The last of the sun is disappearing, painting the sky with flecks of light.
Taylor leans forward next to me. She brushes my hand with hers, and I take it, holding tight. Her eyes are full of tears and something fierce—fire, maybe. But lighter.Dawn.
She is the future they all dreamed of.
She is the freedom they fought for.
“Mom, I want to stay,” she says softly, like she’s worried I might be mad. “I want to learn everything. With you. Dad will let me. We’ll talk to him together.”
I can’t believe her words, can’t believe what they mean to me. Slowly, I nod, my lips trembling.Is any of this real?“Then we’ll stay.”
“Really?” Mom asks.
“Together,” I vow, wrapping an arm around my daughter’s shoulders.
The meadow relaxes, as if exhaling, and I can feel its relief on my skin. Smoke rises from Foxglove’s chimney in the distance, still there. Still strong. Still home.
Somewhere deep in the woods, an owl hoots—low and ancient. It sounds menacing, but it’s not. It’s not a warning this time. It’s a welcome. A celebration.
The three of us move closer together without saying a word. There are no words needed. We are three generations bound not by blood alone, but by the unbroken promise of protection and love, passed down like a sacred heirloom from mother to daughter and beyond.
All around us, the forest sings. The moon appears, watching, and Foxglove and her land—our land—remembers.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CORINNE WILDE - ONE YEAR LATER
I close the door to the cabin—my door now, our door—and turn the lock. The click settles something deep in my chest, a small anchor thrown into place. The wind howls outside, but in here, there’s only quiet. The good kind.
This house has seen so much noise.
Mom hums in the kitchen. It’s the same tune she’s hummed since I was a girl, something wordless and familiar. Taylor is upstairs in the loft, singing to herself while she reads next to the window—the very spot where I used to sit and pretend I could hear the trees whisper. Maybe I could. Maybe I still can.
Foxglove is officially our home now. We live here together, the way we promised we would that evening by Grandma’s grave. Three generations of Wilde women under one roof, just as it’s always been—only now, it’s us. Our turn.
Lewis still visits—sometimes with groceries, sometimes to stay for supper. Taylor remains the center of his world. I think I was once, too. Maybe I could be again. But these days, I’m not sure I want to be the center of anyone’s world.
Not after everything.
The idea of marriage feels far away now, like a book I finished long ago and left on a shelf.
I’m happy. Free.
Not free to see anyone else, necessarily. But to see myself. To learn who I am.
Greta comes by whenever she can—often with snacks, always with memories and laughter. Occasionally she’s here when Conrad and Benji stop by, and we have spontaneous picnics in the orchard, drinking fresh cider and staying out late enough for the fireflies to join us.
No one was more devastated to learn the truth about EJ than Conrad, and some days I get the feeling he’s still trying to make it up to us. To pay for his nephew’s sins.
There’s no need, though. Lewis, Greta, Conrad, and Benji have become our family, and even though we aren’t conventional, I like to think that comes with my name.
Wilde women have never been normal, and we’ve learned to embrace the words that were once hurled at us, the ones that haunted us.
Mom is teaching Taylor and me everything she knows—everything passed down from her childhood—and I’m discovering there’s very little her remedies can’t heal.
It’s been fun to discover Foxglove’s secrets, but there’s a peace that comes with knowing they belong only to us. And that they’ll be there to protect us should danger ever come calling again.
I’ve spent more time this year thinking about that night than I’d like to admit. The way Lewis’s blood felt on my hands. The way Taylor sobbed. The way Mom fell—so fast, so sudden. The way she knew what to do. The way she saved Lewis.
