Epilogue
Two Months Later
Rhys Caradoc entered the shop just as a series of sparkles erupted from his wife’s fingers, jumping and fizzing over a candle flame, much to the awe of an assembled trio of sailors.
He paused, leaning against the door frame, and watched as she handed them, one by one, the little curls of tissue paper with the fairy fire powder inside.
“Just throw it right at the flame. Go on!”
Pop, pop, pop.
Fireworks in miniature.
“I can only afford one,” the shortest of the sailors said, frowning at his options, a jar of fairy fire curls or a box of tissue paper butterflies, next to the demonstration set that Seph had likely been making fly for them moments before. “How’s a gent to choose?”
“If you bring them sparklers onto the boat, the quartermaster will have a fit,” his friend reasoned, reaching out to touch one of the tissue paper butterfly wings. “And you’ll run out of ’em eventually. I say the bugs.”
“I like the sparkles,” the biggest, deepest-voice sailor protested, crossing his massive arms. “If you buy the bugs, I will buy the sparkles.”
Rhys chuckled to himself and moved around the till, planting a kiss on Seph’s cheek and depositing his handful of newly arrived mail on the counter to sift through while she made the transaction.
There was a long, thin parcel from Northampton. A replacement candle from the one they’d used up, courtesy of Father Wheeler. Rhys could smell the lavender through the packaging. Two letters from London, as well.
“The circus agreed,” he exclaimed, tearing open the fancier of the two. “They’ll do a week’s tenure at the pavilion come July!”
“Oh, Rhys,” she cried, turning to clap her hands together as the sailors departed, murmuring happily amongst themselves with their bounty. “That is wonderful! I cannot wait to see Nini again.”
He nodded, handing her the letter. “She feels the same.”
There were purchase orders and invoices in the stack, as well as a copy of Ackermann’s that made Seph squeal like a piglet and bounce on her toes, snatching it from his fingers.
“Goodness,” he tutted, watching as she tore to the back of the circular immediately to begin devouring the oddities and scientific tools section. “Don’t make me have jealous feelings toward a bit of wax paper, Seph.”
She shushed him, her hair sparkling in the afternoon light as she turned her back to him to flirt with her bloody circular.
Toward the bottom of the stack, there was an unusual envelope. Emerald green, with a white wax seal. It was heavy. There was something inside it beyond a simple missive.
Rhys froze, not quite trusting his eyes as he stared down at it, heavy and glossy between his fingertips. “Erm,” he said. “Seph?”
She looked up, fully intending to shush him, but her face changed when she saw what he was holding. She straightened, the magazine slipping from her hands and falling to the floor as she paced toward him, eyes on the envelope.
“It’s addressed to you,” she observed, pointing.
He glanced back at it, surprised.
To: Changeling Forest Oddities and Curiosities
Attn: Rhys Caradoc
Brighton’s Ultimate Illusionist
(Gift enclosed)
“‘Ultimate,’” she said aloud, a wry, little twist to her lips. “I was first, and you are last.”
He glanced at her and then down at the envelope again. “Should I …?”
“Of course you bloody should,” she snapped. “Now!”
He pressed his lips together to stop from laughing at the outburst because he knew her impatience was true in this moment. Not performative.
He broke the seal and peeled the flap back, turning the envelope upside down on the counter.
Three things fell out.
A scrap of newspaper, clipped carefully into a folded rectangle. A vellum card, dusted with charcoal.
And with a thunk, a glinting silver pocket watch, latticed on the front with the letter ‘S.’
Rhys could only stare for a long moment. A long, stretching moment. He didn’t even notice Seph passing him to bustle to the door and turn the sign around, throwing the lock on the handle.
Ferme. Closed.
He looked up at her, confused.
“What does it say?” she hissed, gesturing madly at the two scraps of paper.
“I … don’t know?” he answered, reaching down but not quite touching, either. The vellum card had a sketch of the shop on it, sketched in broad strokes but unmistakable. He flipped it over, and on the back it said one word.
Domus.
Home.
He shook his head, like clearing his mind or his vision might make it vanish again and reached for the scrap of newspaper. It was written in French.
Good job that I’m fluent in French, he thought, staring at the letters. If only I could remember it just now.
Willa had insisted they all learn it. Rhys had learned it. He just … couldn’t …
“Do you want me to read that?” Seph asked, stepping behind him and peering down at it. “Oh. I can’t.”
“I can,” he managed. “It’s an obituary. For Merlin.”
“For Merlin?” she repeated, blinking several times. “Just now?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s dated October.”
“Oh,” she replied, shrugging. “All right?”
“Seph,” he said, pointing at the number, which was the same in English or French. “It is dated last October.”
She gave a barking laugh, snatching the paper from him and squinting at the words she couldn’t read. “What? That’s nonsense.”
“‘We regretfully report the passing of local showman and beloved Samaritan, Martin Le Jeune,’” he read, pointing at the words. “‘Who passed away on All Hallows’ Eve, peacefully in his bed. 1816.’”
Seph opened her mouth several times, making only the first sounds of consonants. She shook her head, putting her hands to her temples, and managed, finally, “What?!”
Rhys could only shrug. “I do not know.”
“So … S-So he faked his death?” she stammered, clearly offended by this impossibility. “The first time? Both times? Or … Or was that man we met someone else? How would he have … An assistant or … But no, he was sick. We saw that he was—”
“Seph,” Rhys said softly. “I don’t know.”
They both raised their gazes, looking at the sparkling mask and cape hanging behind glass in the corner of the shop, the gold lettering in the memorial plaque giving off a dull sheen in this light.
“There’s nothing else in there?” she demanded, snatching up the envelope and peering inside. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” said Rhys, his fingers skimming over the watch. He pressed the mechanism at the top and watched it pop open. “Look at that,” he said. “Someone’s kept it wound.”
Seph picked up the card, squinting at it, and then flipped it over in her hands.
There was one last message for them, on the back.
Carpe Vitam.
“What does that mean?” she asked softly, flipping it against her heart to show Rhys. “‘Carpe vitam’?”
“‘Seize your life,’” Rhys told her. “All of it.”
They stared at one another, awe rising between them, singing under the breath they released into the air.
They might have stayed that way for a very long time if the door had not jostled, another set of hopeful clients clamoring at the entry.
“Oh, blast,” Seph said, setting the card down and pushing her body around the counter. “These people want their oddities. I locked the door. Rhys, can you hide … Can you …?”
“I suppose,” he replied, grinning at her as she fought with the lock, her hands sweaty, her aim harried and confused about what her priority was in this odd moment. She pulled the little curtain back and held up her finger to ask those outside to wait. “Can I do the butterflies this time?”
She wrenched the lock open, slapping the open sign back around the right way, and snapped her head around, her eyes narrowed. “That’s my trick,” she said, hand still on the knob.
“Yes, but can I do it?” he pleaded, already tapping a jaunty, little beat on either side of the discarded tissue paper butterflies. “Let me.”
“Fine,” she said. “Infant.”
“Witch,” he answered.
“Amadán,” she sighed.
“Cariad,” he finished. “Wife.”
Seph could only smile to herself at that. And open the door to the next soul who wished to pass through it.