Epilogue
Two Years Later
“It cannot be allowed.”
The fae in my shop paces slowly back and forth.
Her purple eyes are cool and serene, but the power is still there pulsing beneath the vowels and consonants.
She pauses, and the sun catches the tiara nestled in her long blonde hair.
I want to roll my eyes. She’s been posing like this for two hours. The fae are a vain lot.
As Sig would say, “They never met a mirror they couldn’t fall in love with.”
At the thought of my mate, I shoot a quick glance at the huge conch shell on a shelf behind my counter.
You’d hardly spot it, as it’s half-concealed by a clutter of receipts, piles of books, and a photo of me and Sig.
We’re sitting on the rocks on our beach, wrapped in a blanket, our heads together, so we’re either plotting or laughing.
I can’t remember which, and honestly, either one could be true on any given day.
“One day the piskies will go too far,” the fae says, her voice tinged with irritation.
Shit. I force my attention back to the fae. Edwina. She’s a beautiful woman, but god, she’s wordy. I sneak a look at the king of the piskies.
Baldor is wearing a purple suit, his crown perfectly situated on his greying, curly head. His ears are pointed, and his eyes are a sharp green like newly cut grass. He also happens to be Wilfred’s uncle.
He spreads his hands. “Edwina, I cannot be made to be responsible for what the youngsters do. They are as mischievous as a bag of…” He looks to me.
“Monkeys?” I ask.
He nods. “And do these creatures regularly come in bags, Cary?”
“No, sire,” I say politely.
I’m fighting the urge to laugh, which would make the negotiations take a downward turn. So, I screw my face into an expression of suitable gravity.
“My lady,” I break gently into the fae’s monologue, after it begins again and shows all the signs of longevity. “May I perhaps be of some assistance?”
She pauses, her nose imperiously in the air. “If you can. I have heard great things about the dragon’s mate.”
She sounds rather doubtful, but I can’t blame her.
I hardly look like the source of magical advice and mediation, dressed in an old pair of jeans, Vans, and a Roxy Music concert T-shirt from 1972 which I borrowed from Sig’s wardrobe this morning.
Nevertheless, a negotiator is exactly what I seem to have become, so I gather my thoughts.
“The entrance to the fae lands rests on Bodmin Moor. Is that right?” I ask.
She nods.
I glance at her and then Baldor and say, “Now, I was at a council meeting a few weeks ago, and there was talk of them appropriating some land there for housing.”
Both Edwina and Baldor grunt. “Soon there will be no open spaces left,” Baldor says gloomily.
“Just endless little brick boxes.” For a second, they look at each other in total accord, and then the moment passes, and they go back to glacially ignoring each other.
Or at least, Edwina ignores Baldor. He’s far too entertained by winding her up.
“Yes, it’s very sad and Sig is working on it, but if his efforts fail, then the houses will come, and that puts them far too near the fae entrance to be comfortable.”
She comes to a stop, distractedly admiring herself in a mirror. “That is indeed bad news. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
I incline my head. “Always an honour. Anyway, it got me thinking, and I did some research.” I reach up to a shelf behind the counter and retrieve a thick leatherbound book. I open it, hearing the creak of the leather and smelling the old paper. “If you’d both be so good as to look at this.”
She moves to my side, and there’s a crack, and Baldor appears and sits regally on the back of a chair. “A map book?” he says, his clever eyes busy. He leans close. “That is Lyonesse.”
I nod, tracing a finger over the page with the beautiful drawings. I know now why Sigurd never bothered about handling his books with freshly cleaned hands—magic books cannot be damaged by time or by human hands.
“’Tis beautiful,” Edwina says. “A truly talented artist.”
I hide a smile because I sleep every night in the arms of this particular artist. “Yes, ma’am. Anyway, this is a map book that dates back to before the time of Arthur. I was looking through it, and I was astonished to find another entrance to the fae lands.”
The book actually landed at my feet and opened to the page I needed, but I don’t mention that. Sig’s library has become my right-hand man.
“What?” she says, moving closely. “What is this?”
“Look.” I flick through the pages and find the one I want. I point at the map. “Here it is. It was known as the summer entrance.”
