Epilogue #3
Pleasure washed over him far sooner than he would have liked, but he gave into it, his vision going dark for a moment from the sheer power of it. They had all night, after all. An eternity, actually.
Afterward, Silas pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in. “I wasted so much time,” he murmured.
“No,” Grace replied, her voice thick. “We were always meant to find our way back to one another exactly when we did.”
The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a single glowing ember, but the room was still warm, wrapped in the hush of night.
Grace lay beside Silas, her head pillowed against his shoulder, golden hair fanned out in a halo that caught the stray gleams of moonlight pouring through the frost-laced panes.
In repose, her features softened further—no trace of hardship or sorrow.
Silas traced the line of her cheekbone with a careful finger, not wanting to wake her.
He examined the sweep of her lashes against her skin, the pink curve of her lips, the faintest echo of a smile even in sleep.
For a long time, he did nothing but watch, content to exist in this stillness, this rare and perfect peace.
His thoughts, unhurried for once, turned back over the path that had brought him here: the cold corridors of the old manor, his bitterness held close as a shield, the books he had once believed were his only companions.
He thought of his father, whose portrait still glared from its place above the fireplace in the great hall, and felt not the old resentment, but something akin to pity.
How lonely he must have been, too, and how little he had known of this kind of joy.
Thank you, Father, for opening my eyes to what’s truly important.
From the next room came the faintest sound—the soft creak of a bed.
Silas smiled to himself, picturing Emmaline curled beneath her quilts, close enough to call for him if she grew frightened during the night.
He imagined her waking in the morning, her excitement for the presents and the Christmas Day feast.
Outside, the wind had calmed, and the world was blanketed in a hush as deep as any cathedral’s. The bells from the village church began to toll midnight. Christmas was finally here. The sound drifted up to their window, distant but clear, and Silas let it settle over him like a benediction.
He could feel his heartbeat slowing as he pressed a gentle kiss to Grace’s forehead, the exhaustion of so much happiness finally catching up to him.
“I will never let you go again,” he whispered, the words barely a breath in the night. “I promise.”
Grace, still half-asleep, shifted closer.
Her hand found his under the covers and curled around it, fingers threading together, her body seeking his even in slumber.
Silas closed his eyes, letting the simple miracle of the moment fill every empty space within him.
He pictured their future—the laughter, the quarrels, the shared work, and the private moments that would make up the rest of their lives.
He pictured Emmaline growing stronger and even more clever, never doubting for a moment that she was loved.
All the old ghosts—the rage, the regrets, the years wasted in solitude—were finally quiet.
Silas drew Grace tighter against his side and, as the bells faded into the silence, he finally closed his eyes.
In the morning, there would be breakfast and snow angels, and the start of a new story. But for now, in this room full of moonlight and soft breathing, there was nothing to fear, and nothing at all to want.
He finally drifted off to sleep, his dreams no longer haunted.
The End