Epilogue
The scent of sugar and warm butter lingered in the kitchen. Pots, bowls, and measuring cups filled the sink, and almond flour sprinkled the air like falling snow.
Nin cut the fresh strawberries from the garden that she had gathered with Lucille and plopped a slice in her mouth.
“I saw that.”
Nin turned, her mouth full as she met Cedric’s mock-stern glare. Swallowing, she shrugged sheepishly, “We have plenty more in the garden,” she said.
“Not if you keep eating them,” he countered with a smirk.
She shot him a wink, “Maybe worry about your station, and I’ll worry about mine.”
He chuckled, low and warm as he poised the piping bag over the cooking sheet with measured precision of long practice. Ever the perfectionist, he swirled the pink batter onto the cooking parchment in impeccable circles—unlike the sad, misshapen dollops she created whenever she attempted the same.
Soon, the sheet was filled, and he stood, wiping his flour-dusted hands on his apron. “These are ready for the oven,” he announced.
Nin inspected the perfect rows with a nod, impressed. “Looks like you’ve done it again, love,” she said, wiping some flour from his cheek before planting a kiss on his lips.
“All right, all right,” a voice came from the doorway. Alain stepped through and plucked a strawberry from her basket. “Remember other people live here, too!”
Nin playfully swatted her brother’s arm. “We’ve been married for a year,” she said lightly. “I think that allows us a little kissing.”
Nin glanced at Cedric, who hid a grin, as he turned to place the sheet of macaron shells into the oven.
Their wedding had been a small, private affair—Lucille, Jean, a few other trusted guards, and the royal family were in attendance. There was no spectacle, and no expectations beyond the promises they made to each other before a priest and before the Maker. It had been exactly what they wanted.
“Married or not, keep the kissing nonexistent while I’m around,” Alain said, biting into the strawberry.
“Oh, shoo, you!” she said, grabbing a hand towel and winding it up.
Alain yelped and jumped into the air when the towel snapped squarely on his buttocks. “Hey! I’m out, I’m out! I surrender!”
Nin laughed, chasing him out into the hall until his footsteps retreated.
When she returned, Cedric leaned against the counter, unguarded and at peace in the domestic quiet.
The oven hummed, emitting warmth through the small space, and sugar trailed over the counters.
Their anniversary passed not with luxurious gifts or grand gestures, but in the comfort of making macarons together.
She nestled against him, and his strong arms encircled her. His ticking pocket watch marked the peaceful, loving silence they shared. The heirloom pearl necklace rested warmly against her chest.
Once, a life like this had been a faraway dream. Yet, somehow through a twist of fate, a borrowed tiara had led her to a love she hadn’t known she needed.
The sweetest things, she had learned, were freely given—and freely chosen.