Epilogue
Fingers sink into the damp soil. Euphemia digs through her garden, pulling weeds and tending the plants she planted earlier that spring. Most of it is herbs and flowers for her and Dagfinn’s study, though there are a few vegetables scattered among the beds as well.
Today is harvest day, and Euphemia’s basket is already full of yarrow, juniper, sage, meadowsweet, and nettle to replenish their stores.
As Euphemia works her way through the overgrowth, her fingers brush against a tall stalk. She gasps, excitement pulsing through her. Pushing aside the surrounding foliage, she reveals a single, sturdy stem crowned with a yellow bud just beginning to bloom.
Euphemia beams down at the roseroot.
It’s thriving here in the new soil.
After everything they’d been through, there is something almost miraculous about seeing it grow. But more than that, she cannot wait to show Dagfinn.
Footsteps crunch along the path behind her.
Without looking, Euphemia already knows who it is. She would recognize his presence anywhere.
Euphemia rises, tucking her basket over her hip as she turns toward Dagfinn.
“Someone’s practically glowing today,” he says.
“It’s the roseroot. It’s started to bloom.” With the toe of her boot, Euphemia brushes aside some of the neighboring plants, revealing the stalk and its yellow flower.
Dagfinn beams. “Well done.”
His gaze wanders over the garden, all lush with greenery.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Euphemia wonders if he sees the same thing she does: that this garden is more than a collection of herbs and flowers. It is proof that things that were once dead can grow again.
His expression shifts into something more playful. “At this rate, I’ll be able to make more of that sleeping tincture in no time.”
Euphemia nearly drops her basket just to smack him in the shoulder. “You’d better not think of doing something like that ever again. Not unless I’m coming with you.”
Dagfinn grabs her by the waist and Euphemia squeals as she’s pulled flush against him.
“I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without you, wife of mine.”
“Better not.”
With Dagfinn towering a whole head over her, Euphemia has to stretch up onto her toes to reach his lips.
It’s always worth the effort.
Their lips touch and Euphemia feels herself melting into his arms. Warmth rushes through her, filling her with desire and need. Months have passed, and still her ache for him has not ebbed. If anything, it seems to deepen with every passing day.
The kiss ends and they part, though Euphemia knows it will not be for long.
Though it dawns on her then that it is rather unusual for Dagfinn to come searching for her out here.
He has never been particularly interested in the gardens.
They have not much spoken about it, but she suspects it has something to do with the months he spent in that dream realm—living among the flora, wandering the wilds alone, without a single stable shelter to rest.
Now that he has returned, Dagfinn much prefers the comforts of his own home, and simply knowing Euphemia is here with him.
Euphemia looks up at him, suspicion rising. “What brings you out into my garden, Mr. Varinsson?”
“Your garden? Should it not be ours?”
“Only my hands have wrenched this soil back to life, and I think it’s fair to say—” Euphemia is about to explain to him all the ways that this is her sanctuary and not his, when she realizes he’s dodging the question.
She extends an accusatory finger at him.
“You almost had me there for a moment. Now, tell me, what are you avoiding?”
“Very well.” Dagfinn runs a hand through the length of his red hair. He looks around before leaning in conspiratorially. “It is…my mother. She and Asvald have gone out for a stroll.”
“Oh?” And then with dawning excitement, Euphemia bounces. “Oh! Well that’s wonderful news. Is it not?”
“I suppose.”
Euphemia barks a laugh. “Clearly you think differently.”
“They’ve been doing it quite often,” Dagfinn admits. “Walks. Tea. The occasional supper together.”
“And how terrible for you.”
He angles a look at her. “It is unbearable.”
“I know. She has been through a lot. And Asvald… He is good to her.” There is no bitterness in Dagfinn’s voice. Only the strange, lingering discomfort of a son watching his mother build a life that no longer includes his father.
Pity cinches Euphemia’s belly. Dagfinn spent months—nearly a year—away, but the year he lost was not the same year that passed for everyone else.
Kelda had spent that time grieving her husband and nursing her son back to health.
She has had time to move forward. Dagfinn simply wasn’t there to witness it.
