Epilogue
Afew months later, Alison had Gwenla, Charlotte, and Julian to the cottage for tea while Keir was at Mrs. Knox’s checking on her sister’s hip, which had healed even better than expected thanks to a bit of quiet magic.
The Knox sisters were planning the trip of a lifetime to the continent and beyond, which would leave Charlotte in charge of the bakery for the longest period since Lupercalia.
But Charlotte’s baking had come a long way since then, Alison observed, as she sampled a delicate Gallic dessert that seemed to be made of a thousand layers of pastry filled with a light custard and topped with an intricate swirl of chocolate and cream icing.
“How in the world did you make this?” asked Alison. It looked like witchcraft to someone who could barely fry an egg.
“The icing is easier than it looks,” said Charlotte. “You just sort of glob it on and run it through with a toothpick.”
“The pastry isn’t easy, though,” said Julian.
“I used the docking technique you showed me,” said Charlotte, smiling brightly at him. And then, turning to Alison and Gwenla, “It’s a method of pricking the dough with a fork to keep it nice and flat when it bakes. My first go was a bit lumpy.”
“Still delicious, though,” said Julian.
Alison was glad to see the two of them getting along so well. On more than one occasion, she went into town to find they’d switched shops, with Charlotte helping to sell the wine while Julian enjoyed some time exchanging baking techniques with Mrs. Knox.
And she was glad to see that Charlotte had found a way to settle back into the life she had abandoned. It was good to have her home, for everyone’s sake.
The door into the cottage opened, letting in the fragrant smell of the gardenia growing just outside.
“Don’t get up,” said Keir, dropping his bag on the desk. Gwenla was already halfway to the kitchen to pour him some tea. “I’ve got the post here.”
He had quite a stack in his hands. He tilted the stack back to reveal a small package at the bottom. “This one is from Northern Publishing.”
“Open it!” said Gwenla from the kitchen.
“I’ll open that one last,” said Alison. She was a bit nervous about what was inside.
On the top was a postcard with a lovely illustration of a cove with gentle waves washing up onto a sandy shore. “It’s from Weyland,” said Alison.
“Is that one of his?” asked Charlotte. “I had no idea beaches could look like that.”
It was indeed one of Weyland’s drawings, Alison saw from the signature at the bottom. She pointed it out to Charlotte.
“Are they still at the Rock?” asked Gwenla, returning with Keir’s tea. “Are they ever coming back?”
“Let’s see,” said Alison.
Alison and Keir,
Hope all is well at home. Two surprises for you:
1) We’re finally heading back. As reassuring as your update was regarding Duncan’s turn as a substitute, Sib can’t make it one more day away from the school.
2) I finally did what we discussed at Winter Solstice. And it turns out, Sib couldn’t make it one more day without being my wife either, so we’ll be returning to you as a married couple. The picture on the front is where it happened. Not bad for a village blacksmith, eh?
Let me know when you hear about the book.
All our love,
Weyland and Sibba
“Married!” said Gwenla. “You knew about this?”
“He asked me to help pick out the ring, but I didn’t think they’d get married straight away,” said Alison.
“How romantic,” said Willow. The cat had just come through the flap in the back door.
Alison raised her eyebrows at Willow, who was usually a relentlessly practical creature.
“Well, it is,” she said. “And a lot less of a fuss than your wedding.”
“I didn’t think you minded the fuss at our wedding,” said Keir. “Without the fuss, there would have been no guests. And no guests would have meant—”
“No Barney,” said Willow. “Alright, it was worth it for that. But Gwenla, if I never see any of those nieces and nephews of yours other than Finnli again, it will be too soon.”
“You and me both,” said Gwenla with a laugh. Willow hopped into her lap, and Gwenla set down her tea to give her a cuddle.
“This one is from Ceri,” said Alison, holding up an envelope of fine stationary.
My dear friend Alison,
I’m sending along the list you requested of courtiers that I believe may be willing to support your land preservation initiative. I hope it’s helpful.
Alison, a new member of the king’s court now that she had married a marquess, had decided to return to their idea of permanently preserving parts of the Hill Country as a Place of Outstanding Natural Beauty.
It might mean some time at court to convince others to support their cause, but it would be worth it to preserve the character and natural charm of Herot’s Hollow for generations to come.
The letter continued:
We’re doing well, thank you for asking. We’ve come home to the castle for the Beltane holidays.
Leo is having the best time measuring all the ancient objects here.
Father doesn’t quite know what to make of him, but he’s got his hands full with the trip to Wilderise anyway.
(I’m not sure if Rinka told you, but we’ll all be arriving at the end of the term.
Lord Ainsley included, unfortunately.) Then Leo and I are on to Gallia to meet his (rather large) family before the beginning of fall term.
Let’s get tea when we get to town. I need to catch you up on the court gossip before your debut as the marchioness.
With much love,
Ceri xx
“We’ll figure it out,” said Keir, squeezing Charlotte’s hand at the news of the return of their father. “We could always take a holiday of our own somewhere. Maybe to the Rock to see that beach.”
