An Enchantment of Ravens(81)
“Yes, I know!” Rook interrupted crossly.
I shot him a curious glance and discovered that he was nervously avoiding my eyes. He looked relieved when tentative footsteps crunched within the house, liberating him of the burden of explaining this “certain something” to me, and for the moment I was happy to forget all about it.
“Emma!” I called. “We’re safe! We’re in the . . . parlor.”
“I can see that,” Emma said calmly, picking her way into the room with the twins clutching both her hands. “There are holes in the walls. March, whatever you just picked up, don’t eat it.”
“Too late,” said May.
Emma shook her head. She scanned the parlor, and then the yard, and saw Gadfly, whereupon her eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Now who’s going to clean up this mess?”
“Oh, dear,” said Gadfly. “I’m afraid I must be off.”
Epilogue
I WRAPPED the bandage neatly around Rook’s injured hand, pleased to see that this time, he didn’t hide a wince. Two weeks later, his finger was nearly healed. We sat at my kitchen table beneath the wavering amethyst glow of his fairy light, still shining brightly after the two dozen enchantments he’d dispensed that day as payment to the workmen rebuilding our parlor. It didn’t escape me that he had not yet mentioned returning to the forest, or said anything about taking up the role of king, so the moment he started fidgeting restlessly in his seat, I had a reasonable idea of what he was working up to.
“Once,” he said, “I mentioned to you how succession works among my kind. How one prince is replaced by another. Or at least, how it used to work—the law can be different now.”
“Yes, and it’s awful,” I said with feeling. “Killing one another like . . . oh.”
Rook hadn’t been prepared for me to start figuring it out myself. He paled and continued quickly, “So, technically, as you are the one who defeated the Alder King, you’re now—well—the queen of the fairy courts. And I . . .”
I took pity on him. He was turning rather green. “Rook, I would be delighted to marry you and make you king. But first, I have one demand. It is of the utmost importance.”
I couldn’t tell whether he looked more relieved, or more frightened. “What is it, my dear?”
“I’d like another declaration, please.”
“Isobel.” He swept down to his knees and kissed my hand, gazing up at me in devotion. “I love you more than the stars in the sky. I love you more than Lark loves dresses.”
I startled myself with my own yelping laugh.
“I love you more than Gadfly loves looking at himself in a mirror,” he went on.
“Surely not that!”
Our laughter carried across the darkened yard, past the chicken house full of sleeping hens, the red-leafed oak, and the autumn wheat whispering in the field, half cropped for harvest. The wild wind swept our voices all the way to the forest, where crickets sang a new song to the crescent moon. Somewhere, fair folk were having a feast. Others swirled in the midst of a ball. Others still traced the edges of a piece of bark, gazing at their portraits in quiet contemplation. A thin mortal woman packed her books, assisted by a girl with sharp teeth and a well-dressed man with silver-blond hair. Yet no matter what they were doing, everyone in the forest waited with an indrawn breath, waiting for the taste of autumn, the smell of change, the first news of a king and queen unlike any the world had known before.
And we wouldn’t live happily ever after, because I don’t believe in such nonsense, but we both had a long, bold adventure ahead of us, and a great deal to look forward to at last.
Acknowledgments
I wouldn’t have had the courage to pursue publication if my family hadn’t believed in me. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for your unwavering encouragement and support. You had confidence in me when so much of the world doubted the validity of my dreams—including myself—and I couldn’t have done it without you. By the way, I love you most times infinity.
Sara Megibow, my agent, is a superhero. I can’t imagine what this journey would have been like without her, in large part because it wouldn’t exist. Gratitude alone is inadequate—Sara, you deserve an eight-thousand-dollar ring made of a dozen tiny Fabergé eggs, and also a private island. I’m working on it.
My editor, Karen Wojtyla, is not only a joy to work with, but understands my writing on a level that constantly surprises and delights me. Karen, it’s a privilege to work with you, even if you did have me take all the pockets out of Isobel’s Firth & Maester’s dresses (you were absolutely right, as usual). Thank you for believing in this book.
I’d also like to thank everyone at Simon & Schuster, including Annie Nybo, Bridget Madsen, Sonia Chaghatzbanian, Elizabeth Blake-Linn, and Barbara Perris, for all your help and hard work.
Thank you to my brother, Jon Rogerson, and also Kate Frasca, for making sure I have a place to stay, feeding me, and buying me the comfiest sweatpants.
I wouldn’t be who I am without my friends Rachel Boughton and Jessica Stoops. You have my eternal gratitude for never being more than a message away, for knowing me like no one else does, and for putting up with some truly questionable writing over the years. I don’t deserve you. Write your books.