Semras carefully scooped a bit of the short, dusty brown sticks, then dropped them on a small brass scale. The weight didn’t quite balance correctly, and she added some more, tongue sticking between her lips in concentration. Just a little more, and she’d get the right …
Hands sneaked around her waist. With a sharp yelp, she stumbled back into Estevan’s arms. He kissed her nape, then her shoulder, then attempted to grab her hand to kiss it too when she playfully elbowed him.
Smiling, Semras leaned back against his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Do not resist, witch. I am in the middle of a very important investigation,” he replied, nipping at her neck.
“You insufferable man,” she said, chuckling. “Can’t you see I am working? What investigation is this now?”
“You are under suspicion of being too busy to notice your husband. This is a crime, and you should repent. Submit while I am still feeling generous.”
Eyes rolling, Semras put down her tools and retrieved her recipe book. After bookmarking her page, she closed it with an exaggerated sigh. “This is a false accusation, and I demand reparation for it.” She turned to face him. “Should I take you as compensation?”
Mirth danced in her Wyrdtwined’s beautiful eyes, brightening their icy blue shade. Even after so many days and nights spent by his side, she remained utterly blown away by the intensity of his gaze.
“Take all you want,” he drawled. “I just finished weeding the garden, as promised. Now I am here for my justly earned reward, and … perhaps for another promise of mine still left unfulfilled?”
Cocking her eyebrow, Semras mused upon his words.
Estevan once promised her all he was, and he had kept his word every single day since they left the House of Tribunals half a year ago. He hung his burgundy shoulder cloak, returned his inquisitorial insignia copies, and destroyed all the pairs of red and black gloves he possessed.
His witch-shackles and sword of cold iron, he asked a blacksmith to melt into an unusable mass of slag until nothing of the costly material remained.
Semras greatly enjoyed watching flames engulf them—this, more than anything else, proved to her just how committed he was.
These objects had been the sacred symbols of his office just as much as the insignia he once threw at the tribunals’ feet.
Now they had melted in a blazing inferno, never to be used again.
They returned to Bevenna not long after, riding Pagan together through the hamlet under the shocked gazes of villagers. What looked like all of its population had assembled in the square to watch the return of the witch and the—now former—inquisitor.
When they passed by Keran, the blacksmith’s apprentice, Estevan smirked at him. “You were right, boy,” he said. “She is a ‘good woman,’ that one. But she makes an even better wife,” he added with a wink.
Semras almost died of embarrassment right then and there. Thankfully, she hadn’t needed to avoid the heartbroken young man for very long. Mere days later, Leyevna had insisted they move closer to her house. She wanted her pupil available at all times, she’d said offhandedly.
And that was how Semras became the apprentice of Warwitch Leyevna—not with an official offer, but in a quiet statement. Days later, she realized Estevan had spoken to his mother about it on her behalf. He had remembered the conversation they’d had around the campfire on the way to Castereina.
Semras furrowed her brow. She really couldn’t remember anything he’d sworn to her and hadn’t yet accomplished.
“Which promise are you speaking of?” she asked.
“You do not remember?” Estevan dropped his hands to her waist. “A girl with your hair … a boy with your eyes …” He slid them over her backside and then grabbed her hips and lifted her onto the table, sending pots and ingredients rolling.
Semras yelped, then giggled when he hitched her skirts up to caress the skin of her thighs. He moved them languidly, up, and up, and—
“Estevan!” she gasped. “You rake!”
“I beg your pardon; I am your rake.”
She huffed at him with a fond smile. Throwing her arms around his neck, she drew him closer. “You clearly have too much time on your hands.”
His smile turned into a lascivious grin. “Good thing I have ideas on how to occupy them …”
Estevan kissed her neck once, twice, and then again and again with increasing hunger. Under his relentless amorous attention, Semras sighed contentedly, her project almost completely forgotten on the table behind her.
Almost.
“Estevan …” she breathed. “The alembic …”
He hummed questioningly, still peppering her skin with marks of affection.
“The fire, you insatiable man!” Semras pushed him away, laughing. “Don’t let it burn down our home!”
