Epilogue
Six weeks later
The summer’s end festival had never been Hattie’s favorite time of year. Perhaps she had not appreciated it properly, after the incident with Elias on the pier, even as time had covered that memory in a thin layer of dust, just beyond reach of her direct consciousness.
Still, it surprised her how excited she felt for this one, how roused her heartbeat had been by the scent of the fires being stoked and the call of the stall attendants and game masters as they’d flocked to their booths, inviting the denizens of Brighton out for one final lark before the shuttering of autumn.
The Starling wards walked together from the Rest down to the beach, accompanied by a few additional friends and one very well-outfitted pig.
“It is a waistcoat,” Rhys said for the third time as he gestured at the garment affixed to the leash and the pig held in Ruby’s hand. “Even with ruffles, it is a waistcoat.”
“And so what?” Monica replied with a sniff. “She may be a dandy if she wishes. No one stops you from doing it, after all, Rhys.”
Rhys had considered this, scratching at his curls, which were fluffy with humidity and salt air. “That is reasonable, I suppose,” he said. “But I don’t enjoy competition.”
“Yes,” Persephone Boswell agreed, winning a spin and glower from her place, linked arm in arm with Libba. “We know.”
Elias chuckled and pulled Hattie closer as they walked, the grit and grass giving way to the shingles and pebbles of the coast as they crossed through a wicker fence.
“Anything you’re desperate to do first?” he asked her, his color already high in anticipation.
“I am aiming at the rope bout, myself. Love a trial of strength, especially in teams.”
“Do not,” she warned him. “Do not play at the throwing stand with Jasper Townsend.”
“Aw, Hattie,” Jasper called from behind them. “That’s not sporting.”
“No, it isn’t,” she agreed shrilly. “Ever.”
“I’ll play,” Mr. Harcourt offered, a note of something slightly ominous in his tone. “Straight away, even, if you like.”
“See? That’s better,” said Jasper, while Malcolm gave a knowing chuckle between the two men. “Last year, they had coconuts instead of wooden balls. Maybe again? You’ll have to adjust for the weight, Harcourt.”
“Noted,” the barrister said, a wry smile twisting his lips.
“Speaking of coconuts,” Rhys added, dragging out each syllable in a drawl.
“Yes, yes,” Ruby snapped. “But next time you are paying for the ingredients. I’ll bottle it up for you in a few days. God forbid you don’t smell like an oasis for a few hours.”
“God forbid,” Miss Boswell echoed, though not quite as sarcastically as before.
“All right,” Errol announced, clapping his hands together as they reached the edge of the festivities. “Shall we meet back here in an hour for the rope contest? I smell roasted neeps and don’t want to arrive after they’ve all gone.”
“Oh, honestly,” Mal said with a nose wrinkle. “You’re the only one on this beach excited about bloody turnips.”
“Then why do they always sell out?” Errol asked, raising his brows and grinning. “An hour! No chocolate for Peach, and absolutely nothing with booze. You hear me?”
“I wouldn’t,” Ruby replied, blinking like an infant.
“Wouldn’t share her booze and chocolate, she means,” Rhys added with a snicker, which appeared to be the final signal that all should disperse.
“What do you think?” Elias asked once they were alone. “Sweet or savory? The hot fried fish is always very good.”
“Both,” she said immediately. “Do you like plum duff? Or Chelsea buns?”
“Are there people who don’t?” He laughed, steering her toward the food stands. “My favorite, however, is the gingerbread. I know, I know, it isn’t strictly summer fare, but it is the best thing here.”
“I don’t mind a gingerbread,” Hattie said. “I wonder how it pairs with the fish.”
They bought both and some lemonade with which to wash it down and spent some time wandering the games and stalls. Hattie tried her hand at hoopla and failed miserably enough that Elias knew not to attempt himself, lest he were successful.
“I can’t be good at everything,” she muttered, licking the plum powder off her thumbs.
“And bless you for that,” he answered. “Oh! A hopping race! Shall we watch or participate?”
“Watch,” she said instantly, grimacing at the people pulling burlap sacks up around their legs. “I’ve had enough humiliation for the hour, thank you very much.”
“Well, then you’ll want to be on the same team as I am for the strength contest,” he told her with a twinkle. “To ensure it doesn’t happen again.”
“You?” she teased, grinning. “I was going to follow Lem.”
Elias’s smile faded and he looked around the crowd, squinting. “Lem shouldn’t be allowed to participate,” he announced. “For the sake of fairness.”
It turned out that he needn’t have worried, anyhow, for by the time they reached the rope that had been tabbed and measured for the pulling contest in a sandpit that had been built into the cradle of an old frigate sail, which was to be their arena, Lem was nowhere to be found.
“He’s painting faces,” Libba said with a shrug. “I told him not to work today, but he never listens.”
