I exhale.
Our baby is fine. Alive.
Keira hands the baby to her mother and steps back, wiping at her own eyes. I slide an arm around my wife and look down at the tiny creature we somehow brought into this cursed world.
She opens her eyes. Gray. Clear.
The window behind us holds no ravens.
I press my lips to Peighton’s hair. “I am done listening to the dead,” I murmur. “From now on, I listen only to you.”
She beams at me and can’t wipe her smile away. “You sound like an American man right now.”
“I think I was cursed, but not that badly.”
She snorts and shakes her head disapprovingly. Then she leans back into me, our daughter between us, our family in a circle that no curse can break.
For the first time, the quiet feels like peace.
Epilogue
Peighton
The waiter leads me to a small table tucked beneath a striped awning, the kind that feels cozy and crooked in the way Italian bistros always do. Fall air rolls off the water and curls beneath my hat, brushing my cheeks. I smooth the blue fabric of my dress and sit with slow grace. My sunglasses come off last. I place them neatly beside my bread plate, look up, and smile.
Rupert looks like he swallowed glass.
He folds his newspaper, blinking as if his eyes are malfunctioning. “Peighton,” he says stiffly. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“Of course you weren’t.” I rest my chin on my hand and smile wider, wicked enough to make his throat bob. “But I found you.”
His gaze flicks sharply across the street, then behind him, then over the patio. Searching.
I tsk under my breath. “Looking for Gustav?”
His jaw locks.
I lift one lazy hand and point across the narrow street. Gustav stands in the open, leaning against a low stone wall as if he owns the entire coastline. One hand in his pocket, shoulders loose beneath a white button-down, sunglasses hiding those intense eyes. His presence alone curdles the air.
Rupert pales.
“Don’t worry,” I say casually. “He’ll behave. As long as you play nicely.”
I angle my face toward the nearest window. The sunlight catches metal.
Rupert’s eyes widen as he spots the glint of at least two long-range barrels aimed directly at him.
Yes. Snipers. Real ones. I learned quickly that being married to a Sokolov meant learning prudence by fire.
“You really went all-in on security,” he mutters.
“I have to,” I say gently. “Because of men like you.”
The waiter brings water. I thank him politely, and Rupert watches, as if baffled that someone can sound so gracious and threaten him so softly at the same time.
“So,” I continue, placing my napkin across my lap. “We’re on a belated honeymoon. Although now it might be more accurate to call it a babymoon.” His eyes drop to my stomach. I pat it lightly. “Yes. Again. Two months along. So you understand why I need clarity.”
“Clarity about what?” he asks tightly.
