Epilogue
Long shafts of light through the west-facing window. A quiet humming of the last fly of summer.
Eyes closed, Thomas lay spread-eagled on the bed Harry had asked to be put in her aerie. It was her aerie, but it was their bed, she said.
These were their afternoons now.
Harry curled next to him, her head on his shoulder, one of her legs over one of his, her fingers tracing the trail of hair from his chest down to his navel and then farther down and around his satisfied member and back up again.
The splint and the bandages were off, and Harry had spent the afternoon demonstrating to Thomas, among other things, just how dexterous her right hand was.
He kept still, unsure even now if any sudden movement might spook her from his side.
He told himself he must still think of her as the elf queen—not quite human, not quite of this world, a rare faerie creature who often needed her own interpreter.
He thought he might be able to be such an interpreter.
“Tommy,” she said.
“Mmmm.”
“Do you think we shall have a son?” she asked.
He permitted himself to wrap his right arm around her and bring her closer so now her nose was nestled just under his jaw.
“Of course, odds are, sooner or later,” he said.
“And shall we name him Richard?” she said, sitting up, which meant her body was no longer pressed to his but he could open his eyes and look at her face and her breasts.
“I thought your father’s name was Edward?” He was confused.
“Yes.”
“And you know my father’s given name was Thomas, also?”
“Yes?” She sounded confused, too.
He had found it was best to ask the direct question.
“Why do you want to name our son Richard?”
She rolled her eyes at his idiocy and hit his chest lightly with her scarred palm.
“So that we might be Tom, Dick, and Harry, of course!”
The only answer to this was to tickle her for a good five minutes until she was so limp with laughter that he could cover her body with his, hand to hand, arm to arm, chest to chest, navel to navel, leg to leg, and kiss her.
After his kiss, she caught her breath.
“I’m still not sure about mouth kissing.”
“No?” he said, only slightly bruised.
“However, I am willing to keep trying it until I am sure.” And then she kissed him back really, truly, for the first time, her own kiss, her mouth partly open, brushing his lips with her lips and tongue.
It was brief and sweet and wild and made him inhale sharply, and he began to feel himself stiffen all over again.
“But only with you, Tommy,” she said seriously. “Nobody else.”
He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him, and she naturally sat astride him and lowered herself onto his hardening member.
He felt her warm, tight, silky wetness and marveled at her, shading his eyes while squinting in the bright sunlight.
He thought he might see some subtle rounding of her lower abdomen, but surely it was much too early for that.
“I think . . . that’s just fine,” he managed to say.
“I thought you might.” And then she did the two things that made him tremble—she looked in his eyes and smiled.
Her long body rose above him like the slender trunk of a birch tree.
The hair on her head sprang loose and free and curled thickly down to her waist. She moved forwards and up and back and down in the ancient rhythm, and, as she did so, she blocked the light from the sun and he could move his hand away from his eyes.
He encircled her ankles with his thumbs and forefingers.
He leaned forwards to kiss her breasts. And then he lay back and rested in her shade.