Epilogue
Isle of Wight
Six Years Later
T he world had changed irrevocably.
Napoleon Bonaparte had seized control of France and was devouring Europe.
The world was ablaze with the man’s ambition.
Yet, on this small patch of land, Jean-Luc was not afraid. He sat in the Cheverton house, in a cozy, warm room made for the joy of children, with his wife and their small offspring.
It never would have occurred to him that children’s books would become his favorite, but they had.
After all, when one read them repeatedly all throughout the day, throughout the years, one became quite a connoisseur.
He liked the ones that did not humor children the best. Ones that were funny and still showed the shadows of life. His eldest, Alain, adored books. At first, he had tried to eat them, as if one could understand the words by putting the pages into one’s mouth.
It had been adorable.
Now, Nimue sat before the crackling fire, holding the baby, Georgette, in her arms, humming softly while turning the pages of a picture book.
He kept Alain and Philipe upon his knee, reading to them. They were both voracious. Though not twins, Philipe was almost as large as his older brother, Alain.
Jean-Luc and Nimue’s passion had come quickly to fruition. They’d had a child almost exactly every two years. While they could have been overwhelmed by it, they were not. For they had the good fortune of family.
Their children were the symbols of their hope. Hope in a world that could be so very disappointing. Yet, when he looked down at his children and at his wife, Jean-Luc refused to worry about what could come.
Instead, he chose to love what was. And he loved his family so very much. Nothing—no tyrant, no war, no nightmare—would ever defeat that.
Nimue lifted her gaze from the baby’s and met his. “I love you,” she hummed to the same tune that she had been humming.
“I love you too,” he sang back. Then he held his sons even closer and said to them, “Now, who shall help Papa read the first page?”
The End