Epilogue Rianne
Six Months Later
“And that’s when the ice elf learned the true meaning of summer reading programs,” I conclude, closing the picture book.
Twenty small faces stare up at me, mouths open. In the back, several parent chaperones look equally entranced.
“Is that a real story, Miss Rianne?” asks Timothy, age five and three-quarters.
“All the best stories have some truth in them.”
“Even the part about the shadow creatures?”
“Especially that part.” I point to the circulation desk where Carl is teaching Keith how to use the new computer system.
“Carl works here part-time now. He’s excellent with returns.
” On the corner of the desk, a small, very official-looking brass plaque reads: “Mister Poofypants the Third - Head of Security & Morale.” Said Head of Security is currently napping on a pile of newly returned books, purring like a diesel engine.
Stenrik enters from the back office, carrying snack time supplies. The kids immediately swarm him. He’s their favorite, probably because he can make it snow inside just in their corner, and his ice sculptures are better than any toy.
“Mr. Frost, Mr. Frost! Make us a dragon!”
“A unicorn!”
“A tax form!” That’s Carl’s kid. We don’t ask questions.
The kids know us as Miss Rianne and Mr. Frost, the librarian and the meteorologist who met during last winter’s “gas leak explosion.” They don’t need to know about the magical bond that shows in how we move in sync without trying, or that I can tell he skipped lunch again by the distracted look in his eyes.
“Five-minute warning for snack time!” I announce.
The kids disperse to wash hands, leaving us momentarily alone.
“Good story?” he asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
“The ice elf was very heroic.”
“Vetrfolk.”
“Still?”
“Always.”
Mister Poofypants the Third, now a solid thirty-five pounds and definitely glowing, walks past carrying a shadow mouse in his mouth. It’s his afternoon snack. We’ve given up trying to stop him.
“Keith’s presentation about summer reading starts in ten minutes,” I remind Stenrik.
“How many slides?”
“Forty-seven.”
“Still excessive.”
“Keith believes in comprehensive coverage!” comes from the conference room.
Keith is on the porch, laptop out, preparing tomorrow’s presentation. Carl is in the garden, tending to his shadow roses that only bloom at night.
“Ready for dinner?” Stenrik asks.
“Carl made reservations.”
“How does Carl always get reservations?”
“Carl has connections. Shadow connections.”
We go inside, and I catch our reflection in the hallway mirror.
“Any regrets?” Stenrik asks.
“Only one.”
“What?”
“We never did finish that cart race to Biography.”
He laughs. “Rematch tomorrow?”
“You’re on. Winner gets to pick Keith’s presentation topic.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That’s motivation.”
But I’m smiling. Stenrik’s smiling. Even Poof, who’s somehow managed to get onto the kitchen counter despite his bulk, appears to be smiling.
This is our life now. Magical bonds and shadow creatures with LinkedIn profiles. A cat who might be evolving into middle management. A sentient stone that won’t stop singing from three blocks away. Keith’s PowerPoints. Carl’s Yelp reviews.
It’s chaotic and complicated and absolutely nothing like what I imagined my life would be.
“Rianne?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I know,” I say, then grin. “I can literally feel it.”
“That’s cheating.”
“That’s marriage. Or pre-marriage. Whatever we are.”
“We’re us,” he says simply. “Rianne and Stenrik. Chaos and control. Jokes and analysis.”
“Disasters,” I correct.
“Perfect disasters.”
Perfect.
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