13. Epilogue One Year Later
Epilogue: One Year Later
Cinder
The royal nursery smells like milk, lavender, and the underlying musk of ferret.
This is my life now. I regret nothing.
Three cribs line the wall beneath windows that overlook the kingdom, ruled jointly by me and my three husbands in what the historians have reluctantly termed "an unconventional but surprisingly effective monarchy.
" The nobles have stopped complaining. Mostly because Gerald bites anyone who objects too loudly.
I lean against the doorframe, watching my family in their natural habitat.
Ash is in the rocking chair, massive frame folded into a piece of furniture that was clearly not designed for men his size. In his arms, tucked against his barrel chest like a tiny dark-haired burrito, is Ember.
Our firstborn. By four minutes, but Ash counts it.
Ember has her father's coloring, dark hair, serious brows, an intense stare that suggests she's already judging everyone she meets. She's three months old and has never smiled at anyone except Ash.
"She's plotting something," Ash says, watching her watch him. "I can tell."
"She's an infant."
"She's my infant. She's definitely plotting."
He's probably right. Ember already has the energy of a tiny general. The wet nurses are terrified of her.
Slade is on the daybed, Sterling cradled elegantly in one arm while he reads aloud from a book of poetry. Because of course he is. Because Slade has decided that his son will be "cultured from birth" and no one can stop him.
Sterling is... exactly what you'd expect from Slade's offspring.
Three months old and already beautiful, with fine features and an eerily knowing expression.
He charmed the wet nurse within hours of birth.
She now brings him extra blankets and calls him "my little prince" in a voice that suggests she's already planning to spoil him rotten.
"'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day,'" Slade reads, his voice a smooth purr. "'Thou art more lovely and more temperate.'"
Sterling coos appreciatively.
"See? He understands meter already. Advanced."
"He's responding to the sound of your voice, not the content."
"He understands meter. Don't diminish his accomplishments."
And then there's Havoc. Wreck's son.
Named by Wreck.
Over my extremely vocal objections.
Havoc is not in his crib. Havoc has not been in his crib for approximately six hours, despite being placed there no fewer than eleven times. Havoc, at three months old, has already figured out how to escape infant containment devices in ways that defy physics and parental sanity.
Right now, he's on the floor.
With Gerald.
The ferret and the baby are engaged in what appears to be a staring contest. Gerald's tiny paws rest on Havoc's chest. Havoc's tiny fists wave at Gerald's whiskers. Neither of them blinks.
"Should we... intervene?" I ask.
Wreck, who is lying on the floor next to this tableau, watching with the proud expression of a father whose son has exceeded all expectations, shakes his head.
"Gerald's teaching him."
"Teaching him what?"
"Life skills. Ferret wisdom. The art of the steal." Wreck props his chin on his hand. "Look at them. They have a bond."
"Gerald is going to raise our son to be a criminal."
"Gerald is going to raise our son to be resourceful. There's a difference."
Susan is curled up on Havoc's stomach, providing additional ferret supervision. She's taken on a maternal role with all three babies, but Havoc is clearly her favorite. They share an energy. A chaos wavelength.
I should probably be concerned.
I'm not.
Bastard guards the nursery door like the feathered sentinel he was born to be. He's already attacked four diplomats who approached without proper authorization, two servants who made the mistake of entering too loudly, and one extremely unfortunate bishop who tried to discuss christening protocols.
The babies remain unchristened. Father Bartholomew refuses to come within fifty feet of our family, and honestly? Fair.
The rats patrol in shifts.
Squeak takes the morning watch, stationed on the windowsill, tiny eyes scanning for threats. Nibbles handles afternoons, usually while eating something. Twitch covers evenings, his natural twitchiness translating well to vigilant surveillance.
Right now, all three are gathered on the edge of Ember's crib, cooing at her in squeaky voices.
"Look at her little hands."
"She's so serious. She's gonna be a boss."
"Boss Baby. I'm calling her Boss Baby."
"You can't call the lady’s daughter boss baby."
"Watch me."
Ember stares at them with her father's intensity. The rats interpret this as approval.
