Epilogue
Hilde finished the story of Victoria and Gabriel, leaning heavily into the cushions of the chair. Twilight was upon them and the wind had turned a bit colder as it breezed through the enclosed courtyard. In the distance, the glass chimes sang their melody with the wind.
Fatigue pressed through her with a weariness she hadn’t felt in a long while.
And it was an effort to maintain her composure so Marigold would not notice.
Telling her the story took a lot out of her.
And soon she would have to return to her rightful place to fully gather her strength.
That meant months away from this mortal realm.
Away from Marigold. Something she could no longer avoid.
Being here at Willowmere helped, but being in the other realm would fully rejuvenate her.
Opposite her, Marigold sat in the chair with her legs curled under her listening with rapt attention. But her expression was faraway.
“What did you think about that story?” Hilde asked.
“It’s sad, isn’t it? About Lenore,” she said.
She nodded. “Lenore was consumed by her terrible grief. It was hard for her to accept the death of Lily.”
Marigold emitted a sigh of contentment. “I’m glad they all found a bit of peace.”
“All?” she asked.
“Lenore and Lily. Gabriel and Victoria.” Another wistful sigh. “But do curses ever truly end, auntie?”
“Of course, they do, dearest. Love and light pushes back the darkest of shadows.” She smiled to reassure her. Darkness and gloom and cursed things never lingered long when true love was in abundance.
A dog barked in the distance along with the hum of traffic on the country road. Night was falling and soon, it would be too dangerous for Marigold to make her way home alone.
“Your mother will be wondering where you are, don’t you think?”
Marigold heaved a dramatic sigh. “Mother didn’t even tell me you were here. I don’t want to go home, yet. Tell me another story.”
She chuckled, but knew another story was not in her. She didn’t have the strength. “I wish I could but I have to return to my room soon. And you have school tomorrow.”
Frowning, Marigold dropped her legs and rose, stretching her arms over her head to ease the tension in her back from sitting so long.
“Next time we see other,” Hilde said, “I will tell you another story. If you’re not too old for it by then.”
“Oh, auntie, I’ll never be too old for your stories.” She leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Promise me you’ll never stop telling them.”
“You have my solemn word.” She reached for her, squeezing her hand.
Marigold started to go, then turned back, question on her face. “Before I go, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“These stories…where do you get them?”
For a moment, Hilde was stunned to silence. It was something she never expected Marigold to ask, though at fifteen, the girl was far more intelligent and observant than most her age.
She wasn’t sure how to answer. Not yet. Because Marigold wouldn’t understand since her mother, Linnea, hadn’t told her anything of her heritage. Hilde didn’t want to be the one to tell her, either—it wasn’t her place. It was getting more and more difficult, though, to keep the truth from her.
So, she came up with an answer that held a bit of truth.
“These stories…well, they’re not invented, my dear. They’re lived. And sometimes… sometimes, they ask me to tell them again.”
Marigold stared down at her for a long moment, her gaze flickering with hope. And then she giggled. “Aunt Hilde, you make it sound as though these stories are real.”
She laughed, too, if only to conceal the truth. Someday, she’d tell Marigold there was another world very near to this one where stories were born, heroes were valiant, and heroines were always brave.
“You best get going, now, love. You don’t want to worry your mother.”
“Yes, I know I should go. One more thing, though.” She twisted her hands together. “Do you think…I mean, will I have a story of my own someday?”
Hilde was unable to stop the grin that erupted. “Oh, I’m sure you will, dearie.”
Her face lit with hope and a starry-eyed wonder Hilde felt when she was young. How she envied Marigold. Her niece would one day cross through the veil and become who she was meant to be. She couldn’t wait for that day.
Marigold bid her farewell, leaving Hilde there in the gloaming with the faint tinkling of wind chimes. Overhead, the caw of a raven as it flapped through the sky, circled and then flew off. Its black wings disappeared into the evening twilight.
Stories never truly end. They simply wait for the next voice to tell them.