Epilogue
Two months later
I look down at my shoes—silk slippers with white ribbons around the ankles—and smile with satisfaction. This is the first time I’ve managed to put them on myself.
But getting out of bed unaided is a different story. Nim, my faerie nurse, hastens to my side before I can even attempt it. She fusses with my gown, straightening ribbons and lacy bits, and insists on redoing my hair.
“It’s all right.” I laugh. “Today isn’t about me, anyway.”
She smiles, her large black eyes warm. I’ve come to love Nim dearly, though she rarely speaks to me. Not many of the fae do; they are shy creatures, I’ve found, and not many of them are fluent in English. But they express more with their eyes than most humans can, if you know how to read them.
My room is expansive, too large really, but it’s what they insisted upon.
High windows open to a view of the Wenderwood, and the light beaming through them is sunny, though the sun doesn’t actually shine in Elfhame.
The spheres hanging in the Tree wax and wane in accordance with the human days.
But it’s as warm as sunlight, and I turn my face to it while Nim does my hair anyway.
Leaning on her, I make it to my feet and test my strength. I’m doing better than I’d hoped. After eight weeks of Morgaine’s patient yet tedious restoration spells, I can walk across my room without collapsing. Four more fae wait in the corridor with a small palanquin to carry me out of the palace.
I blush, still not used to relying on others to get around, but there’s no chance of me making it across Elfhame without it. But today will be my last day in the World Below, and I’m not going to waste it in bed.
If mine are to be among the last mortal eyes to ever behold the realm of the faeries, I intend to see every inch of it I can.
I sit down and thank my escorts, who nod and smile.
They are dressed in their finest today, flowery, mossy garments streaming with ribbons and honeysuckle vines.
I pause to sweep Vera North’s shawl around my shoulders—Conrad brought it to me weeks ago, suspecting it may contain some secret Traveller spells to speed my healing—and off we go.
It’s still strange to me how much the fae changed after I healed the wound in the Dwirra Tree.
Before, they’d lurked and glowered at me with suspicion.
Now they have become peaceful and merry, and some even smile when they see me.
Each morning, we find a little pile of gifts outside my door—brooches, pretty stones, little silver mirrors, fans, kerchiefs.
They are grateful for the return of their long-lost kin and somehow have convinced themselves I am responsible for their reunion.
A lightening spellknot Nim tied beneath the litter relieves my weight on the fae, so they carry me easily along, taking care on the steps.
All the bloody sap of the Tree has been scoured from the walls and floor, and the cracks from the crumbling of the Dwirra repaired so that one would never know the destruction that had nearly destroyed this place.
The doors are still mismatched, and I’m never quite sure what I’ll find behind them—a dozen pianofortes, or a hot greenhouse of orchids, or a trio of faeries drunk on lavender wine singing what I must assume are the fae equivalents to bawdy tavern ballads.
I haven’t been out of my room much during my convalescence, so the sight of Elfhame still takes my breath away. And since the place seems to mirror the seasons of the World Above, spring has come in full strength to the fae world.
Flowers blossom everywhere, many I recognize, many that seem unique to Elfhame.
They wind on vines up the palace walls, along the root-houses and over the bridges.
Above, sheets of fragrant purple blossoms hang from the Dwirra branches.
Occasionally a wind will rush through them, and a rain of petals will swirl down.
The gulches where streams ran now churn with rivers; waterfalls pour from the Dwirra’s outer limbs.
It seems the Tree provides its people with everything they need.
Every flower, every mushroom, every drop of water here is sprung from the Dwirra.
It makes the crime of Lachlan’s attempt to destroy it all the more horrifying.
That anyone would try to destroy such a magnificent thing makes me burn with anger and more than a little guilt at the large part I played in his schemes.
Through this springtime paradise, my faerie escort propels me smoothly along.
We follow the winding tracks through the city, where more fae are beginning to gather.
These ones, too, are dressed up, and one could almost believe they were villagers at some countryside May Day celebration.
For the occasion, they’ve strung ribbons all across the city and hung bells on their hats.
The air is filled with soft, musical tinkling.
We go up the hill toward the Dwirra Tree, and here I insist on dismounting and walking the rest of the way, leaning on Nim.
The great Tree rises ahead, its branches draped around it, and its wound is almost entirely gone, save for a woody scar to remind us of the past. As we crest the hill and then turn onto the path leading to the dancing ring, I hear the now-familiar swell of temperamental faerie instruments.
