Epilogue
LILIA
Eight months later
The roses were in full bloom.
I stood at the edge of the courtyard and looked at what we had made of it—the deep purples and crimsons climbing the walls, the herb beds running in clean rows along the eastern stone, the pale trunk of the silver tree rising at the center with its leaves catching the afternoon light and scattering it in shifting patterns across the flagstones.
Genevieve had woven sprigs of lavender and yarrow into a garland that looped between the iron rings along the south wall, and Victor had swept the paths until not a fallen petal remained.
It was one of the cherished gardens here at Valgarde. Flowers here bloomed for much longer than usual, nourished by the protective gargoyle magic over generations.
Outside the castle, Hadrien and I had planted poppies in remembrance of his fallen soldiers, reclaiming them as a symbol of peace. They spread along the grounds, their petals a healthy red—nothing like the tainted gray from the twisted queen.
Mom stood beside me, her hand finding mine and squeezing once. “Ready?”
I looked at Hadrien.
He waited at the far end of the courtyard beneath the silver tree, symbolic in so many ways. The sight of him standing there in the full afternoon light tugged inside my chest. He walked free.
Today, he wore a deep charcoal coat that Genevieve had unearthed from the castle’s wardrobes as she’d done with my ivory dress. His gray skin caught the sun warmly, no longer marble-veined with the spreading veins of the curse, but smooth. His silver-gray eyes were fixed on me.
“Ready,” I said.
Henri offered me his arm with an expression of exaggerated solemnity that lasted approximately four steps before dissolving into a grin.
Mom walked on my other side, and the three of us moved down the path between the herb beds, past the chamomile and Saint John’s wort, past the moonstar tucked in the shadow of the far wall.
It bloomed here now. It seemed right.
We stopped beneath the silver tree and I whispered thanks. Its leaves moved in a breath of wind, soft like faint bells. I whispered my thanks to the tree, and a smile reached Hadrien’s eyes in the way they often did when he caught me talking to plants.
Then he turned to it and mouthed, “Thank you.”
I blinked, astonished, and smiled at him. I’d tease him about it later.
Or maybe I’d let it slide. After all, we had other things planned for our wedding day—and night.
Victor performed the ceremony. He’d been quietly practicing for two weeks, which I knew because I’d found him reciting in the kitchen one morning and he’d cleared his throat and pretended to be reading something else entirely.
He kept it short and plain, the way he did most things, and it was exactly right.
When it came time for the vows, Hadrien took my hands in both of his. His hands were so large that mine disappeared into them.
“I promised you this before.” His grip tightened slightly. “And I vow it again now. Lilia, Little Sage—my mate, I will love and honor and protect you to the end of my days.”
I had known it was coming. I’d known the words since the night in the courtyard when he’d first silently made them, and still my eyes stung, ready to burst with tears. I blinked hard.
“I trespassed onto your land,” I said with a slight grin, “and your castle, and your library, and your worst moods.” He made a sound that was almost a laugh. “And I would do all of it again.” I curled my fingers around his. “Because it led me to be with you.”
Behind me, Genevieve made a small sound and attempted to cover it with a cough.
When Hadrien bent down to kiss me, the leaves chimed softly overhead, and the light scattered across the courtyard walls in pieces—across the roses, the herb beds, the stones of Valgarde—the way it always did in this place, as if the garden itself were paying attention.
I had come into Valgarde frightened, desperate enough that I made a bargain to save my brother that I didn’t know if I could keep.
Now, he was safe and healthy.
And so was Hadrien.
Free of the curse.
My gargoyle.
My mate.
My home.
And now—my husband.