Epilogue
Lydia
“Henry! It’s time for lunch!”
Mince pies are steaming in the oven. Tomato sauce and butter are on the table, along with a bag of white bread. It’s not a fancy meal, but it’s his favorite one.
My son, Henry, is eight years old and most days he roams the hills of our hundred-acre property in ways that most people back home would probably disapprove of. He has Simon’s eyes, Simon’s hair, and Simon’s intelligence—hell, I basically gave birth to my husband’s clone. It happens.
At my call, a black and white puppy comes bursting into the kitchen, all muddy paws and gleeful panting.
“Henry!” I growl. “Get that dog under control!”
“Sorry, Mum,” he says, traipsing in after the hound.
My son has a local accent, and a taste for plaid shirts and fixing things, just like his father.
Also, much like his father, sometimes Henry looks more like a wolf pup than a boy, a fact that Fergus, our herding dog, absolutely loves.
Fortunately, Henry has more control over his shifting than his father did. An advantage of youth, Simon would say.
Speaking of Simon, he’s asleep in the corduroy recliner we found on Marketplace. The entire house is decorated in secondhand Kiwiana.
As Henry sits to eat, having washed his hands first, I go and wake Simon.
“Lunch is ready,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeah?” He smiles up at me. His eyes have a few more lines around them than they used to, and his hair is dappled with silver. He’s grown a beard that suits him incredibly, and developed an interest in both cricket and rugby that makes the locals down at the pub accept him as one of their own.
“Mince and cheese,” I tell him.
He gets up, kisses me, and goes to sit with Henry.
The two of them discuss the weather, the big stone down by the creek, how long Fergus chased a rabbit for—right across the valley, apparently—and whether or not we’re going to get rain.
I sit down across from them and join the meal.
Pastry and meat is a winning combination in any culture, and I adore listening to the chatter of a small, but loving family.
This is a simple life, a good life, and my happily ever after.
A mewl at the door gets me up from my seat.
The cat wants her lunch too, and I am of course obliged to provide. She leaps up on the counter and starts eating, purring furiously. Her long pale fur will need a brush again soon, I make a mental note to myself. And perhaps a vet check. She’s almost nine years old, after all.
“She’s so funny,” Henry grins at me as I feed her.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. “She’s not like the other cats.”
“Well, that’s because she’s a special breed,” I say, scratching her lightly between the ears.
“You and Dad brought her from America, right?”
“Mhm, we did,” I say. “Get your sleeve out of the sauce, please.”
Henry loves hearing the story. I don’t know why. Maybe deep down he understands the significance of the creature we decided to offer a home to. Or maybe he just likes cats.
The End