Epilogue
ARTHUR
Edinburgh rose into the afternoon sky like it had been waiting for us.
Stone upon stone, warm in the slanting light, every building holding the sun as if it had earned the right to keep it. The air carried that familiar blend of damp earth, yeast, and something faintly metallic from the old rail lines. History pressed close here. It did not hide its age. It wore it.
I tightened my grip on Artemis’s hand.
She walked half a step ahead of me, her free hand tucked into the pocket of her coat.
She was pretending not to be delighted, but it radiated off her.
The street sloped gently downward toward the Grassmarket, the same precise incline I had memorized months ago.
I remembered calculating the angle of it during our first visit, as if geometry could have settled the feeling that my heart was too large for my ribcage.
She paused at the corner, turned slightly, eyes bright. “It smells the same.”
“It does,” I said.
I had stood in council chambers where every word altered the future of my clan.
I had negotiated treaties that kept blood from staining snow.
I had carried the weight of inheritance since before I understood what choice meant.
None of it had made my pulse behave this way. None of it had made my palms damp.
This was absurd.
I wasn’t afraid she would refuse anything I asked of her. Artemis did not love lightly. She loved with the stubborn certainty of a scholar defending a thesis.
No, what tightened my chest was something far less dramatic and far more dangerous.
I did not want to fail her.
For too long I had been measured against a father who believed love was weakness and power was proof. I had been weighed and found wanting before I had ever drawn a first breath of flame. Not ruthless enough. Not ambitious enough. Not forged correctly.
It had taken me longer than I cared to admit to understand that I did not need to become him to be worthy.
I needed only to be hers.
The surprise waited ahead of us, folded neatly into the evening like a letter sealed in wax. Caliban had executed his portion with military precision. Eloise had insisted on adding atmosphere, which I had learned was a euphemism for emotional ambush.
I adjusted my coat as Artemis began walking again, unaware.
“You’re quiet,” she said, glancing back at me.
“I’m enjoying the architecture.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re plotting.”
“I do not plot,” I said calmly. “I strategize.”
“That’s worse.”
Her smile softened the accusation. She squeezed my hand once, absentmindedly, and my heart performed a humiliating rearrangement.
She did not know the extent of my devotion. Or perhaps she did and simply tolerated it.
When we had first come here, I had been careful and contained, measuring myself against ghosts. I had stood in this very city and wondered if I could ever belong in a place that didn’t require strength as proof of my worth.
Now I walked its streets with my fingers laced through hers.
That was the difference.
“Do you remember the exact slope?” she asked suddenly, looking down the street. “It’s steeper than it looks.”
“Twelve degrees,” I said automatically.
She stopped walking. “Of course you know that.”
“I was nervous.”
Her expression shifted. “About the hill?”
“About you.”
She raised an eyebrow, and for a moment the city quieted around us.
“You were not nervous,” she said gently. “You were very… composed.”
“I have spent a great deal of my life appearing composed,” I replied. “It was once considered a survival skill.”
Her thumb brushed the back of my hand. “And now?”
“Now,” I said, watching the light catch in her hair, “I’m attempting something more honest.”
This—this right here—was what I had not understood when I was younger. Strength was not in domination. It was not in the hoarding of gold or territory or obedience.
It was in this.
Standing on ancient stone in a city I had once only read about, hand in hand with the woman who had made me braver than any battle.
I had once believed I was incomplete because I did not hunger the way my father had. Because I did not burn indiscriminately.
Now I knew better.
I burned precisely.
I burned for her.
The late sun painted the buildings gold as we continued down the hill, the pub just out of sight around the bend. I felt the weight of what waited there—carefully arranged, deeply considered—and my pulse misbehaved again.
I wasn’t afraid of rejection.
I was afraid I would not express it well enough. That the celebration would be too small. Or too large. That it would miss the exact shape of her.
I had once been told that I was not formidable enough.
But I had watched Artemis Ripley stand in rooms that tried to diminish her and take up space anyway. I had watched her claim her title. Her work. Her voice.
I drew a steady breath as we reached the door. Gripping the handle, I realized my hand was, in fact, shaking.
This, it seemed, was what courage actually required.
Warm light spilled through the pub windows exactly the way it had the first time.
