Epilogue
Two children scream at the top of their lungs. If one were to be, say, our neighbor two blocks down, one could easily have the bone-chilling thought that the children were being murdered. Instead, they chase each other around an extremely long dining room table.
Our youngest, a tan little boy with black hair and dark eyes, chases his older sister, a red-haired, freckle-faced girl with legs half the length of her body.
They are both, for some reason, naked and soaked from head to toe, splashing water and soap across the hardwood floors.
Under normal circumstances, this would be extremely cute.
The issue is, as adorable as it may be to hear the pitter-patter of happy children, I’m on a holo-call with the region leaders, who’ve now seen both of my children nude, wet, and screaming.
Taylor bursts into the room, covered in soap bubbles, frantically searching for the damp culprits.
When she finds the kids huddled in the corner giggling to themselves, she puts her hands on her hips and wordlessly beckons them.
They don’t comply, because, well, they’re our children and it appears the DNA for being incredibly stubborn is strong.
The former lieutenant general who used to command hundreds of troops currently cannot corral two rambunctious children.
“Madame President, do you need a minute?” Delilah inquires over the call, barely stifling her laughter. “It would appear you have some runaways to attend to.”
I motion for Taylor to come in. “I think animal control is here. Sorry everyone.”
“Don’t be,” Hunter says. Though not required to be on these calls, she frequently sits in.
We only visit once or twice a year, so I think she uses these opportunities to glimpse into Taylor’s life.
It’s sweet, and Patricia is patient enough to share her screen space. “How are my darling niece and nephew?”
I glance at them. “Incorrigible, but well.”
Taylor scoops up each child, one in each arm, and walks over to my chair to peek into the call. “Hey, everyone. Sorry about that.”
“Hi, Aunt Hunter!” Katy practically screams, desperately trying to squirm out of Taylor’s grasp. “Are you and Uncle ’Hote coming to Thanksgiving? Uncle Mason and Tía Maria are coming.”
Lucas wriggles, but he, too, stays put under the firm grasp of his mother. “And Reggie.”
“Duh, kiddo! We will be there and we’ll have tons of gifts for the three of you.”
“Tía Lilah, are you coming?” Katy bats her big brown eyes at the camera. “Grammy is already here staying with us.”
“Yes, darling, I will be there, I promise. Now, go on, finish your bath.”
“We are leaving. Again, sorry. Carry on.” Taylor hefts the two kids out of the dining room and closes the door. More screaming erupts from the hall, but the slap of naked feet against the floor gets quieter as they move to the other side of the house.
The call ends about an hour later, each leader signs off and leaves me alone in the virtual conference room, staring at my face.
Behind me, we hung the flag of our new nation and it imbues me with a sense a pride for country I’ve never had.
I close my computer and glance around the office.
It was my father’s office, but we did a hefty renovation a couple years ago.
Wood-paneled walls replaced with drywall painted in forest green.
A couple bookshelves, a big table and chairs for in-person meetings, and a desk upon which I have photos of our family, as well as the one relic of my father’s I kept—his diamond ashtray.
It sometimes still smells like his cigars, and the useless pomposity of it reminds me of him.
I’ve removed all traces of the Piccolo line of power, including the one closest to me, which is represented in a plaque Shea made for me with PRESIDENT L. CLARK engraved on it.
This is not a title I wanted; I actively avoided leadership as much as possible. Piccolos don’t do well in positions of power. But I’m no longer a Piccolo—I’m a Clark. I am my own legacy now, and I intend to leave a good one.
I roam the house in search of my brood. As has become a tradition in recent years, both kids are fast asleep on the floor of the library, with my exhausted wife slumped in my mother’s old armchair. Four books on the floor and one in her lap, Taylor watches them sleep, and I watch her.
My little warrior, my hardened soldier, softened by years of motherhood and peace.
No more war, no more battles, no more scars and blood.
These days, we deal in scraped knees, water gun fights and arguments over who gets to choose the book to read before bedtime.
Yes, there is still a country to run, and Taylor ably rises to the occasion when needed, but she greatly prefers to be with our kids than in meetings or doing ambassador work in the regions.
Silently, we carry the kids to their room and tuck them into their beds. While they’re young enough to share a room, I enjoy this time where they wake and sleep together, bonding as siblings, like I so desperately wanted as a child.
Once they’re safely asleep, Taylor and I retire to our bedroom. We renovated my father’s bedroom and made it the kids’ room, and, after I gathered what was left of my things, tore down my bedroom and made it into a gym for Taylor.
Much of the mansion has been renovated over the years—we only live in one wing.
Another wing is an orphanage and foster home, and other parts of our property were converted into accessible homes for wounded soldiers.
The gilded paintings of the Piccolo line—the ones Theia didn’t destroy—sit in our basement gathering dust. It is mine and our children’s heritage so I kept them, but they no longer hold a place of pride.
