Epilogue
EPILOGUE In which the West Wind Attempts to Plan a Proposal
Z EPHYRUS HAD IT ALL PLANNED : the white daisies, the raspberry tarts, the sunlit river, the vows. With each piece of the puzzle artfully arranged, the plan would unfold without a hitch. After all, asking the woman he loved for her hand in marriage was no small thing.
As Zephyrus pondered how the day would progress, he departed the small cottage he shared with Brielle and began his walk into town. He had dressed in his tailored trousers, green cloak tossed over a fresh white tunic—unfortunately, with his powers stripped and the new weight of his mortal skin, he was sweating by the time he reached Kilkare’s town square. Shortly after sunrise, and the line to the florist already extended out the door.
He waited impatiently to make his order. When he reached the counter, he asked Lionel to set aside a bouquet of daisies, which he would collect at the end of the day.
The gruff man nodded, jotting down the order on a piece of parchment. “Been busy, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”
That gave Zephyrus pause.
“The flowers are for a special occasion,” he explained. “If you can’t guarantee supply at the end of the day, I’ll take them now.” Better to carry the bouquet than not obtain it at all.
“It won’t be an issue,” Lionel assured him. “If it were roses, on the other hand…” A graceless shrug. “I’ll set them aside for later. You can pay upon collection.”
Zephyrus managed to exit the shop with dignity, instead of tripping across the threshold. His legs shook from the rising pressure of this day, the need for its impossible perfection.
His next stop was the weaver. After dodging rickety carts and unleashed dogs wandering the main thoroughfare, he arrived at the storefront, only to find it locked, the windows secured. A piece of parchment had been nailed to the front door.
Out of town. Will return next week.
He stared at the dark, looping scrawl. “Shit.”
No blanket, then. It wasn’t the worst misfortune, but he hadn’t anticipated the setback. Nervously, he referred to his list. There was still much to be done. He would spend the day traveling from shop to cart to stall to acquire the necessary supplies.
Candles, next. The merchant, however, was sold out.
He had managed to procure a bottle of fine wine, yet it had shattered when a stray dog barreled into him in the town square.
Fine. That was fine. Next on the list: a new leather journal. Brielle, however, was picky. She favored brown leather, and the salesman only had black leather in stock. He left the shop empty-handed.
With the majority of the day gone, Zephyrus headed back to the florist to pick up his order. Along the way, he passed the church, its curved, oaken doors open to reveal a pew-lined interior, vast windows of stained glass.
Moving to Kilkare had been a difficult transition for Brielle. The first few months, she had cried nearly every night. She collected journals as though they were coin, filling the pages with her innermost musings, the struggles of redefining her faith. Zephyrus felt helpless in those moments, but he stayed by her side, offering what comfort he could, because how could he not? They belonged together.
Eventually, they’d settled in to village life, attending service every Holy Day. Word had spread of her arrival—this bladesmith with a talent for daggers, knives—and after six months of working for her old mentor, Brielle was able to open her own shop. The gray cloud of sadness dissipated. Even Harper visited on occasion.
Though Brielle’s relationship with the abbess might never be as it once was, the woman had gone to great lengths to ensure that the abbey would outlive the Orchid King. Since his death, the fair folk had collectively gifted Thornbrook’s land to the abbey, to begin mending the relationship between peoples and realms. Zephyrus, who often acted as a mediator between Under and Thornbrook, had enjoyed witnessing Under’s recovery, its well of power gradually restored now that there was no one left to consume it. The tithe was thus made redundant.
By the time he reached the florist, the day was fast waning. He strode up to the counter without delay.
“I’m here to pick up the daisies I ordered this morning, Lionel.”
“Good day to you, Zephyrus.” The man cleared his throat. “The daisies… yes.” Looking over his shoulder, he cast his eyes over his meager stock. “Unfortunately, it seems they’ve been sold.”
That word— sold —struck his skin like a sharp stone. “You can’t be serious.” Empty hands and unfulfilled promises. Is that all he was good for? “You said you’d set a bouquet aside,” he whispered, voice dropping to a hiss. “You assured me.”
The florist’s mouth pulled with strain. “I apologize. Business was unusually demanding, and there was no guarantee you would return.”
“I told you I would.” And anyway, he was a routine customer. He and Brielle bought flowers from Lionel every few weeks.
“They are sold, as I said. Perhaps you should try again next week?”
Zephyrus gritted his teeth. “The proposal is today ,” he growled, then turned on his heel and shoved out the door, blinking rapidly in the afternoon sun.
Panic thrummed at his temples. He could fix this. He could fashion flowers out of snow, ferns out of rain. Or he used to be able to, rather. With his powers gone, he was just a man. Mundane.
He stood by his decision. He would choose this life with Brielle ten times over, but there existed a hollow where his power had once resided.
With a sigh, he scrubbed his hands down his face, needing a moment to gather the scattered fragments of his plan. No blanket, no flowers. Fine. That left the tarts. Hopefully they weren’t sold out.
As luck would have it, they weren’t. One dozen raspberry tarts—Brielle’s favorite dessert. They lined a small box, flaky dough resting beneath cool white icing. The day was looking up.
Brielle’s workshop perched along the curve of the broad River Twee. It was a solitary, one-roomed structure, thick black smoke erupting from the brick chimney. Zephyrus had hoped to draw her down to the river, but really, the proposal should take place within these four walls, for it represented the forging of two lives.
The back door lay open, a hot, ghastly mouth ringed in fiery teeth. The peal of a hammer impacting metal rang through the forge.