Her Wyrdtwined groaned but still glanced over her shoulder at the apparatus. “Oh, very well.” With a heavy sigh, he let go of her and wove the fire out beneath the alembic. “How about now?”
Semras looked over her shoulder at the partly distilled elderberry extract and then sighed. That batch was lost, but she wasn’t mad. Estevan would make it up to her.
He promised her he would once and had since then lavished her with adoration, gifts, and any acts of service he could think of.
He even surprised her by learning how to make tea just the way she liked it, simply by observing her attentively.
Now, he brought her cups of tea when she was too concentrated on her work.
After leaving the Inquisition, a weight had lifted off Estevan’s shoulders.
Now that he hid no more secrets from the world, he became more relaxed.
He told her once, after an evening spent cuddling around a campfire outside, that he had spent most of his life being in charge; now, he rather quite enjoyed surrendering control to someone else for once.
Or twice, or as many times as she wanted, he’d added with a lascivious smirk.
Semras shook her head at the fond memory of love made under the starry night sky. “Much better. So … where were we?” With a grin, she tugged his collar loose and started undoing the buttons of his shirt. “I think you mentioned a promise to fulfill? Children, hm?”
“As many as you wish.” Estevan captured her lips in a long, languorous kiss.
Humming appreciatively, Semras slid her hands onto the hard planes of his bare chest, then rested them over his heart. A nervous knot began to form in her stomach. “You feel ready?” she asked quietly.
He kissed her forehead. “Whenever you are.”
“What if it’s never? It’s one thing to talk about it; it’s another to actually … to decide …”
Estevan softly grabbed her chin, then lifted her gaze to him.
“Whenever you are ready. That includes never,” he said, leaning his forehead against her.
“I laugh when you laugh. I weep when you weep. And I live for you, my Wyrdtwined—for you, and only you. You are so much more than I deserve already; I dare not greed for more.”
It didn’t matter how many times he had called her his Wyrdtwined by now—her skin still bloomed into a deep crimson. “What a clever tongue you have,” she said, smiling bashfully. “I wonder what else it is good for.”
Estevan chuckled. “If you want my tongue, witch, just say the word.” The back of his hand caressed her cheek, then trailed down her neck.
“Y-You’re not really going to make me say it?”
“I am cruel that way. I want to hear it come from your pretty lips. Tell me what you want and how you want it. In detail.”
A deep flush washed over her face. “No!”
“No? You do not want it?” he asked, stepping back with an amused smile.
Semras gave him a little kick, just to remind him how much of a bastard he was, then dragged him into her arms again. “… Well …”
Estevan’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “‘Well,’ what? I am wait—”
A knock on the door interrupted him.
Groaning, he dropped his face into the crook of her neck. “… Where are you keeping the wolfsbane seeds again?”
The witch laughed. “Why? You want me to give some to whoever stands behind our door? I know how to trick someone into swallowing one; I could—”
“Kiss another man, and I will eat the rest of them,” he whined.
“You’re so dramatic sometimes.” Semras patted his head and slid down the table, sidestepping his grabbing arms to hurry to the front door. Another knock came from it, and she quickly smoothed down her skirt. “I have to answer. What if it’s your mother? Or your father? Or—”
“No, don’t say his name!” Estevan said, trailing behind her. “He always appears when someone says—”
Semras opened the door. “Oh, Cael!”
“… his name. Ugh, too late.”
Beyond the threshold, Inquisitor Callum stood in the cool air of spring, a deep crimson frock coat covering his inquisitorial finery. Face as impassive as ever, he nodded his greeting.
Semras smiled at him, then glanced back at her Wyrdtwined. “Look, Estevan! It’s your handsome brother, a man who knows how to knock on doors! Such a rarity these days.”
Annoyed, her Wyrdtwined scowled, eyes fixed on Cael. “No, that is an inquisitor. They are dangerous. Close the door and come back to me.” He grinned mischievously. “Quick, before the beast steps inside.”
“Don’t listen to him, Cael,” Semras said. “Please come in!”