Epilogue
Sorina
One Year Later
The dried rosemary crumbles under the pestle, releasing its scent into the backroom. I press down, twist, press again. Danielle is sorting inventory at the shelf behind me, counting jars and marking numbers in the ledger. Julie is out front at the register.
My product line takes up two full shelves now – six creams and three elixirs for brightening the skin.
The formulas are mine, built from what my grandmother taught me and the ingredients available through the Narrowhalls market.
I’m working on a new line for hair care, testing oils and infusions in small batches, adjusting the ratios until they’re right.
Danielle wants to retire before the end of the year, and she’s happy to leave the apothecary to Julie and me.
The three of us have talked about it, and it feels settled, the way things feel when everyone agrees and there’s nothing left to sort out.
“Sorina, guess who’s here!”
Julie’s voice carries from the front. I set the pestle down and grip the edge of the table with both hands.
Getting up takes effort. My belly is enormous, round and heavy, pulling me forward with every step.
I’m in my last month, and Korr asks me every morning to stay home.
Every morning I tell him no. I don’t want to sit in our quarters all day doing nothing.
I’d rather be here, working, even if getting out of a chair has become a whole production.
I hobble through the doorway into the shop, one hand on my lower back, and smile when I see Vicky at the counter. She’s holding a bouquet of garden roses.
“These are for you,” she says, and leans in to hug me around my belly. “My garden is overflowing. I can’t keep up with them.”
I bury my nose in the roses.
“Thank you. They’re gorgeous.”
“Can you and Julie come to lunch at the Pickaxe?” Vicky asks.
“I can’t, I’m sorry. I promised Korr I’d have lunch with him.”
Julie leans over the counter and elbows me.
“Vicky, you should see what this man has done. He built them a whole kitchen in their quarters. Made the table, the shelves, the chairs, all of it with his own hands. And now he spends most of his time in there, cooking for her.” She turns to Vicky with her eyebrows raised. “Tell me he’s not the perfect husband.”
“He’s perfect,” I agree, my voice sounding dreamy.
Vicky grins. “I still can’t believe he didn’t want to go back to the mines after he got better.”
I told my friends about calcification. I explained that only a true soulmate can stop it, that Korr spent years searching for his match and almost ran out of time.
I thought it was fair for the other women he’d bought to know what he’d been going through all along, and Korr agreed and gave me permission to share it.
“I didn’t want him down there,” I say. “Not after what happened to his father. Irrva worries about Jarrvik every day. I didn’t want that for us, especially now with the baby coming.”
“And he just agreed?” Vicky asks.
“He always agrees with me.” I laugh. “He works in the Forgehalls now, with the crews who cut and polish the diamonds. He’s good at that kind of work. He still makes jewelry in his workshop, too. And the rest of the time, yes, he’s at home in the kitchen, trying out recipes.”
“You’re so lucky,” Julie says.
“The luckiest,” Vicky adds.
I nod. I am. I know it.
Vicky stays for a few more minutes, browsing Julie’s new stock, then heads out with a wave and a promise to come back later in the week.
She’s doing well. Noah is in prison, the divorce went through months ago, and Vicky has settled into a life on her own, tending to her garden and going out with friends.
I tell Julie I should head home and that I’ll come back later for my second shift. She waves me off and tells me to take my time.
The corridor that leads to the lift is busy with the midday crowd.
Hannah and Xenia are at one of the market stalls, comparing earrings and holding them up to the light.
They wave when they see me, and I wave back.
I stayed close with all of Korr’s former brides.
They come to the apothecary all the time, they use my creams and lotions, ask about new batches, and bring their friends in.
They’re some of my best customers and closest friends.
Prim catches me by the arm a few steps past the bakery. She cups my face and kisses both my cheeks.
“How are you feeling? You look beautiful.”
“Heavy,” I say, and she laughs.
She squeezes my hands. “I hope to see you soon. Come for dinner when you can.”
I promise I will. At the lift, Becca steps off, and we exchange a few words and hug before I get onto the platform and pull the lever for the Highhalls.
It’s been a year. A full year with no incidents. No one gossips about me and Korr anymore. The whispers about the harem and the sideways looks… They’ve all faded as people got to know us and saw we’re a normal couple. Life at Steinheim couldn’t be more peaceful.
I write letters to my parents, and my mother writes back.
We exchange updates about the weather in Tessana and Steinheim, my work at the apothecary, and the pregnancy.
The letters are practical, though. Our relationship will never be what it was.
After the council summons, I found out that Bran’s parents convinced my own parents to give up my location.
My mother told them where I was, after I’d written to her the first time.
I think they believed I actually did the things I was accused of.
And I did. I know that. But I didn’t have a choice.
As Korr tells me whenever I lie awake at night, it’s better that I saved myself and found my way to him.
Knowing that I saved him from ending up in the Stillhalls next to his calcified mother makes up for all of it.
