Epilogue
The first breeze of autumn swept through the yard, tugging loose strands of my hair free from their ribbon as I faced Lord Peckington the Third.
He stood across from me, puffed up with all the self-importance of a rooster thrice his size. You would think, after all this time of enduring his tyranny, I would no longer fear him.
You would be wrong.
One did not simply stop fearing Lord Peckington the Third. He was a menace. A feathered demon. A terror with spurs.
We stood at opposite ends of the yard like duelists at dawn with me clutching my egg basket, him flanked by his loyal (and frankly oblivious) hens, who clucked and pecked at the dirt as if they were not moments away from witnessing violence.
I narrowed my eyes.
He narrowed his.
I took one step forward.
He let out a low, ominous brrrRRRk that I was quite certain was a threat on my life.
This had become my routine.
Months had passed since summer and since Norwich.
Ash had stayed for two weeks after we returned, long enough for life to almost feel settled.
I spent my afternoons spinning yarn for my prayer ribbons or scribbling plans for my herb garden.
My sketchbook was now filled with tea blends instead of gowns.
And Ash had lingered in every corner of my life—helping my father mend the fence, carrying sacks of grain like they weighed nothing at all, and standing in the doorway with that same unreadable expression, like she was always half-ready to leave and half-rooted in place.
Then one morning, she’d said she had “things to take care of.” A month, she told me.
A month which had turned into nearly three. I thought of her constantly. It was terribly inconvenient. Every night, I found myself staring out the window, imagining the sound of hooves on the road. Every morning, I told myself I would not look toward the horizon again.
And every morning, I failed.
It was ridiculous, really. I had lived my entire life quite content without a brooding mercenary looming nearby. Now I could barely collect eggs without thinking of her.
I adjusted my grip on the basket and squared my shoulders.
“Today, you will not win," I informed Lord Peckington the Third.
He blinked at me.
I stepped forward.
He took one step forward.
We were evenly matched. Truly, it was anyone’s game. A breeze shifted through the yard, the clouds parting just enough for golden light to spill over us—very dramatic, which I appreciated, given the circumstances.
Lord Peckington froze.
I froze.
He tilted his head.
Then, he backed away.
My breath hitched.
He took another step back.
I nearly dropped my basket.
“Oh,” I whispered, breathless with triumph. “Oh, I’ve done it.”
Had I finally proven to him that I was not to be trifled with? That I was, in fact, the superior force in this yard? That—
A shadow fell behind me.
My heart betrayed me instantly, leaping into my throat before I could even turn. I knew that presence. I would know it anywhere.
Slowly—very slowly, because I was trying to maintain at least a shred of dignity—I turned.
Ash’s gaze flicked from me to the retreating rooster, unimpressed, mildly annoyed, and, if I wasn’t imagining it, a little protective.
Lord Peckington the Third let out a disgruntled squawk and continued his retreat, his hens scattering after him in confusion.
I gawked at her.
“You have been gone for three months.”
Ash’s mouth twitched, like she was holding back a smile.
“And you picked a fight with a rooster.”
I lifted my chin. “I was winning.”
Her eyes flicked to the fleeing bird, then back to me.
I stared at her.
For a moment, I forgot that I had, in fact, been standing in the middle of a battlefield with a rooster mere seconds ago.
Because Ash was here.
Ash was home.
“You—” My voice came out thinner than I intended. “You’ve been—”
No. No, that would not do. I did not finish the sentence. Instead, I dropped the egg basket.
It hit the ground, and something definitely cracked, but that was a problem for a later version of myself. Before Ash could so much as blink, I had crossed the space between us, and then I was in her arms.
Her hands came up automatically, steadying me. I buried my face against her shoulder for half a heartbeat, and then I pulled back just enough to look at her.
“You,” I breathed, furious and relieved, all at once.
And then I kissed her.
It was the kind of kiss that had been waiting for three months, built on every restless night and every stolen glance down the empty road and every why hasn’t she come back yet I had refused to voice. Ash's grip tightened, pulling me closer like she had no intention of stopping me.
Good. Because I had no intention of stopping. Not when she was finally here.
