Everyone cheers. Draco finds me across the crowd, his eyes promising forever.
"And to all of us," Varro adds, "who found second chances when we thought we'd get none. To family—found, chosen, and earned."
More cheers. My father raises his glass awkwardly, out of his element but participating. My mother wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, then seems to remember herself and pulls out a handkerchief.
The party continues into the evening, the Missouri sky turning brilliant shades of orange and pink. Someone plays music—Quintus produces an ancient-looking lyre and strums a melody that sounds like history itself. Draco pulls me into a dance on the lawn, not caring that there's no real dance floor, that my parents are watching, that everyone can see us.
"Happy?" he asks, spinning me.
"Incredibly." I rest my head against his chest, and hear his heart beating strong and steady. "This feels right. All of it."
"Even your parents playing nice?"
"Especially that." I look up at him. "They're trying, Draco. Really trying."
"I noticed." He kisses my forehead. "Doesn't mean I'll forgive them easily."
"You don't have to forgive them at all. You just have to tolerate them at family dinners occasionally."
"That I can do." He pulls back, studies my face. "You know what I was thinking?"
"What?"
"We should get married here. At the sanctuary."
Theidea stops me cold. "Really?"
"Laura can officiate—she's legally ordained for this kind of thing. The guys–my family–can be there. Your family and friends can come here." His eyes search mine. "If you want. I know you probably pictured something else—"
"I pictured you," I interrupt. "The rest are just details. But yes. Yes to here. Yes to all of it."
His grin could light up the darkness. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He spins me again, and I laugh, dizzy and happy and so completely in love I can barely stand it.
Later, as the party winds down and stars appear, I find myself sitting on the porch steps with Laura while the men tell stories about ancient Rome–light ones, full of laughter—by the fire pit.
"Thank you," I say. "For saving him. For giving him a chance to find himself."
"He did that on his own." Laura watches the gladiators with fond exasperation, her smile soft and a little tired. "We just provided the space."
"He needed to leave."
"He did. Some of them need roots, like Varro and Thrax. Others need wings, like Draco." She turns to me. "You gave him wings and a reason to come back. That's everything."
My father approaches, hesitant. "Charity, could I… could we talk? Just for a moment?"
Laura excuses herself with a knowing look. My father sits beside me on the steps, staring out at the sanctuary grounds.
"Your mother and I have been talking," he begins. "About Grace. About you. About how badly we handled everything."
"Okay."
"We thought keeping her room exactly as she left it would honor her memory. But we never talked about her, never grieved properly. We just… froze that day along with her room." He finally looks at me. "And then we tried to make you into what we'd lost. That was wrong. Deeply, unforgivably wrong."
Tears prick my eyes. "Yes. It was."
