37. HOPEBRINGER #2
‘See this?’ Gwen laid the sword across their laps, with its angular hilt between them. ‘This is a tool. A sword isn’t evil or virtuous – a sword has no intentions. Yes, it can be dangerous. But it can also save lives, in the right hands. You taught me that mine were the right hands for this power.’
‘And you think my hands are the right ones for my own power?’ Isobelle replied, though her smile was a little more genuine this time, her eyes a little softer.
‘If you can turn a peasant girl into a knight by sheer willpower alone, surely I can believe in you hard enough to show you how silly you’re being about this whole witch thing.’
Gwen watched as Isobelle reached out and ran her fingers along the sword’s hilt, tracing the unadorned crosspiece.
A new blade, with none of the ornate decoration Gwen’s original sword had borne.
And yet, even now, Gwen fancied she could see a little of the glow it had given off in her dream, when Isobelle had brought it to her as a torch in the darkness.
‘You should come up with a name for this sword.’ Isobelle’s voice sounded a little more like her own. ‘In all the best ballads, the hero’s sword has some fearsome, glorious name. Especially the magic ones.’
Gwen laughed, letting Isobelle change the subject – they had time. After all, even Isobelle hadn’t banished all Gwen’s qualms in a single conversation. ‘I would feel pretty silly being all “bring me Monster-Masher, I must away!”’
Isobelle swatted one of Gwen’s hands lightly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was thinking something like Heartpiercer.’
Gwen reached for Isobelle’s hand and caught it before she could deliver another of those playful smacks. She turned Isobelle’s palm over and lifted it to her lips, her eyes glued to Isobelle’s face.
‘What about … Hopebringer?’ Gwen whispered.
Isobelle’s lips parted, flushing in that way Gwen had come to love – that way that told Gwen Isobelle’s thoughts had turned in a direction Gwen found most satisfying. ‘Perfect,’ Isobelle whispered back.
Gwen wanted to lean forward, and feel the flushed heat of those lips on her own. But she had one more thing she wanted to say. ‘Whatever happens,’ she said in a low voice, all laughter fled. ‘Whatever’s next … you won’t have to do it alone. I’m yours, as long as you’ll have me.’
Isobelle’s breath caught, those glorious blue eyes glinting with unshed tears. ‘I love you,’ she whispered, with as much dreamy adoration as any girl could wish to see in her ladylove’s face.
Gwen could bear it no longer, and caught Isobelle’s face between her hands as she leaned forward to kiss her.
She felt Isobelle’s lips part and meet hers, felt her soft hum of appreciation and pleasure vibrating through her palms. She slid a hand around Isobelle’s waist and tugged her closer, until only their clothes, and the occasional sliver of daylight, were between them.
Isobelle was in the process of eagerly deepening their kiss when suddenly she pulled back, frowning. ‘Hang on, aren’t you going to say it back?’
Gwen blinked, then blinked again, and had to clear her throat before she could speak. ‘I thought it was implied,’ she pointed out. ‘Isn’t that covered by “I’m yours”? I thought it was a rather poetic way to say it.’
Isobelle’s lips pursed, everything in her body language speaking of a desire to continue doing what they’d been doing. ‘I suppose so,’ she breathed. ‘Yes, that was rather lovely, come to think of it.’
She leaned forward to resume the kiss, but instead Gwen brushed her lips against the soft line of Isobelle’s jaw. And, because she knew Isobelle wanted to hear it, and because she’d been so afraid to say it for so long, she whispered, ‘I love you.’
She slid the thumb of one hand beneath Isobelle’s chin to encourage her to tilt her head, then brought her mouth to Isobelle’s pulse, whispering the words again. She kissed a spot just behind her ear and murmured again, the vibrations of her voice making Isobelle give a tiny, breathy squeak.
Gwen caught her breath, kissed the edge of Isobelle’s ear, and then whispered yet again, ‘I love you, Isobelle …’
At which point Isobelle, having had enough of words – even the best three words she’d ever heard in her life – slid her hands into Gwen’s hair, pulled her up, and stopped her from speaking entirely.
Ah, dear reader … if only such a story were so easily wrapped up. The villain defeated, the town saved, the lovers united … if this were a fictional tale, we would simply cut to a suitably ornate script bearing the words ‘The End’.
But this, as we know, is a true story.
(Mostly.)
There is the town to set to rights. The shattered pier needs to be repaired – Gwen insists on joining the crew Henry has assembled, and by the end of the project, she’s helped forge the fittings for Henry’s new boat, which he intends to name Dragonslayer.
He’s going to take visitors out on sea monster tours, selling snacks and providing commentary as they hunt for a sighting of the beast – from a respectful distance.
Without a witch to provoke it, the creature is quite docile and shy … but a little caution never hurt anyone.
There is the old witch’s cottage to be documented and protected, with Isobelle surreptitiously taking copious notes on the herbs and texts she finds there.
There is old Gargery to be thanked, and Rosamund to be praised for the splendid feast she throws them, and the portrait artist to be tracked down, now he’s made his patter more pithy on Isobelle’s advice.
‘Get Yourselfies,’ he can be heard to cry, now that the pass is clear again, and a few tour-ists are beginning to trickle into Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea.
And there is Lord Bingleton to deal with.
When asked how he could have possibly not known what was really going on in his town, he admits, somewhat shamefacedly, to having been afraid.
He’s never been in charge of a town before, and he knows his radical development ideas and visions of tower tour-ists confuse people, and …
well, he was so afraid of forgetting his lines in his little role-playing game that he buried himself in preparation.
‘Fear takes us all in different ways,’ says Isobelle, looking wise and grave, and edging to the side so that Bingleton won’t see Gwen choking on her laughter just behind her.
They know, now, that Bingleton had left them an invitation to the grand finale he had planned for them in the tower. Of course, they did not know he was preparing his necromancer role-play, and he did not know that Tabitha had swiped it, while turning over Isobelle’s room.
And with the clearing of the pass come Sylvie, Hilde and Jane.
They never returned to Darkhaven at all, having located a skilful healer in the next town over to mend Orson’s wound.
They could not quite bear to set out again, not knowing what had befallen their friends in Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea, and the moment the pass was navigable, they packed up their trunks and came just as fast as their carriage would carry them.
With the girls comes Sir Orson. Isobelle approaches him, unsure how to tell him about Tabitha.
He reacts with just as much surprise as the girls, but none of the anguish Isobelle expected.
Could she possibly have been mistaken when she thought he’d formed an attachment to the young witch?
Surely not, for Isobelle is an excellent judge of character and other people’s hearts.
Let’s not tell her, right away, of all the time Sir Orson and Sylvie have spent together on their travels from and to Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea. Give it a few weeks, and Isobelle will be certain that she knew of their connection all along.
But all of this, dear reader, is simply set dressing.
The day of Gwen and Isobelle’s departure from this strange little town is fast approaching, and when all is said and done …
has anything about their situation changed since we rejoined them at the start of this tale?
They are still beholden to Whimsitt’s whims. Still bound by their lack of financial independence from Isobelle’s parents.
Still given only enough agency to feel as though they are free, but not enough to truly walk their own path.
If that seems a tragic note upon which to end our tale … well, let me ask you this.
Aren’t you glad we haven’t said ‘The End’ yet?