Stepping out of the flowerbed, Euphemia strides closer and places a comforting hand on his slouched shoulder. “It’s been over a year, Dagfinn.”
“I know.”
“If she’s ready to move on, doesn’t she deserve that much?”
He closes his hand around hers. “She does. It’ll just take some time getting used to.”
Euphemia pats his shoulder but doesn’t say anything.
She lets him sit in the silence of this acceptance.
After a moment, Dagfinn looks as if he’s been struck by a thought.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Dagfinn reaches into his pocket, revealing a letter. “We received a letter from your mother today.”
Euphemia’s stomach tightens, though it has no reason to.
Given everything they’ve heard from her mother and Maryam, the Saint’s Hearth is thriving more than ever.
And yet, Euphemia can’t help but worry about them.
Setting her basket down, Euphemia grabs the letter from him. “What does it say? Is everyone alright?”
“I haven’t read it yet. But I’m sure everything is fine.”
Years of struggle prevent Euphemia from ever fully believing it. Still, the words on the page are a comfort she craves.
Euphemia unfolds the letter.
Dagfinn has slowly been teaching her how to read, so there are a few words she glimpses immediately: health…thriving…your father.
She thrusts the letter back at Dagfinn, too impatient to struggle through the contents today. “You read it. Please.”
“Of course, my lady.” Dagfinn wraps his arm around Euphemia’s waist, holding her close in case she needs him. Her eyes follow along with him as he reads:
My darling Euphemia,
I hope this reaches you in good health, and that your garden is thriving as I know it will be. I wish you could see the Saint’s Hearth now. The tavern is fuller than ever, and we run short of ale every night, a problem I am grateful to have.
Dagfinn pauses to nudge Euphemia with his hip. “I told you everything would be fine.”
She smirks. “Hush, you. Just keep reading.”
Dagfinn obliges.
You will be pleased to hear that Maryam and I have agreed to a proper arrangement between us.
Now that her cooperage has been rebuilt, she has provided the Saint’s Hearth with the casks we need to brew and store more ale.
Her son has also offered to grow some of the grain and other crops we use in our brewing, and we have agreed upon fair payment.
In return, I have offered them both a standing place at the Saint’s Hearth whenever their business brings them to Nottinghamshire. It seems we have all found a way to benefit one another.
Dagfinn’s hand traces circles on Euphemia’s hip.
Pride radiates from him.
Euphemia feels it blooming in her, too.
He reads the final lines.
Come home soon. I want to see you. There are things I need to say to you that cannot be said over a letter. Things I need to apologize for. Bring your husband, too, Cybele is still eager to meet him and decide for herself if she approves of the man who has won her sister’s heart.
Your love mother,
Andriana
Euphemia’s eyes linger on the words.
Things I need to apologize for.
A conversation they’ve both been avoiding.
Perhaps the time has come. Perhaps they can finally move through their grief together.
“We could go for a visit,” Dagfinn suggests, handing the letter to Euphemia.
“I think we should,” she says, folding it and putting it in her basket. “Do you think we should take the helhest or just a carriage?”
Dagfinn snorts a laugh at the same time a familiar voice calls from behind them.
“Where are you taking the carriage?”
Heathcliffe, Maryam’s son, comes plodding down the path.
He’s wearing a worn cotton vest the color of earth and a pair of muddied trousers with even muddier knees that tell Euphemia he’s been working in his fields all morning.
He’s a few years older than them, though there is an innocence about him that sometimes makes her forget.
Heathcliffe glances between the two of them, a bit frantic but trying to conceal it. “If you need someone to go to Nottinghamshire, I’d be happy to do it. Me mum’s got another load of casks for them anyways.”
Dagfinn raises his eyebrows at Euphemia in a look that says, see? I told you so.
When Maryam and Andriana first forged this new partnership, Heathcliffe all but refused to be the one to make the journeys.
He insisted he was content in Thorfell tending to his lands rather than gallivanting across the country.
However, Maryam was too ill to travel a couple months back, and so Heathcliffe had gone in her stead.