When I finally broke away, it was only because breathing had become a necessary inconvenience.
“You have been gone for three months. You said one month, Ash. One.”
Her expression softened. "I know. I'm sorry."
“Oh no,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Do not give me that look. Where have you been? What were you doing? Did you—”
Before I could continue my very justified interrogation, Ash’s hand closed around mine in a way that made the rest of my words falter in my throat.
“Claire.”
Her thumb brushed once over my knuckles.
“I have something to show you.”
“Well,” I said, trying very hard to gather what remained of my dignity, “I should certainly hope so after—”
She tugged my hand.
And just like it was the most natural thing in the world, I followed.
“No peeking, Claire.”
The blindfold Ash had tied over my eyes—far too securely, I might add—smelled faintly of leather and something distinctly her.
Which was deeply unhelpful for maintaining my composure.
“I’m not peeking,” I muttered.
“You’re squinting.”
“I am not! How would you even know that?”
“I know you.”
I huffed, which only made her fingers tighten. The ground beneath my boots shifted from packed dirt to something softer, and I hesitated.
“Ash, if you lead me into a ditch, I will never forgive you.”
“You’ll forgive me.”
“I will not.”
“You will,” she said, entirely too calm about it.
I paused mid-step. “I might forgive you. Eventually. After a very dramatic speech.”
Her thumb brushed over my knuckles again absently.
“I’ll survive it.”
“Oh, you won’t just survive it,” I warned. “There will be tears. Possibly a fainting spell. I haven’t decided yet.”
She let out the faintest huff of laughter behind me, and something in my chest did a very inconvenient little flip.
We took a few more steps.
“Ash,” I tried again, lowering my voice as if that would somehow make this more serious, “if this is another chicken—”
“It’s not a chicken.”
“If Lord Peckington the Third is involved in any capacity—”
“He’s not.”
“Because I will leave,” I informed her. “Immediately. Blindfold or not.”
“You’re not leaving.”
“Oh, I absolutely—”
She stopped so suddenly that I nearly walked straight into her. Her hand steadied me before I could stumble, fingers firm at my waist for just a second—just long enough for my breath to catch—before she stepped back again.
“Okay,” she said.
“Am I allowed to open my eyes now?"
“Yes.”
Her fingers brushed the knot at the back of my head, loosening it with surprising care. The blindfold slipped away, light flooding in all at once. I blinked against it.
And then—
“Oh.”
Nestled just beyond the edge of the road, tucked between two gently sloping hills, stood a cottage.
The stone walls were worn in that way that made them feel lived in, not aged, with ivy creeping lazily up one side.
A narrow path led to the door, flanked by a small, hopeful garden—freshly turned soil, a few stubborn green shoots already pushing through.
There was even a little wooden bench beneath the window.
“Oh,” I said again, softer this time.
I turned slowly, looking at Ash. She was not looking at the cottage. She was watching me with her arms crossed, shoulders tense, like she was bracing for something.
“It’s—” I gestured vaguely, because words had temporarily abandoned me. “It’s a house.”
“It is.”
“This is a nice house.”
A corner of her mouth twitched.
I turned back to the cottage.
“How—” I started, then stopped, then tried again. “How did you…what is this?”
Ash shrugged.
“I’ve been working for a long time and didn’t spend much of the money I've earned. It turns out, I've saved up a lot of money, Claire.”
I stared at her.
“A lot of money,” I echoed.
“I had to go retrieve it from my bank,” she admitted. “Which is across the continent—further than Norwich. I had to cross back across the continent and handle some things. Admittedly, it took a lot longer than I thought.”
She looked at me then, and her expression softened.
“I wanted it done right,” she said, quieter now. “If I was going to… stay.”
Stay.
The word settled between us, heavy and fragile all at once.
“You’re staying,” I said.
“Yes.”
With me.
My heart did something deeply unhelpful again.
I turned back to the cottage, staring at it like I could somehow make sense of all of this if I just looked long enough.
“So, you bought a house in Thistlebrook.”
“Mm.”
Slowly, I turned back to her. Ash had gone very still. Her gaze dropped briefly to the ground, then lifted again, landing somewhere just to the side of my face like she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet my eyes.