“No,” said Charlotte. “I can’t hide forever. I don’t want to. He may not like it, but he has a daughter. Even if he never comes around, I won’t keep pretending I don’t exist.”
“We’ll stand by you, girl,” said Gwenla. “Let him wail and moan if he must. You know who your real family is.”
“Thank you,” said Charlotte. “I do.”
“What’s in that one?” asked Keir.
Alison could guess what the large envelope was: it looked just like the one Rinka had sent her in the winter.
“The royal wedding announcement, I bet.”
She was right.
The Wedding of the Century: Prince Idris to wed Rinka in picturesque Wilderise next spring!
The article was long and mostly pure speculation about who would be attending, which events would be happening and when, and what the future princess would be wearing, with a series of sketches from some of Loegria’s most exclusive designers.
“I hope Lydiach is ready for all of this,” said Alison, knowing who the real designer of Rinka’s wedding dress would be.
“I hope we’re all ready,” said Gwenla. “There was a reporter here last week asking to see where the future princess stays when she’s in town.”
“You didn’t tell them, did you?” asked Keir.
“Of course not,” said Gwenla with a huff.
“They’ll be more where they came from,” said Julian. “Someone I barely knew in the city wrote me asking to stay next year. It’s going to be madness.”
Along with the magazine was a letter from Rinka:
My dearest Alison,
I’ve just arrived in the castle for the first time, and I so wish you were here with me. I can’t believe this will all belong to me someday. I can’t even decide if I want it to. If there was some way to have Idris without all of this, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I know he would too.
But it’s not all bad. There’s an incredible history to all of it.
Much of it untold, I’m realizing. All we learn about in the history books is what these nobles were up to.
Who was fighting whom, who married whom, which family owned which land.
But there’s an entire untold story here about the people who made it all possible.
People who grew up like you and me, the people who built and cared for these great homes and families with their own sweat, blood, and tears.
Idris says there’s a lot to learn from their stories, for his research into curses but also from a purely historical lens. I’ve decided to make it my mission to bring those stories to light, through the work of the new college and in my official role as princess, once that happens.
I can’t wait to see you all again at the summer. Give our love to Keir and all the rest.
Love always,
Rinka
“That’s a nice idea,” said Gwenla. “She’s always been such a champion of the working folk. I’m glad it’ll be her in that castle one day.”
“I’m glad it’s not just Idris on his own. Can you imagine?” said Keir.
“I thought he was rather impressive,” said Charlotte. “Until he came screaming out of the hedge maze, drunk off his arse.”
They all laughed remembering the stag night the future king of Loegria and Wilderise had thrown.
“Are you going to open the last one?” asked Keir.
Alison picked up the last item in the pile: the package. It was wrapped in brown paper, but she could tell what it was before she even opened it.
It was her poetry book, bound in a lovely green cloth with gold foil on the cover.
Wilderise through the Seasons:
A Book of Poems by Alison Lennox-Ainsley,
Marchioness of Caernock
Illustrations by Weyland Gilroy
“Oh, let me see!” said Gwenla. “It’s so lovely. Look at the color!”
Inside, Weyland’s illustrations had been printed in full color with Alison’s poems set inside them.
Alison flipped through the pages. She knew what each one held, but it was still surreal to see them bound up together in a proper book. It felt foreign, as if she’d picked it up in the bookstore in Sudport, not as if she’d made it herself with her own mind.
“There’s a letter, too,” said Keir, holding it out to Alison to read.
Dear Mrs. Lennox-Ainsley,
Thank you for sending your manuscript as requested. We’ve taken the liberty of printing a proof copy for your review. Please ensure that all pages have printed according to your desire.
We’d like to begin with a run of 1000 copies, to be distributed to stores here in Wilderise and in Loegria.
“One thousand copies!” said Gwenla. “Oh, what wonderful news!”
Enclosed you will find a contract for your review. We hope to hear from you soon, and congratulations on a job well done. (Our editor particularly enjoyed your poems regarding the spriggan. What an incredible imagination you have!)
Best,
Mr. Hamish McCrary, Northern Publishing
“Well done, my darling,” said Keir. He gave Alison a quick kiss. “Is it what you want?”
Alison took the book back from Gwenla and looked at it.
It was frightening, imagining the book in stores.
Sitting on a shelf, being picked up by a stranger.
The words she had put together, the stories from her real experiences (and some from her imagination, too, although obviously not the parts about the spriggan) being shared with the world. Was she ready for it?
She looked around at the faces of her friends and family, the beautiful home they’d built together, and the stack of kind regards from even those who were absent, and she knew what she wanted to do.
“I think I’m ready,” she said.
“Wonderful!” said Gwenla. “Would you read it to us first?”
Alison was nervous to read her own words out loud, but here in Wilderise, anything was possible. “With pleasure,” she said, and she opened the book to the first page and began to read.
THE END