Epilogue
FOUR weeks later, I stood outside a familiar storefront in Exeter.
The worn gilt lettering of OWEN & SONS painted some twenty years ago full of hope and promise had begun to fleck off in spots.
We’d likely have to get it re-lettered in the new year, but that was a problem for another day.
Hope, I was learning, was a transient thing, ever changing with the seasons.
A motorcar rumbled past me on the street and for the first time, as I stood on the threshold between the world outside and the bookshop, I was not afraid.
I did not fear my future, nor what had come to pass.
It was a novel thing, being brave.
I suppose I’d have to get used to it.
It was almost February now, and I’d spent the last three weeks rusticating—as Mr. Owen called it—in Lothlel Green with Ruan.
He hadn’t been himself after what happened in Oxford.
To all the world, my pellar was an impenetrable mountain of a man, but I could see how fragile he’d become—broken and chipped away by Laurent’s betrayal.
I’d have liked to say that I stayed with him that long because we were happy in Cornwall.
And we were happy, in a fashion. But there was a newfound darkness haunting Ruan’s eyes and a wound far deeper than either of us cared to admit.
I spent most of my days reading by the fire, while he worked in his garden preparing for spring.
We’d walk, sometimes for hours at a time, and not say much to one another.
The long, silent cliffside walks gave him the most pleasure.
We’d traversed hundreds of miles over those weeks.
It was a strange, peaceful sort of existence there.
Sometimes he’d take me with him when he called on the villagers, other times he’d leave me behind at the cottage, but I did not belong in his world.
Not for long. I missed Exeter and my life here.
No matter how much I loved the man, a part of me would always be trapped between these two worlds.
His and my own, until we figured out the balance of things.
And so, I was back—most of me at least. My heart, however, remained stubbornly in Cornwall.
The glass-paneled door gave with a creak, its cheery bell announcing my arrival.
The familiar thump of my cat landing on the floor welcomed me home.
Fiachna trotted across the bookshop and nuzzled my leg, followed by two mewling black-and-white kittens who looked as if they were dressed for supper.
Fiachna purred loudly and began to roughly groom one of them.
Now this was new. I scooped up the two kittens and wandered deeper into the bookshop.
“You’re back, my love?” Mr. Owen’s voice rumbled from somewhere deep in the bookshop.
I inhaled slowly, reveling in the scent of old books.
I craned my neck, peering past stack after stack of books lining the walls.
Some were piled two to three tomes thick.
I often fussed at him for his cavalier nature in maintaining such things, but it was his shop, not mine, and I’d been gone a scandalously long time.
“I thought it was time I came home.” I edged around a particularly precarious stack. “Where are you anyway, or did your pile of books fall on your head?”
“Not amusing, Ruby. I’m in the back. I got a new shipment in today. Care to join me?”
I squeezed between two overburdened shelves and lifted the curtain before joining him in the cramped storeroom.
The tiny room was little more than a glorified cupboard and was crammed with even more oddities than the main room of the bookshop.
Mr. Owen was seated on a large pillow, pulling books from a crate and setting them beside him on the floor.
“When were you going to tell me Fiachna had kittens?” I asked, setting the two little fluff balls onto a nearby pillow.
Mr. Owen harrumphed. “Well, he didn’t have them, mind you, but I get your point.
I’m not sure whose kittens they are, but he has taken a shine to them.
They showed up at the doorstep the other night and the old rogue insists on grooming them and carrying them about.
Perhaps he’s decided to settle down at long last.”
I couldn’t disguise my smile at the thought of Fiachna as a doting feline father. Mr. Owen grunted as he lifted another book from the crate.
“You know you could hire someone to help you with this. You don’t have to do everything on your own.” I took the book from his hands and placed it on a nearby pile.
He stared up at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Why would I hire someone when I have you? That is, unless you’ve decided to quit—leave me high and dry here while you go off and gallivant with your witch. First the bloody cat settling down, now you.” He reached yet again into the crate.
“I’m not gallivanting anywhere, but you know this is far more than we can do between the two of us. Now go sit in your chair—I’ll handle this.” I took Halley’s Astronomical Tables from his hands, admiring the fine condition. “Good God, who did you kill for this?”
