Epilogue #2
I nudge the old barrel that contains wrapped books as treats for the little ones who come in.
Then I tsk and remove a wallet from the tree branches.
One of the bloody piskies has been up to their tricks.
I set it on the counter to remind myself to ring one Brian Samuels, who’s wandering St Ives with no idea that he’s been piskied.
The counter is a beautiful piece of driftwood that Sigurd set up for me.
If he ever leaves teaching, he’d make a lovely carpenter.
I hear footsteps, and Edwina comes towards me. She holds out her hand imperiously, and I bend to kiss it obediently. “Ma’am, you honour me with your presence,” I say, and she inclines her head as if she hears it all the time. She probably does.
“Thank you, Cary. I will take this news back to my queen. I think we have found a solution. I shall mention your help in glowing terms.”
“Thank you.”
She wafts out, her scent light and flowery.
I turn as there’s a crack, and the king appears, sitting on the counter. “She has a stick so far up her arse you could hang a bauble on it and call her a Christmas tree,” he says solemnly, and my lip twitches.
“Nevertheless, it’s arranged, yes?”
He nods. “I shall tell Wilfred he was right to come to you.”
“Please don’t,” I say gloomily. “He’s already far too convinced of his rightness in everything. He meddled once and now thinks it’s his calling.”
He chuckles. “Well, I shall see you soon, I expect. Are you and Sigurd coming to the yule feast on the moor?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. We’re looking forward to it.”
“I shall save you a seat next to me. I wish to question you about humans.” He shakes his head. “Such strange people.”
With a crack and the smell of cordite, he’s gone.
I wake the sleeping Selkie, sending him on his way with a mince pie, and then flip the sign to Closed and shut the door, thankfully.
I’m done for the Christmas holidays. Now it’ll be just me and Sig with no work.
The universities broke up for Christmas yesterday.
I head back to the counter, switching off the main lights as I go, leaving a few lamps to shine in the rainy darkness.
The conch shell is glowing, and wavy shadows line the walls as if the sea is in the room.
It was a gift from the Mer when we found Melusine, and it is a means of communication with the court.
Sig says it’s a great honour and finds it highly amusing that I use it as a telephone and spend hours gossiping with Melusine and Marin.
I lift it, its weight always a little surprising, and listen to the sighing of the sea. Then a voice comes through clearly.
“Cary? You are alright?”
I smile. I like the Mer prince. He’s irreverent, light-hearted, and a complete ho, but he’s also clever and a great friend to Sig. He’ll make a wonderful king one day.
“I’m fine, Marin. Is Sigurd still with you?”
“Nay, he left an hour ago. I believe he is on his way back to you and sanity, or so he was muttering as he went.”
I laugh. “Were the negotiations bad?”
“More double speak than something Ian Fleming would chronicle.”
“You do know they’re not real? MI5 doesn’t work like that.”
He’d picked up one of the books in my shop and has now gone through the series.
“Anyway, I took Sigurd fishing afterwards.”
“Oh dear. His head has barely recovered from the last time.” This is a new passion of his and Sig’s.
Marin is endlessly curious about human behaviour, so he’d got a fishing boat.
He and Sig go out in it but never return with any fish.
Instead, they seem to spend most of their time drinking a Mer spirit that’s incredibly potent, as I can testify after having to pick Sigurd up after one of their days at sea, as they call it.
Like they’re ancient mariners rather than just two drunkards.
“Ah, mayhap he needed some courage.”
“What for?”
There’s a pause long enough for me to think we’ve lost the connection. Then he says airily, “Why, to steer the boat, of course.”
“I hope he didn’t do that after a few glasses. You’d have been en route to Antarctica before too long.”
He laughs and then says in a solemn voice, “I am glad he found you, Cary. I have never seen him as happy as he has been over the last two years. It is a sight that warms my heart, and I thank you for that.”
“There’s no need to thank me,” I say, a lump in my throat. “He makes me just as happy.”
After saying our goodbyes, I set the conch shell back on the shelf and gather my things together.
Then I throw on an old navy-blue cashmere jumper of Sig’s.
It’s huge on me but I love it. I lower my nose into the neck, inhaling the scent of him.
A few minutes later, I smile as I hear the beat of wings in the quiet street.
I hustle to switch off the lamps and make my way to the door, throwing it open to find Sigurd leaning against the wall of Morveren’s shop.