Inside, the darkness belched flame. From his position near the doorway, he watched Brielle work. She’d tied back her red hair, though a few curls had escaped. A sheen of sweat coated her bare arms, the prominent muscles bulging beneath the straps of her thick canvas apron.
He waited until she lowered the hammer before stepping inside. Heat immediately engulfed him, drawing sweat to his skin. “Hungry?”
Brielle whirled around, beaming. “Hello, my love.”
The endearment never failed to make his heart stumble. Soil-dark eyes, rounded cheeks, those scarlet tresses, the bow of her soft pink mouth. He had never met someone more beautiful, either in body or in soul.
“What?” She touched the side of her soot-stained neck self-consciously. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Sensing her desire to retreat, Zephyrus pressed a hand to the curve of her spine, sliding it low until he cupped her rear in his palm.
Her eyes popped wide. “Zephyrus!” She swatted at him, and he laughed. “That’s inappropriate.”
Gods, he adored her. “Is it?” A gentle squeeze to her backside, and she flushed.
The distance between them was officially too much. Dragging her close, he crushed his mouth against hers and slid his tongue inside. Fire and salt—the taste of his bladesmith.
Brielle pulled away first. “You look nice,” she said, plucking the collar of his tunic. “What’s the occasion?”
“You.”
Her mouth parted, and she swallowed, red-faced and sniffling. “You always say the nicest things.”
His nerves tangled tighter with each successive heartbeat. “That’s because they’re true.” No flowers, no candles, no wine, but—
“Here,” he said, and thrust the box of pastries at Brielle. It was perhaps the least refined thing he had done in his life—ever.
She glanced down, a groove notched between her eyebrows. “Um…”
His attention dropped to the container clasped between his sweaty hands. The chilled desserts sat wilting in the intolerable heat, pools of white icing having collected in unappealing lumps.
“I guess I didn’t realize they needed to remain cool,” he said woodenly, staring at the sad, soggy mess.
It was going to shit. It was all going to absolute shit.
“I’m sure they taste delicious,” she reassured, plucking a melted tart from the box and popping it between her teeth. Icing dripped down her fingers, which she licked clean. “It’s very good!”
With a heavy sigh, Zephyrus set the pastries onto the worktable. “Never mind those.” He lifted a shaky hand to his damp curls.
“Are you ill?” Brielle reached for him. “You’re sweating quite profusely.”
Indeed, his tunic stuck to his clammy back, and his underarms stung with pooling sweat.
Damn it all. He was going to faint.
Brielle’s eyes widened, and she lunged, catching him by the arm before his knees buckled. “Here. Sit.” She directed him toward a chair. “Was it something you ate? Should I fetch a healer?”
“I’m all right,” he managed to say. Though if he vomited whilst professing his love, he would never forgive himself. “I need to tell you something.”
The lines on her face deepened. “It sounds serious.”
“It is.”
Brielle pulled up a chair across from him and sat, her concern plain. “Then we will discuss.” She spoke simply. They were, in all ways, a team.
Rubbing his sweaty palms on his trousers, Zephyrus groped for clarity of mind. Why was it suddenly so difficult to grasp? His head felt waterlogged.
“I love you.” The rush of emotion broke the words into unintelligible noise. He felt green as an untried soldier, ungainly, graceless. “I wanted—I need—to tell you that. I love you. Only you.” By the gods, he was sweating like a pig. “I love this life we’ve built. I love our home. I love going to service with you and… and our home.” He’d already said that, hadn’t he? “And when I say home , I don’t mean the cottage itself—though I love that too, of course. I just mean you.”
In those early months, Zephyrus had questioned his worth, for paired with the certainty of knowing you were loved was always the possibility that you were not. But after a year and a day, he felt secure in their relationship. He had given Brielle his heart, and she had sheltered it ever since.
A smile softened her features. “And I love you.” Framing his face with her sooty hands, she pressed her lips to his, gently. Zephyrus blanked, and his mind frayed. Grasping the back of her neck, he slanted his mouth against hers, rough with hunger. By the time they broke apart, strands of Brielle’s hair had escaped her braid, and her porcelain skin had pinkened to the color of sunrise.
It must be here, and it must be now. “Brielle—”
“Will you marry me?”
This boiling heat was melting his mind. He hadn’t spoken those words aloud yet, had he?
He cleared his throat. “Would you mind repeating that?”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “Will you marry me, Zephyrus, and continue to build a life with me?”
He blinked, shook his head, dazed. But it could not be stopped. Hoarse laughter hollowed out his chest, wrung every drop of apprehension from his body until he slumped back into the chair. Brielle’s mouth quirked. Oh, she knew, had likely known the whole time. Fiendish woman.
“How?” he said. “How did you know I was going to ask you?”
“You’ve been acting rather secretive of late.” She tapped a finger against the battered worktable, clearly fighting a smile. “And you may have accidentally revealed your intentions last week while you slept. You muttered something about the grandest proposal of all time .” At last, her smile broke free.
He groaned into his hands good-naturedly. Sleep-talking. He’d sabotaged himself without even being aware of it.
“Well?” Brielle asked tentatively.
“Well, what?”
Her eyes flicked to his with a shyness he had grown to appreciate. “You didn’t answer the question.”
As if there was ever a doubt.
“Yes, Brielle. I’ll marry you, and love you, and do everything in my power to bring you happiness for the rest of our lives.” Pushing to his feet, Zephyrus enfolded her into his embrace—the woman who had stolen his corrupted heart, who he wanted nothing more than to grow old with, day after passing day, until they were bones in the earth. “That’s a promise I intend to keep.”