“It’s not just about the house,” she muttered. “I was… thinking you might—”
She stopped, then tried again.
“If you wanted…”
My heart was definitely in my throat now. Ash exhaled sharply, like she was annoyed with herself, then finally looked at me.
“Do you want to live with me?”
I stared at Ash, who faced down bandits without blinking, who walked into danger like it was nothing, who had crossed an entire continent without a second thought—
Standing there like this was the most terrifying thing she had ever done.
“For the record,” I said slowly, “this is the most poorly executed proposal I have ever witnessed.”
Her brows pulled together. “Proposal?”
“You disappeared for three months, returned with a house, blindfolded me, and then said, ‘do you want to live with me,’ as if that is a normal sequence of events?”
“It made sense in my head.”
God, she was adorable. A warmth bloomed in my chest, melting away the lingering exasperation.
Ash could track a target through a blizzard, anticipate an ambush before a blade was even drawn, and throw herself into danger without a second thought to protect the people she cared about.
But when it came to translating her own heart and to navigating the uncharted territory of actual, vulnerable emotion—she was utterly lost.
“I’m sure it did,” I murmured, unable to hide the small smile tugging at my lips.
She shifted, clearly resisting the urge to retreat.
“So…” she said, a little more gruffly now, “is that a no?”
I stared at her for one long, dramatic moment.
Then I stepped forward, grabbed her by the front of her shirt, and kissed her again. Just as fiercely as before. Maybe more.
When I pulled back, I didn’t let go.
“Yes, absolutely. But I am redesigning the garden.”
Ash laughed, and her hand tightened around mine.
“Of course you are.”
“I already have plans,” I continued, because now that I had said yes—now that this was real—there was simply no stopping me. “There will be lavender, obviously, and chamomile, and mint—oh! And lemon balm, I’ve been dying to try lemon balm, and—”
“You’re going to sell them at the market.”
“Well, yes. Eventually. I know they're not necessary things, but who can resist tea?”
Ash’s mouth twitched, like she was fighting a smile again.
“I have been planning this for months. My sketchbook is practically a grimoire at this point. A very soothing, tea-based grimoire.”
She shook her head, but there was a smile tugging at her lips.
“Come on,” she tugged my hand. "I'll show you around."
I followed her up the small stone path, my gaze flicking everywhere at once—at the garden, at the windows, at the door, at the way the whole place felt like a dream I hadn’t dared to say out loud.
Ash pushed the door open. Warmth greeted us instantly. The inside was just as perfect as the outside—wooden beams overhead, soft light spilling across the floor, a hearth already set, like it had been waiting for us.
“Ash…” I whispered.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she led me farther in, guiding me toward a corner where a dresser stood—solid wood, carefully crafted, with small carved details along the edges.
“For you,” she said quietly. “For your dresses, and… other things.”
I pressed my lips together, trying very hard not to do something embarrassing, like cry.
Which would have been entirely justified, I think.
Before I could say anything else, Ash shifted again, her hand finding mine, and then she led me toward the bed. It sat near the far wall, simple but inviting, layered with soft blankets that looked far too comfortable for someone like her.
“For someone who is used to sleeping on the ground,” I said slowly, “this is suspiciously… cozy.”
Before I could fully process that thought, Ash’s hands found my waist and with a gentle, unmistakably intentional motion, she guided me backward until I sat on the edge of the bed. My breath caught.
She stepped closer, standing between my knees, her hands still resting at my sides.
“So,” she said, voice lower now, a hint of something teasing slipping through, “should we properly move in?”
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it—bright and a little breathless and entirely uncontrollable.
“You are unbelievable,” I told her.
“Mm,” she murmured, leaning in, “I’ve been told worse things.”
I reached for her, fingers curling into her shirt, pulling her closer.
“Then, yes. Besides... maybe this time I can stop being the pillow princess and be between your legs instead.”
Ash’s gaze darkened in hunger. I reached for her, fingers curling into her shirt, pulling her closer. Her lips found mine before I could say anything else, and as I leaned in—into this moment, into this home, into her—I realized, with a quiet, steady certainty…
I had found exactly what I’d been looking for all along.