One-Eye perches on the highest point in the nursery, a decorative shelf meant for porcelain figurines, now occupied exclusively by an ancient, exhausted crow. His one good eye surveys the chaos below with an expression I've come to recognize as "resigned affection disguised as suffering."
"Three of them," he mutters. "She had three. At once. Because apparently one baby was not chaotic enough for this family."
"Triplets run in my bloodline," I remind him.
"Nothing about this family runs. It careens. It collides. It explodes into chaos at every possible opportunity."
"And yet you're still here."
One-Eye is silent for a moment. His gaze drifts to the babies, Ember with her serious stare, Sterling with his elegant coos, Havoc with his ferret companions and inexplicable escape artistry.
"Someone has to teach them," he says finally. "Someone with sense. Someone who can provide stability and wisdom and…"
"You love them."
"I tolerate them with extreme prejudice."
"You read to them every night. When you think no one's watching."
One-Eye's feathers ruffle with indignation. "I do not."
"Mira saw you last week. Reading them that book about the crow who saves the kingdom. Doing different voices for all the characters."
"...that was educational. For their development. Not because I care."
"You did a voice for the lady crow that sounded suspiciously like me."
"Coincidence."
I grin at him. He looks away, but I catch the softening around his good eye.
He loves them. He loves all of us. He'll never admit it, but he does.
Later that evening, we attempt the impossible.
The official royal portrait.
The painter, a man who was clearly not warned about what he was signing up for, sets up his easel in the grand sitting room. His face is already pale. I suspect it will be paler by the time we're done.
"If everyone could just... hold still," he says weakly.
This is an unreasonable request.
Ash sits in the center of the formal couch, massive and stoic, Ember cradled in one arm. She stares at the painter with an expression that makes him drop his brush twice.
Slade lounges elegantly to Ash's left, Sterling draped across his lap like a tiny prince holding court. Bastard has claimed the space at Slade's feet, preening for the portrait with obvious vanity.
Wreck sprawls on Ash's right, Havoc somehow already escaping his grip. Gerald and Susan are draped across Wreck's shoulders like furry stoles, their beady eyes fixed on the painter's shiny buttons.
I sit in front of them all, wearing my formal crown, slightly askew because Havoc grabbed it earlier, with the rats arranged in my lap.
Squeak, Nibbles, and Twitch are wearing tiny bow ties again. They insisted.
"We're royalty now," Squeak had announced. "Royalty wears bow ties to portraits."
"Do they, though?" Mira had asked.
"They do now."
One-Eye perches on the back of the couch, centered behind us all like a feathered patriarch surveying his deeply chaotic legacy.
"This is fine," the painter says to himself. "This is all fine. I've painted royal families before. I can do this."
He cannot do this.
Attempt one fails when Gerald launches himself at the painter's palette, attracted by the shiny gold paint.
Attempt two fails when Havoc escapes Wreck's arms completely and crawls halfway across the room before anyone notices.
Attempt three fails when Bastard decides the painter is a threat and must be honked at aggressively until he cowers behind his easel.
Attempt four fails when Sterling spits up on Slade's formal doublet, and Slade insists on a complete outfit change because "I refuse to be immortalized in regurgitation."
Attempt five fails when Ember begins screaming with the fury of a tiny dictator whose nap schedule has been disrupted, and refuses to stop until Ash walks her around the room for ten minutes while humming something that sounds suspiciously like a bawdy tavern song.
Attempt six almost succeeds, everyone is in position, everyone is still, the painter is actually painting, when One-Eye falls asleep and nearly topples off the couch.
Attempt seven.
"Nobody move," I hiss. "Not a single one of you. I will make your lives a living hell if anyone moves."
"My nose itches," Wreck whispers.
"Suffer."
"Gerald's about to steal that paintbrush."
"Gerald, no."
Gerald freezes mid-steal, tiny paw outstretched, looking betrayed.
"Everyone hold."
The painter works frantically, brush flying across canvas, clearly aware that this moment of stillness cannot last.
Ember maintains her intense stare. Sterling coos photogenically. Havoc, for one miraculous moment, stays in place.