“In the Cardinham Woods?” she says doubtfully.
I nod. “It isn’t that much farther than Bodmin, and I know you’re thinking that the woods will be full of tourists, but the joy of this is that the fae entrance is on protected land.
Sigurd says that there are enchantments on it, meaning humans cannot see it.
It works too. We flew out last night, and I couldn’t see it, no matter how hard I looked. ”
“That is indeed interesting. Why did our books never tell of this?”
“Sigurd thinks it may be because there was a lot of infighting in your court at that time, and the king sealed the entrance to prevent unwanted egress. I was wondering whether it would be better to move your entrance to here.”
She taps her lip, her long fingers pale and elegant and adorned with many rings that twinkle in the light. “And what then? The piskies will just jump in with their juvenile antics and show people the way.”
I look over at the piskey king, who’s attempting to look innocent and failing badly.
I’ve a feeling it isn’t just young piskies who are playing tricks, but I don’t say anything.
“Maybe Your Majesty would commit to a rule that they don’t,” I say respectfully.
“After all, any human attention on the magical world is bad for all magical creatures.”
He eyes me, and then after a few beats, he nods. “I think that could be arranged, Cary.” He looks to the fae. “Come, my lady. We can adjourn to the other end of the shop and discuss matters. Cary has laid out food and drink for us.”
“Not near the books,” I say quickly. They turn to look at me, and I smile. “If you please.”
Within seconds, they’ve gone, and I hear the rise and fall of what sounds like polite conversation. For the moment. Ah, well, I’ve done my best. I close the book and set it back on the shelf, so it’s readily available if they have further questions. Then it can go home.
I think of our home and smile. Then I set about tidying up the shop. Yes, shop. You heard it right.
When I first moved in with Sig, I had visions of returning to work at a research centre, but after we’d solved an argument between a manticore and a selkie, Sig suggested an alternative.
A shop had become vacant on the street where we’d visited so long ago.
It was next to Morveren’s shop, and he’d taken me there one rainy afternoon.
I’d fallen in love with it on sight—the wooden door with the old-fashioned bell that jangles when it’s opened, the mullioned windows looking out onto the magical street, the empty whitewashed rooms.
Standing in the middle of it, Sig had suggested I open a bookshop.
He would buy the place for me, and I could run it how I wanted.
He’d smiled, his hair vivid in the grey light and his high-boned face affectionate.
“After all, my Cary,” he said. “Where there is a bookshop, there is knowledge. You are a researcher, and I have seen for myself how you apply that to the creatures in your new world. Why not set up here, and I will send anyone who needs mediation to you? I certainly do not have the time now I am teaching again.”
Excitement had filled me, and I stared at him. “That would be so wonderful,” I’d breathed. “I find the magical world so fascinating, and I love research.” I’d checked, looking at him. “Do you really think I could do that?”
“I think you can do anything you set that brilliant mind to,” he’d said and hugged me close.
His faith in me always bolsters me, and so I’d done what he suggested, and as usual, he was right.
We’d painted the walls a buttermilk colour, cleaned the old, flagged floors and laid old rugs that he had in storage.
Then he’d spent a few weeks building shelves.
This was wonderful because he’d done it without his shirt on.
We’d had a lot of visitors that week, drawn by the handsome half-naked dragon.
We’d visited magical book fairs, which were certainly an eye-opener, and filled the shelves with books for sale.
Then I’d set sofas and comfy armchairs in nooks and corners, and I’d opened the shop for business.
It had been an instant success, and the shop is busy most days with creatures browsing for books and others seeking advice and mediation.
And he’d been right about that, too. I do have a knack for it.
And I love it. I love putting my key in the old wooden door’s lock and opening it.
I enjoy the early morning stillness when Sig drops me off and we drink coffee and discuss our coming days.
Then he’ll leave, and I’ll flip the Closed sign over to Open and prepare for another day where no one day is the same as another.
I pick up a pile of spell books left by a witch.
One of them has a rather ominous stain on the cover.
I shelve them, stepping over the feet of a visiting Selkie.
I potter about, clearing up, ready to close.
The tree twinkles with its fairy lights in the corner, and “2000 Miles” by the Pretenders plays low on the stereo.