According to the update Euphemia received from her mother shortly after, Heathcliffe couldn’t take his eyes from Cybele the entire stay.
The poor, lovestruck fool has insisted on journeying down there for every shipment since.
Euphemia rolls her eyes at Dagfinn.
He takes a teasing, reproachful tone with the man. “One of these days, you’ll need to start acting like the noble you are and hire one of the town carters to deliver your wares.”
“Oh, I have no interest in lordly things, my Lord.” Heathcliffe blushes. “Besides, it would be no trouble at all.”
Dagfinn and Euphemia hold back their chuckles.
“Very well,” Euphemia says, half-laughing to herself. “Let’s all go then. It has been awhile since I’ve seen my family. Will you be ready to leave in a few days?”
There is usually a permanent slouch in the way the impoverished carry themselves—Euphemia knows firsthand how the cold winters, aching bellies, and hard labor can bend the body in on itself.
But in this moment, Heathcliffe straightens like a flower reaching for the sun.
“That would be more than doable. Thank you. I look forward to it.”
Heathcliffe disappears down the path, muttering excitedly to himself as he heads back toward his cottage and land.
“That will be entertaining to watch,” Dagfinn says.
Euphemia leans her head onto his shoulder and sighs. “He’s not going to survive her. You might not survive her.”
Dagfinn’s expression becomes haughty. “I survived Helheim. I think I can handle Cybele Branwen.”
Euphemia shrugs. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
With their arms wrapped around each other, the two head back inside Thorfell Manor. Inside the haunted halls she has come to call home. They lounge in the sitting room, Dagfinn reading, while Euphemia sorts her flowers.
At the sound of distant voices, she glances out the window to find Asvald and Kelda making their way back to the manor. Asvald says something and Kelda throws her head back in laughter. Their hands brush.
Euphemia smiles.
It is such a small thing. A brief caress. A laugh carried from a heart that has been broken. A woman allowing herself to find happiness again.
Euphemia has learned not to underestimate those small things.
Because that is what life has become: a collection of small things, each one a little act of healing just as important as the last.
There are whispers about them now, of course.
Tales that ripple through Thorfell and grow more fantastical with every telling.
Some swear the cursed lord and his haunted bride ride a flaming horse through the countryside every night.
Others insist Dagfinn can brew a tincture strong enough to cheat death itself, while Euphemia can lay a hand upon the dying and convince death to loosen its grip.
Most of the townsfolk know better than to believe such nonsense.
Some still make the sign of the cross when Euphemia passes.
Others lower their voices when they speak of Thorfell Manor or anyone who dwells there.
And yet, when sickness comes, or a child falls ill, or an old man draws his final breath, the people come to the manor all the same. They seek the couple’s tinctures and blessing.
Dagfinn has thrown himself into his work as a lord as much as he did his studies.
The town assemblies are no longer only for disputes over land, harvests, and taxes.
There is not time set aside for Thorfell’s history, particularly the parts people were once forbidden to speak aloud.
The names of those who were killed are read.
Old stories are shared without fear of punishment.
Descendants and survivors are invited to speak for themselves about how the town should move forward.
Dagfinn does not pretend that listening can undo what his family did. He knows it cannot. But he has learned that silence is another way of allowing the injustice to survive.
So he listens.
And when there is something his family can repair, he does not wonder whether it is inconvenient. He attempts to provide what is owed.
Neither of them can change the past.
Neither can cheat death.
But they have both learned that sometimes people do not need a miracle. Sometimes it is the small acts of kindness that are miracle enough.
Dagfinn reaches across the settee and takes her hand, his thumb brushing over the scars.
Euphemia looks down at their joined hands, then out across the garden beyond the window.
This is what they have made. Not a perfect life. Not an easy one. But theirs.
A garden. A rebuilt cooperage. A thriving tavern. A lord brought back from dreams and death. Two mothers learning to heal and love again.
A family that, somehow, has grown larger rather than smaller.
A life that leaves Euphemia feeling grateful and fulfilled.
Not the life she once imagined.
Something better.
A life built in the shadows of grief, and still somehow full of light.