The faerie revel that waits for us puts even my first night in Elfhame to shame.
Between the standing stones, the fae move with abandon, in forms and patterns that would make most humans blush.
But I love watching them, like bright flames intertwining.
Their music is furiously fast, instruments like pipes trilling over frantic drums. Every few measures they all give a mighty cheer and leap into the air.
Sylvie is at the center of it all, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining, looking more fae than human.
She is radiant, dressed in a white gown, her hair unbound and crowned with flowers.
A princess of the fae, come home at last. As usual, she’s added her own original flair to her outfit—a fur cape, a little dagger in her satin sash, two streaks of red paint across her cheeks.
Morgaine reclines on her throne, pretending regality, but I see her foot tapping.
The faerie queen is dressed in a pale-yellow gown, her black hair softened by a crown of yellow chrysanthemums. Her pointed ears poke discreetly between the strands of hair.
The color and weight she’d lost in healing me has begun to return, and soon, I think, she will be herself again.
She watches her daughter with a mixture of pride and sadness, and every now and again, Sylvie pops out of the throng of dancers to hurl a stream of excited chatter at her.
“She’s not going to want to go home,” says a voice.
I look up to see Conrad, carrying what appear to be goblets of sunlight. It’s the sap of the Dwirra Tree, and I suspect half my recovery is due simply to drinking the stuff.
Dressed in a black tailcoat and tartan kilt, a sprig of holly in his lapel, Conrad looks every inch the laird.
I take a goblet and scoot aside, making room for him.
“Don’t say that. She has at least another hour before she must make the choice that determines the rest of her life.”
Conrad fiddles with his goblet, until I lay my hand on his.
“Why are you fidgeting like that?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
He blinks at me, and I can tell his mind has been far away.
“I have something important to ask you,” he says.
“Well?”
“When you—when we’re back home, and this is all behind us .
. . what will you . . . ? What I mean to say is, What are your plans, specifically, for the year and, er, the future in general?
See, I was just thinking . . . if Sylvie does come home with me, and she wishes to continue learning magic—not faerie magic, no more of that—she’ll need a governess. ”
“Conrad.”
“Eh?” He looks at me, flushed and flustered.
“I would love to be Sylvie’s governess. For a little while longer, anyway. After that . . .”
“After that . . .” he echoes, and he swallows hard.
“After that, who knows? I never want to play Fates again. Perhaps they are Weaving our destinies, or perhaps we weave them ourselves. But I do know what choices we make are our own.”
“Whenever you’re ready, then. Perhaps we’ll go abroad together.
” He lets out a laugh. “It’s strange to say that.
We’ll go abroad. My duty to Morgaine always kept me near the estate.
But now . . . traveling is in my blood, as you know.
And thanks to you, we have a map to follow.
” He traces the patterns winding around his mother’s shawl, a path which takes his fingers across my shoulders and down my back.
“We can see the Dolomites in Italy, swim on the beaches of Crete, try new foods in Damascus. We could visit the ruins of Palmyra, and I will buy you all the thread in the markets of Jerusalem . . .”
He goes on, doing something I’ve never known Conrad to do—ramble.
His brogue thickens as he talks, until I have to struggle to understand him.
But his enthusiasm is infectious. I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes.
His voice rumbles through me; I feel the pounding of his heart against my ear.
“But listen to me,” he says at last, his hand rubbing my shoulder and his chin resting atop my head. “I’m going on and on about what I want. What about you, Rose Pryor? What do you want to do next? You have your classroom in London . . .”
He leaves the question hanging between us.
“True,” I say. “But I still have eight months’ leave to fill. Perhaps some Mediterranean air will do me good.”
And after that . . . I do want to return to the Perkins School, if only to prove to Mother Bridgid and Sister Agatha once and for all that I can channel, thank you very much.
But I am not sure if that is where I belong anymore.
I think about the plans I dreamed up while lying in the faerie queen’s palace, of gathering up magically inclined children off London’s streets, children like Carolina with nowhere else to turn, and making my own little school of Weaving—perhaps, even, in some remote manor on the moors of Scotland.
But most of all, right now, there is only one thing I want in all the world, and it’s right here, so close I can nearly taste it.
“I want you to kiss me,” I say, and he does.