Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
The next morning, they set off for Tús in a cart with Phteven and Bill Bronson himself. Fern and her three best friends came to see them off. So did Edward, though with much more ill will and a very dramatic limp.
Before Juniper hopped up into the cart, he turned and handed a small bottle to Edward. “To remember me by,” he said pleasantly, avoiding Mo’s searing look but making direct, amused eye contact with Fern.
“Is that fire ale?” Prince Edward asked.
And Juniper just beamed.
“Do we have to share this cart?” he asked as he helped Mo into it.
Mo just smiled at him and went up front to sit with Phteven, who seemed to have a lot in common with Mo—annoyance about the price of grain, an affinity for weaving (and a feud with some tailor in the capital city who apparently stole patterns from local shops?
Who knew), and a love of spiced plum pies.
Bear snuggled on Juniper’s lap, which was honestly the best way to ensure he didn’t get up and knock Bill off the back of the wagon.
That night, they stayed in another little town halfway between Filleadh and home, and their carriage carried them through Tús early the next morning. The tavern, oh welcome sight, had a poster—an entire poster! With Mo and Juniper’s names and faces on it!
On further inspection, it had been a wanted poster, but it had been repurposed for celebration of their heroism in saving a dragon, or a town from a dragon.
Bear was asleep on Mo’s lap, Bill and Phteven were waving goodbye from their little cottage at the edge of town (a surprisingly charming little thing with a thatched roof and sunflowers and braided garlic hanging in the window).
“We’re famous,” Juniper told Mo sleepily as their borrowed cart and horse took the bend across the river toward home, over that familiar wooden bridge. On the other side, their fields—all harvested now, but ready for more barley and berries and chamomile and sunflowers come spring.
And then—and then!
It all came into sight: the small barn they’d raised with a few neighbors, the sheep in their pasture near the creek, and that little cottage they had built, with the rocking chair by the fire and the dried flowers and herbs hanging in the window and the sleeping garden behind the front gate.
And within, two bedrooms—one waiting for their fierce new child, and one waiting for Juniper and Mo to share, at last. Mumford was curled on the front step, waiting for them.
Just as it was always meant to be.
“That’s a cat,” Juniper told Bear, who yawned and stretched, her sharp teeth showing.
“Friends, not food,” she told him seriously.
“Exactly,” Juniper said. “And this is our cottage, Bear.”
Mo looked at him as they neared the end of the packed dirt road.
“That’s the house we built together,” he told Bear, stroking her hair as he did.
But it was Juniper he was looking at. “We have plum preserves and the coziest blankets, and every night, Junebug makes steamed chaga and tells the very best stories you’ve ever heard. ”
“I want a story,” Bear said, launching herself from Mo’s lap onto Juniper’s.
Juniper scooted closer to Mo, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“Mmm,” Mo said.
Juniper leaned his head against Mo’s shoulder and smiled. He knew what this mmm meant.
We’re home, Juniper. We’re home.