He let out a low laugh. “I have my ways, lass, you know that. Now tell me, how is young Kivell these days?” Mr. Owen came to his knees, using a heavy chair to pull himself up to standing.
He stretched, rubbing at the base of his spine before sitting down.
One of the kittens took the opportunity to climb up his trouser leg onto his lap before continuing up to his shoulder.
“Ruan is…” I wasn’t sure what he was, but he certainly wasn’t himself. He was quieter, more withdrawn. He wasn’t sullen or angry—it wasn’t like that at all. But something had shifted inside him and I was not sure if I could reach him anymore—at least, not in the way I had before.
He frowned, seeing my answer all over my face.
“I suspected as much with what happened in Oxford. The lad’s been surrounded by people but he’s been alone his entire life.
No one ever understood him, no matter how much they might care for him.
Then for him to lose Ernst like that—his first true friend—and for Laurent to do such a horrible thing.
It would only make sense the lad would be melancholy. ”
Melancholy was one way to put it. I exhaled, hugging the large book to my chest, drawing strength from the tome.
“Why didn’t you stay with him? If you need more time, I can take on another girl to help me around here. I am partial to you of course, but I can make do with another if I must. Maybe I could convince my progeny to come home at last to help a doddering old man and his growing herd of cats.”
My chest trembled at the thought. I was still growing accustomed to the fact Mr. Owen had a living descendent—until a few months ago, neither of us were aware he had a daughter—though I hadn’t seen her since we parted ways in Scotland back in October. “Have you heard from her?”
Mr. Owen waved me off. “The lass wrote me for the holidays. Was thinking of coming to visit in the new year. Enough about me. Tell me, why aren’t you still in Cornwall with your pellar?”
I wet my lips, hesitating. “He … Nellie Smythe’s babies came early.
Do you recall her from Lothlel Green? She’s living at Penryth Hall now.
She had twins, you see, and Ruan is staying up at the house until Nellie is well enough and he’s certain the twins are safe.
I thought I’d come home for a few days.” That, and I could not bear being alone with my own thoughts on the windswept Cornish cliffs.
Nor did I particularly want to spend more time than necessary at Penryth Hall.
Ruan offered to let me join him there, but the old manor house carried far more ghosts than I cared to revisit.
Even Mrs. Penrose fled that place at the first opportunity.
Mr. Owen furrowed his brow. “The lad needs you—you know that, don’t you?”
I did. I needed him too, but I sensed that our path was not meant to be simple or easy.
And we’d traverse it as we would, and it would do neither of us good to be caught up in the other and give up our own lives.
Not when he was utterly vital to his people.
But how would I ever explain that to Mr. Owen?
To Mr. Owen there were no insurmountable burdens, no impediments to love except for death—and even that was negotiable.
The bell at the door rang, interrupting my thoughts.
“We’re in the back,” I called, pulling the curtain aside, still clutching the ancient text to my belly. Fiachna followed me out along with one of his two kittens.
A young messenger stood there by the front desk, eyes wide as he looked up at the books towering above him.
I understood the sentiment. This place was magical.
The first time I set foot inside the seventeenth-century walls of the bookshop I fell in love, and that hadn’t changed much over the last several years—no matter the trouble Mr. Owen had gotten me into.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Ruby Vaughn?” the boy asked.
I laid the book on the countertop, and huffed my hair from my eyes. “I am.”
He thrust a telegram in my hand. I rummaged in my pocket for some coins and dropped them into his gloved fist. “Thank you.”
He mumbled out a polite acknowledgment as he hurried out and back on his way.
“Who was that, my love?” Mr. Owen stepped out of the dusty storeroom, the second pint-sized kitten still perched upon his shoulder.
“Just a boy…” I said absently and opened the telegram, heart sinking as I read the words.
I’VE NEWS OF THE IMPOSTER AND YOUR MOTHER. AT LEAST I THINK I HAVE. COME TO LONDON AT ONCE. HARI.
I drew in a shaky breath and looked up at Mr. Owen. “It seems I’m going on another adventure.”
“Shall I get my coat?”
I let out a laugh and threw my arms around him, kitten and all. Whatever it was I’d find, wherever it was I’d go, like the tide to the shores, I knew I would always return home.