Most of the art collection got donated to the museum they’re building a few blocks away, and many of my mother’s prized illicit books were sent to the new archive in Philadelphia where they will be stored for future generations.
My mother would be overjoyed to know her books found a safe home.
We kept the ballroom. It doesn’t serve much function outside of being a giant space for the kids to run rampant, or a place to hold large family gatherings and governmental meetings, but we didn’t have the heart to change it to something else. Every so often, we dance in it.
This bedroom might’ve been a guest room, but we’ve made it our own.
Taylor and I were so lonely most of our lives, and now our walls are cluttered with family photos.
Colonel Cuddles, my childhood bear Taylor saved for me, sits on the bedside table and stands guard.
The bed is not the grand size that I used to sleep in, as we prefer to sleep close.
We slide beneath the hefty blanket and I snuggle into her side, laying my head on her shoulder. Taylor places a kiss on my forehead. “Long day?”
She strokes her fingers through my hair as I wrap my arms around her.
“Little bit. Been a bit of friction in some local elections in Oklahoma. Had to be on a million holo-calls with local officials in that area. Keeping an eye on it, it’s nothing yet.
Still, my day was probably not as long as yours. ”
“Next time Violet and Ruby want to go on vacation, I am going with them,” Taylor groans. “I guess dealing with you as a child gave them some sort of superpower in dealing with those two.”
I grin and kiss her neck, chuckling. “Hey. I’ll have you know I was a perfectly well-behaved child.”
Taylor pulls back an inch or two to level a disbelieving stare at me. “My love, that is the tallest tale I think you have ever tried to tell.”
“Rude.” With a sigh, I settle back into my spot on her shoulder. “But you’re right. Even when Mason and Maria bring Reggie, they are like magic with those kids. I’m so glad they came back.”
“I told you the people here were fond of you,” Taylor replies.
“It was kind of your father to get everyone out before Theia closed in, but it was your return that made most of them come back. And thank God, because I alone cannot handle those kids. I have survived assassinations, war, separation, death, being shot. I took down a government and created a new one, but being a parent is way harder than all of that. Though, none of those things were nearly as rewarding, either.”
I hum thoughtfully and trace the bare skin beneath her sleep shirt.
It is true—once we established a residence here again, many of my former servants returned, looking for work.
Violet and Ruby had actually joined the Order not long after I was kidnapped, apparently.
Jean is back in the kitchen after a brief stint as the cook for a family in Albany.
Others have trickled in over the years and my heart is filled with joy every time I see a familiar face.
There is a special joy reserved for watching my nannies, who raised me from an infant, playing the same games with my children.
And, while Taylor laments the raucous nature of our kids, it brings up a point I’d been meaning to discuss. Now is a good time to plant the seed, so to speak—she’s tired and drunk on my touch. “I would have more, though.”
The hand in my hair stops moving. “You would?”
“Yeah, definitely. I’d love if this house was filled with our kids.”
Taylor doesn’t immediately respond, but I can tell by the lack of rigidity in her muscles that she’s considering it. Lucas is almost three, Katy is four (and a half, she’ll remind you), and it seems a reasonable amount of time has passed for us to have more. “Okay. I will think about it.”
“Thank you.”
We lay in quiet contemplation as the fireplace across the room crackles, calm and soothing.
This is how we end our nights, together, entwined, at peace.
I think my parents, as complicated as they were in real life and in memory, would’ve enjoyed seeing our house filled with love.
Making a home out of what used to be a mausoleum of our bloodline’s failures and stolen successes.
Taylor and I fill it with life. Our children’s voices bounce off the walls.
Our extended and adopted families gather for holidays.
The long hallways that housed abandoned rooms serve as a place to rest for weary citizens.
Children, like those Taylor visited at the church years ago, have a safe home under our roof.
The obligations in this house are no longer power and family—it’s care, warmth, and love.
“You know, I have survived something you didn’t.”
Taylor sleepily blinks over at me. “Yeah?”
I nod solemnly. “I had a stalker once.”
“You did?” She turns over, more interested, and tries to sober up. “When?”
“Oh, years ago. She followed me everywhere. It was like having a shadow, even at night.” Taylor’s earnest interest almost makes me feel bad about the next part of my story. “She even showed up at one of my father’s dances and kidnapped me. Flew me right out of the skylights.”
Taylor’s blank, unamused stare has me clutching my stomach in laughter. Thankfully, the kids sleep far enough away where my loud guffaws cannot be heard. With the incredible athleticism that’s never left her, she swiftly slides her leg over me and straddles my waist, pinning me to the bed.
Her amber eyes blaze with mischief. “I was not your stalker, princess.”
I grin up at her as she leans down and makes me chase her lips for a kiss. It’s a game we play often, and a game she always loses. “Agree to disagree, hero.”
She returns my grin and kisses me with a passion that has not waned an ounce over the last six years. A kiss full of love, of ardor, a kiss that is a promise of a future full of kisses.
It’s a kiss that feels like home.