He’s wearing jeans, a black jumper, and the peacoat I bought him last year.
His red-blond hair is tousled, and his eyes are bright.
“Hey,” I say, my smile too big to contain. Every time I see him, I get a warm feeling in my belly and my spirits lift. I’d wondered if those feelings would tail off, but Sig had assured me they never would, as they’re part of the true mate bond.
He straightens and pulls me into his arms. He smells of salt and his own sweet scent, and when he kisses me, his lips are hungry. When he sets me back, we’re both breathless.
“What did I do to deserve that?”
He rolls his eyes. “You get it every night. It is our custom. Are you ready?”
“Are we flying back?”
He nods, and I fasten his watch onto my wrist. It’s a new Breitling that I bought him for Christmas last year. It’s inscribed with some words from the old Christmas song, “Do You Hear What I Hear” which read, In your palace warm, mighty king.
When he has to remove it to change, I am always the keeper.
His old one sits on my own wrist, and I never take that off.
He’d wanted to buy me a better one, but that would have been impossible.
It had been his first gift to me, and although he’s given me so much more since then, this will always be treasured.
I grin at him as he takes my satchel in his usual courtly manner. It feels strange not to see him in a suit. He wears them for his job as a professor of folklore at the University of Falmouth.
I ruffle his hair. “This is still a nice surprise.”
He’d cut it short for his first term, and although dragons’ hair grows at a fast rate, he’d kept it like that, saying he’ll grow it out when he stops teaching again.
I love his long hair, but I can’t deny that the short cut suits him too with the quiff that always looks like it’s about to collapse.
It highlights his strange golden eyes and sharp features.
We turn and make our way down the cobbled street. The shops are closed for the holiday. I think I was the last to shut. He takes my hand and pulls me close, nuzzling into my temple. “I missed you today, elskling. I am very much looking forward to our time together over the festive season.”
“Me too,” I say with feeling.
I like people, but out of everyone, Sigurd is my favourite. We never run out of things to say, and even our silences are comfortable.
“My cousin rang. He is coming over.”
“Really?” Eirik had been his mentor, and I’ve heard a lot about him but never met him, as he’s been travelling for a few years.
I’ve met other members of his family in Norway, and they’re lovely—loud, warm, and slightly chaotic.
Sigurd is definitely the quieter of the bunch.
He’d been subject to much gentle teasing about his lovesickness, and I’d found that dragons are very big on family.
I’d been inundated with offers of service and vows of allegiance.
It had been like a friendly version of Game of Thrones.
“I thought he was in Svalbard.”
He nods. “He wants to come over and see us when—” He falls abruptly silent.
“When what?”
“Ah, here we are,” he says quickly. Am I imagining his relief?
We’re standing by Porthmeor Beach. It’s the only place big enough for him to change. I look idly around at the houses nearby. Most of them are shuttered and dark, but it doesn’t matter. If Sig doesn’t want to be seen, his magic ensures we won’t be.
I stand back and watch as the familiar heat haze shimmers, the sparks neon bright against the winter night sky. It’s cold, the sea wind biting and nudging at my exposed skin, and I shiver, hugging my coat around me, knowing I’ll be warm soon.
Within seconds, Sig appears, and I smile at the sight. Walking towards him, I pat his long snout as he lowers his head. He nudges against me, making a soft chuffing sound of affection. I throw my arms around his big head and plant a kiss on his snout. His golden eyes are twinkling in happiness.
Shall I take the long way, my Cary?
“Definitely.” I clamber onto him, and we launch into the air. The wind is so cold up here that it blurs my eyes with tears, but the stars are bright and so big that it feels like I could reach out and touch them.
Sigurd flies over the big old church in St Ives and hovers, his wings beating strongly as we listen to the carol being sung.
“We Three Kings” drifts up, sounding almost mystical on this night.
Sigurd gives a gusty sigh, and I exclaim in delight as the sweet notes of the song are instantly transformed into golden notes.
They dance around us, sparkling in the air.
“That’s beautiful,” I breathe. “Thank you, sweetie.”
He tosses his head, blowing out a shower of pink and gold sparks, and I smell gingerbread before the notes vanish, and we move on.
He flies steadily over the coastline and villages where Christmas lights glow bright in the darkness and where cottages and houses are golden lozenges of light.
I exhale and watch my breath crystallise in the air. “Will it snow?”