“Face paint, you say?” Rhys exclaimed. “Where?”
“After,” Errol told him. “Are we all together, or split?”
“Split!” Monica and Ruby both agreed.
Miss Boswell agreed to shepherd the pig during the proceedings.
“Typical,” Rhys griped at her.
“A good illusionist values her hands,” she replied sweetly. “I don’t expect you to know much about that.”
“All right, I don’t want Rhys on my team anymore,” Malcolm said with a sigh as he watched the other man turn various shades of puce as he failed to pluck a good retort from the sea air.
“Too late, Lennox,” Elias gloated. “Take up your rope.”
Hattie stood behind her husband, both because she knew she was mostly here for the spectacle of it and because this was the better vantage to observe his efforts.
They had Monica, Mr. Harcourt, and Errol, while the other side had Libba, Malcolm, Rhys, Ruby, and the town vicar, who had wandered past while deliberations had been made and had volunteered to even their numbers.
The whistle blew and the pulling began in earnest.
Hattie dug her heels into the sand, her shoulders locking and arms aching. She cried out in effort, her feet pawing into the ground as she pulled and pulled and pulled.
The problem, of course, was that the others were doing the same thing.
“Heave!” Elias shouted.
But it was no use.
Perhaps it was because the vicar had God on his side, but it was only a moment later that they all went flying forward, directly into the sand, opposite a cheer of victory from the others.
At least, Hattie thought as she blinked away the daze of defeat, I landed on Elias.
That was a nice consolation, even if he was vexed by the matter.
“We’ll win a game eventually,” he assured her.
“We already have,” she told him, using the opportunity to stroke her hands along his chest before he tutted at her and pulled her to her feet.
She shook out her skirt, giggling at all the golden grit that fell out of it in the process and allowing Elias to paw at her front to get the clumps of it away, so long as she was allowed to return the favor.
She sighed and stretched her aching arms over her head, bending one leg back and then the other.
“Shall we walk?” she asked. “Before you demand a rematch?”
“Fine,” he grumbled, offering her his arm even so.
This time, she took him to a booth that she knew she could win. The riddles master had changed since her youth, and so she had not yet been banned from his stall. She would be, of course. It was only a matter of time. But until then, she could enjoy a feeling of victory this summer.
“If you feed me, I grow,” the man said with a wiggle of his white brows. “If you quench me, I die.”
“Fire,” she said.
“Or thirst,” Elias added. “If you eat instead of drink, it will grow. If you quench it, it will die. No?”
The man clapped. “The lady is correct, but the gentleman makes a compelling argument! How novel! Have a sweet.”
They played four more riddles before Hattie squeezed her husband’s hand and nodded back toward the shore, a bit jittery from the candy and not willing to yet damn herself from the riddle booth forevermore.
“I was doing well,” he complained. “As were you.”
“Yes, but how many comfits do you really want to eat?” she asked with a giggle.
“All of them,” he replied flatly.
She smiled and tugged him toward the pier, that pier, the one he’d shoved her off of, once upon a time.
If he noticed their destination or found it amiss, he did not say, falling into step beside her and taking several deep gulps of the sea air as people gathered around the bonfire with driftwood and old furniture, squealing in excitement as they tossed in their tinder and watched it climb higher, smearing the very atmosphere with the scent of smoke.
The water looked green today, glinting and glittering like an emerald, the way it often did this time of year as the tide shifted and foamed toward the colder months.
He wrapped his arms around her and she leaned against her back as they watched and listened to both the ocean and the fire and revelry behind them, melding together into the sweet symphony of summer’s final song.
“When is a baron not barren?” she asked, tilting her head up to look at him.
He narrowed his eyes, lowering his head to meet her gaze. “When he is a husband?” he guessed.
She shook her head. “Try again. No comfit for you.”
He scoffed. “When he is … hm. Ah, are we returning to barren fields? When a baron is … what? Fecund? Fertile?”
“Indeed,” she said, turning gently in his arms so that they were facing one another, her hands braced against his chest. “And when is a baron fertile?”
He stared at her for a moment, a wrinkle appearing between his brows as he considered what she was saying. “When he … erm … produces.”
“Yes,” she said. “Produces what?”
He paused, his eyes flicking down to her body and back up to her face. “An heir?” he guessed, thin and uncertain.
“Hm,” she said, bouncing on the heels of her feet. “I suppose.”
For a moment, he could only gape at her. “Are you certain?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. Only suspicious. When is a baron not barren?”
Elias gave a short, incredulous laugh. “When he is—”
She grinned, planting her hands on his chest and shoving him quickly and firmly off the pier and into the water, where he landed with a resounding and satisfying splash.
She stood over the edge, watching as he emerged, thrashing and gasping and laughing through his shock and outrage, and before he could say a single additional word, she leapt in after him.