The rats pose with professional dignity. Bastard arranges his feathers artfully. Susan and Gerald remain frozen on Wreck's shoulders.
One-Eye opens his good eye just enough to glare at posterity.
And my three husbands, Ash steady and strong, Slade elegant and sharp, Wreck chaos barely contained, look at me with expressions that make my heart do ridiculous things even after a year of marriage.
The painter captures it all.
Somehow.
Miraculously.
When he finally sets down his brush, he's sweating through his formal jacket and his hands are shaking.
"It's done," he whispers. "Please. Please let me leave."
"Thank you for your service," I say graciously. "Your payment will be delivered tomorrow. Along with a cask of wine. You've earned it."
He flees without looking back.
That night, after the babies are finally asleep, Ember in her crib, Sterling in his, Havoc in his for approximately six minutes before Gerald helps him escape again, I stand at the nursery window, looking out at the kingdom.
My kingdom.
Our kingdom.
Arms wrap around me from behind. Ash. I'd know his embrace anywhere, massive, warm, all-encompassing.
"The portrait turned out well," he says, chin resting on top of my head. "Considering."
"Considering Gerald tried to eat the painter's supplies four times?"
"Considering."
Slade appears at my left, leaning against the window frame, moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. "The historians are going to have a field day with us. 'The Lady and Her Three Farmhand Lords.’”
"Let them write what they want." I lean back into Ash's chest. "We know the truth."
"What's the truth?"
"That I found you. Against all odds, against all expectations, against eight hundred and forty-seven disappointing alternatives." I smile at the stars. "I found exactly what I needed."
Wreck tumbles in through the door, Havoc somehow already in his arms again despite the baby definitely being in his crib thirty seconds ago.
"He escaped again. Gerald helped. I'm not even mad, I'm impressed."
"He's three months old."
"He's gifted."
Havoc coos and waves his tiny fists at his fathers. Gerald, perched on Wreck's shoulder, chitters proudly.
Susan emerges from somewhere, I've learned not to question ferret appearances, and joins her partner in admiring their favorite baby.
One-Eye flaps in through the window, landing on his customary perch. "Everyone's awake. Of course everyone's awake. Sleep is a concept this family has never understood."
But he settles in anyway. Because he's ours now. Because they're all ours.
Squeak, Nibbles, and Twitch scurry in, taking up positions around the room.
"Night watch commencing!"
"Baby status: chaotic but secure."
"Threat level: low. Unless Gerald steals something, then it's medium."
Bastard waddles in last, honking softly, finding his spot by the cribs where he can guard all three babies simultaneously.
We stand there, all of us, the entire chaotic menagerie, in the moonlit nursery, surrounded by sleeping babies and awake-again babies and animals who have somehow become family.
"Worth it," I say quietly.
"Worth what?" Slade asks.
"All of it. The search. The proclamation. The eight hundred and forty-seven disappointing cocks. The carriage ride. The broken altar." I turn in Ash's arms to face them all, my husbands, my family, my beautiful disasters. "Every single moment. Worth it."
"Even the part where Gerald bit the Archbishop?" Wreck asks.
"Especially that part."
Gerald chitters smugly.
Ash tightens his arms around me. Slade steps closer, his hand finding mine. Wreck grins, Havoc babbling happily in his arms.
And in her crib, Ember opens her serious little eyes, stares at her ridiculous family, and smiles.
For the first time ever.
"Holy shit," Ash breathes. "She smiled."
"Ember smiled!" Wreck shouts, then immediately clamps his hand over his mouth. "Sorry, sorry, inside voice."
Too late. Sterling wakes up and begins crying. Havoc takes this as his cue to escape again. Gerald launches himself toward something shiny.
Chaos erupts.
And I stand in the middle of it, my husband's arms around me, my children demanding attention, my animals causing property damage, and I laugh.
This is my life.
This is my family.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
The End.
...For approximately six seconds, before Gerald's tiny paw shoots out and steals Sterling's rattle directly from the crying baby's grip.
Susan chitters her approval.
The next generation of chaos was already beginning.
The End. (For real this time.)