The chalkboard sign leaned against the stone wall at the same crooked angle, announcing dinner specials in handwriting that suggested confidence rather than accuracy. The windows glowed amber against the cooling blue of evening. The low ceiling inside waited like a test of height and humility.
I stopped just short of the door.
Artemis squeezed my hand. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The assessing.” She tipped her head toward the sign. “It’s a pub. Not a battlefield.”
“I’ve learned that pubs are more dangerous,” I said.
I pushed the door open.
Warmth hit first. Dense and alive. The smell of yeast and roasted meat and old wood soaked through with decades of humanity. The fireplace crackled along the far wall in the same uneven rhythm. The bar gleamed with polish and use. The low ceiling forced me to bow slightly on instinct.
The hum of layered conversation wrapped around us—laughter, clinking glass, a burst of something that might have been a football argument near the hearth.
It was the same.
It was exactly the same.
Artemis stepped inside without hesitation. She turned in a slow circle, taking it in like she was reacquainting herself with an old friend.
“It hasn’t changed,” she said softly.
“No,” I replied. “It has not.”
I had changed.
She slid onto the same bar stool she had chosen months ago. I took the one beside her, mindful of the ceiling beams. Our knees brushed. She smiled at that without looking at me.
Caliban and Eloise settled a short distance behind us at a small table near the fireplace, hands laced together in a manner that suggested Caliban had surrendered to chaos and found it tolerable. They were trying to be discreet and failing miserably.
Eloise gave me a thumb’s up.
I ignored her.
The bartender approached.
The same sharp eyes. The same practiced smile. She paused when she recognized us, gaze flicking from Artemis to me, then widening slightly in recognition.
“So,” she said. “Tab?”
Artemis choked on nothing.
I inclined my head. “I have since familiarized myself with the concept of a tab.”
The bartender grinned. “Good. Saves us paperwork.”
Artemis leaned toward me, stage whispering, “Please do not propose to her this time.”
“I have no such intention,” I murmured.
The bartender arched a brow. “Want to open one?”
I felt the weight of the memory land squarely between us.
Artemis turned to me slowly, eyes bright with anticipation. “Careful.”
“I’m prepared,” I said.
The bartender waited.
“Yes,” I replied. “A tab would be appropriate.”
The bartender’s smirk sharpened. “Oh, I love a man who learns.”
“I am highly trainable,” I said.
Artemis laughed, delighted. “You’re so proud of yourself.”
“I am,” I said. “I have evolved.”
Artemis pressed her forehead briefly to my shoulder, laughing into my coat. The sensation of it—her warmth, her trust—set my heart at ease.
She ordered a local ale for herself again. For me, she hesitated, then glanced at the bartender.
“He’ll have the whisky,” she said. “The same one.”
The bartender poured without comment.
I lifted the glass, the scent sharp and familiar. The first sip burned, then spread warmth through my chest.
Artemis watched me over the rim of her glass. “Still good?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very.”
She relaxed fully then, sliding one hand out of her pocket to lace her fingers with mine on the bar. She thought this was a sentimental return, a quiet revisiting of a moment we had once shared.
She did not yet see the subtle shift in the room—the way the bartender lingered a fraction too long. The way the fireplace table behind us had cleared slightly.
She was smiling at the bottles lined behind the bar like trophies. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You’re being very intense.”
“I’m always intense.”
“That is true.” Her smile softened. “Thank you for bringing me back.”
I swallowed. “It’s only the beginning.”
She frowned slightly, confused but amused. “Beginning of what?”
I squeezed her hand. “Of honoring you properly.”
Caliban had positioned himself precisely where I asked. Near the fireplace. Back straight. Coat immaculate. Dark wool tailored within an inch of reverence. He looked like he was attending a diplomatic summit instead of a surprise celebration in a human pub.
Eloise stood beside him, one hand threaded through his arm, the other holding a champagne bottle with the confidence of a woman who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space.
I had told them no banners.
No balloons.
No spectacle.
Artemis hated spectacle.
So instead, I opted for candlelight and firelight. A small side table near the hearth that held four glasses and a chilled bottle of champagne. And a single handwritten card propped against the wall in elegant ink.
Dr. Artemis Ripley.
That was all.
It was enough.
Artemis turned slightly toward the fireplace, drawn by the warmth. She hadn’t seen them yet. She was still narrating something under her breath about how the bartender’s eyeliner was structurally impressive.