For one endless moment, nothing happened. Then the portal screamed. Light exploded outward, blinding white, consuming everything. The wind rose to a howl, a shriek, a sound like the world tearing itself apart. The ground shook beneath her feet asshe fell to her knees in the mud, hands pressed over her ears, eyes squeezed shut against the brilliance.
And then?—
Silence.
She opened her eyes. The storm was fading, the rain slowing to a gentle drizzle as the thunder retreated to distant grumbles. The wind died down to a whisper. The portal was gone. Nothing remained but the clearing. Wet grass, bare trees, grey sky. And Gareth, staring at her like she’d just performed a miracle.
She laughed—a bright, startled sound—and held out her hands. “Well? Are you going to stand there gaping, or are you going to come kiss your future wife?”
He crossed the distance in three strides and caught her, swinging her up into his arms, crushing her against his chest, holding on so tight she could barely breathe. She buried her face in his shoulder, breathing him in.
“You stayed,” he said. His voice—his real voice, rough as gravel, broken as old stone. “You could have gone back to your own time. You stayed.”
“Of course I stayed.” She pulled back to see his face, to cup his scarred cheek in her muddy hand. “I told you, you ridiculous man. I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes were wet. His hands came up to cup her face, thumbs brushing away rain and tears together.
“My love,” he said. The words were a rasp, barely human, and the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard. “Say you’ll be my wife.”
“Yes.” She was laughing and crying at the same time. “A thousand times yes. In any time.Yes.”
He kissed her. The kiss was fierce and tender and desperate all at once. His hands tangled in her wet hair. Her fingers clutched the leather of his jerkin like she’d never let go. Whenthey finally broke apart, he was smiling. Actually smiling—a real smile that turned his scarred face into something beautiful.
“You spoke,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his throat. “You spoke again.”
For you.His hands moved against her back.Only for you.
“You don’t have to—I never needed you to?—”
I know.His thumb brushed fresh tears from her cheek.But some words should be spoken. Some answers should be heard.
They walked back to Greywatch hand in hand as the storm clouds scattered and pale autumn sunlight broke through. The castle came into view as they crested the final hill, grey stone against a clearing sky. Smoke rose from the chimneys—the household had kept fires burning through the storm, waiting. Figures moved on the battlements, and as Elodie and Gareth approached, a shout went up.
The gates swung open.
EPILOGUE
Lady Elodie de Clare stood at the window of the lord’s chamber, their chamber now, and watched the courtyard bustle below. Ribbons streamed from the maypole that had been erected at dawn, bright against the grey stone walls. Children wove between the preparations, stealing sweetmeats and being chased by indulgent servants. The smell of roasting meat drifted up from the kitchens, mingling with the scent of spring flowers that burst from every available surface. One year. One year to the day since she’d tumbled out of the sky in a flash of lightning and landed at Gareth’s feet on May Day.
“You’re meant to be resting.”
She turned to find him in the doorway, his expression caught between fondness and exasperation. He crossed to her, one hand settling on her hip, the other brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“I was resting,” she said. “Then I heard the music start, and I wanted to see.”
You wanted to make sure everything was perfect.His signs were teasing now, fluid and quick. Seven months of marriage had given them their own private dialect, shortcuts and inside jokes, a language within a language.
“That too.”
He smiled a real smile, the kind that still made her heart stutter. He smiled more often now. Laughed, sometimes. Occasionally spoke in quiet moments, when the words mattered enough to be worth the effort.
His voice was still rough. Still broken. But he was working on it, pushing through the pain a little more each day. Last week, he’d managed an entire sentence without flinching—I love you, wife—and Elodie had cried for ten minutes straight.
“Come,” he said now, the word ragged but clear. “Our people are waiting.”
Garlands of spring flowers draped every surface of the great hall. Hawthorn and primrose, bluebells and wild roses. The long trestle tables groaned under platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, honeyed fruits, and delicacies that Cook had been working on for days. Music filled the air, bright and joyful, drowning out the memory of the cold, silent hall Elodie had first entered a year ago.
And everywhere, people were talking. Not just speaking aloud, though there was plenty of that, laughter and gossip and the happy arguments that came from too much mead and not enough chairs. But signing too. Hands moved in rapid conversation across the crowded hall, adding another layer to the celebration.