What I did wasn’t right, but it was the only way I knew how to escape.
I emerge into the Highalls, and the smell wafts down the corridor. Roasted meat with garlic and something sweet underneath, maybe cinnamon or cloves. Korr has been in the kitchen all morning.
I walk toward our chambers, and the smell gets richer with every step I take. I hold my belly and lean forward, trying to hobble faster, missing him even if I saw him just a few hours ago.
***
Korr
Sorina is eating, and I can’t stop watching her.
She tears a piece of bread, drags it through the gravy, and puts the whole thing in her mouth.
Her eyes close, and she chews with a small nod, the way she does when the food is right.
I reach across the table and cut another piece of venison for her, laying it on her plate beside the roasted turnips and parsnips.
She hasn’t served herself once. I don’t let her.
I pile the food, cut the meat and the vegetables into pieces, and fill her glass with lemonade when it drops below half.
I made everything this morning. Braised venison in bone broth and rosemary, slow-cooked until it falls apart.
Roasted root vegetables browned in the drippings.
Lentil and leek soup thickened with barley and fresh thyme, because she’s been craving soups these last weeks.
Crusty bread with salted butter. And for dessert, poached pears in honey and spiced apple cider, warming in a pot on the stove as she devours what’s in front of her.
I taught myself how to cook the same way I taught myself how to make jewelry: by ruining a lot of raw material until I became better at it, and then great.
The kitchen sat empty in our quarters for years, just a room with bare walls.
I built the furniture myself, bought the pots, the pans, and everything else.
Cooking became just as important as my workshop, and I take pride in both.
But the workshop is for me, and the kitchen is for her.
I fill her lemonade glass again, and she thanks me without looking up from her plate. I barely touch my own food. Watching her eat is enough.
We’re on our balcony, carved into the mountainside, open to the air, just the way she wanted it.
Another thing that I was happy to build for her.
The mountains stretch out below us, ridgelines folding into valleys, forests dark and green in the distance, and above it all, a sky so clear and blue that we can lose ourselves in it. The wind carries the smell of pine.
Sorina leans back in her chair and rests both hands on her belly. Her plate is empty.
“There’s dessert,” I say.
“Give me a minute. I need to breathe.”
I laugh and go inside to bring the pears out. They’re hot, golden, and swimming in honey, with a drizzle of cream on top. She takes one bite and her whole face goes soft. She shakes her head slowly without saying a word.
I sit beside her and stretch my legs, crossing my ankles on the balcony rail. My body is loose and strong, and my fingers flex around my glass of lemonade without any trace of stiffness. It still fascinates me how perfect I feel, and I revel in it. I’m grateful every day.
When the pears are gone and the lemonade is finished, I ask her:
“Would you like to come with me to the Stillhalls? I want to visit my mother.”
“I’d love to.”
I help her out of the chair. She’s in her last month, and her balance tips forward with the weight of the baby. I keep my hand on her lower back as we walk to the lift. In the other hand, I carry a bouquet of fresh wildflowers I picked from the Corehalls garden this morning.
One level up, and the Stillhalls open before us. I know every statue in this place. Steinheim isn’t a large city. I grew up here, worked alongside some of them in the mine, and passed others in the corridors every day for most of my life. They were fathers and mothers, friends and neighbors.
We stop in front of my mother.
I kneel and set the bouquet at her feet, moving the dried flowers from last week aside. I arrange the stems the way she used to arrange flowers on our table when I was small – fanned out, the tallest in the back. I stand and look at her face.
I come here every week. I tell her about Sorina, about the kitchen, about the meals I cook and the way my wife eats everything and asks for more.
I tell her about the Forgehalls and the diamonds I cut and polish.
I tell her about Irrva and Jarrvik, and how they’re already fighting over who gets to hold the baby first.
Sorina wraps her arms around my waist and presses herself to my side. I hold her close.
I look at the rows around us. This is where I was going. The empty space beside my mother… I used to stare at it and know it was mine. I’m not here as one of them. I’m here with my wife pressed against me and our child growing inside her.
My hand moves to Sorina’s belly and I rub it gently. Under my palm, I feel a firm push. The baby is kicking.
Sorina giggles. “He’s awake.”
I smile. She’s been calling the baby “he” for weeks now, saying she has a feeling about it. I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. I care that the baby kicks hard and Sorina laughs when it happens.
I look at my mother’s face.
“I’m sorry you can’t meet your grandson properly,” I say. “But when he’s here, I’ll bring him to see you.”
Sorina looks up at me, and I bend down to kiss her.
Irrva and Jarrvik will be the best aunt and uncle this child could have. Our baby will grow up in Steinheim, in a home with a kitchen that smells of bread and roasted meat, with a family that loves him from the second he arrives.
I hold my wife and think that this is the life I always wanted and never quite dared to believe I’d get.
THE END