I smile, study the curve of his jaw. “As fine as anyone could be, Mr. Avery.” His face goes stern, a hard line, and I laugh. “Oh, excuse me.LordAvery.”
The title is new. Passed to the only remaining nobility left in Rixton. Blackbourne has been left to rot, the remaining staff carried over to attend to Avery Manor.
We found the bones there, buried where I knew they would be: in the castle gardens beneath the dead and dying plants. Bram and I dug them all up and laid them to rest, and the village blinked in shame. Apologies lay thick on their tongues, and I smiled, nodded, and heard them all. But my duty was not to them. My promise was not for them, to weave empty words to resolve them of their guilt. It was for Lilith. For Hester. For Dinah andRosalyn and Frances. I put their bones back beneath their graves.
Bram lifts the small box to my nose, and instantly, I am drawn in.
“Did Clara send marmalade cakes?” I lean toward him, greedy hands reaching for the box.
He pulls it back, a mischievous grin licking his lips. “Ah, ah, ah, there is a tax, Ms. Thorn. Delivery fees and all that.”
I glare at him, but before I can speak a word, his lips are crushed against mine. All I can taste is the black coffee, the twist of orange, the catch of clove.
I pull back, swatting him on the shoulder.
“You already ate one!”
His smile widens, a thing so delicious I want it back between my lips. “Sorry, can’t help myself. Here, you want one?” He pops open the lid of the box.
I rise on my tiptoes, catching the scents of citrus spice, vanilla, a hint of cardamom. Four pale brown cakes dusted in frosting sugar sit on lace cloth, tucked beside a brown bone that smells of only one thing: pumpkin.
Rascal sits eagerly at my feet, tail wagging, hunt forgotten. I wriggle my nose.
“You wouldn’t happen to want one of Clara’s pumpkin bones, now, would you?”
He scrambles forward in the grass, his tail a whip, lips peeled back, and he bays a desperate wail. I chuckle again, tossing my head to the yellowing sky.
It feels so good to laugh. So necessary. I wiggle my fingers between the treats and pick up the bone, holding it above Rascal’s head.
“You ready?” I tease.
He jumps high, his wet nose slapping against my hand. I pull the bone back.
“Fetch, boy!” It soars from my hand, end over end, and Rascal becomes a black blur. Bram chuckles, and I turn, catching him taking another bite of marmalade cake. “You’re going to eat them all before I have a chance!”
I launch myself at the box and trip when he pulls away, rolling into the rye, my belly tight with laughter. Bram collapses beside me, smothering my lips with his until I can no longer breathe. I sit up, wipe hair from my face,forcing my fingers into the box, and pull out a cake. After taking a bite, the crumb melts on my tongue.
Cinnamon, sugar, orange, the sweet sting of ginger.
Clara knows me so well.
“If she keeps sending us sweets in the post every week, we’ll have to buy a whole new wardrobe come summer!”
Bram laughs and wipes his hands on his trousers. “I’m sure that can be arranged.” He props his head on his hand, lying in the grass beside me.
In the spring light, he is beautiful. So new, soalive. The sunlight reflects in his amber eyes, and warmth blooms bright inside me.
The people of Rixton questioned us, of course, when he showed up breathing at the steps of Avery Manor, not a moment older than the day he died. Lady Avery would take none of their cynical words, though. A miracle, she called it. The resurrection work of Ithrandril.
When asked, Bram tells people he was sent back for a reason. The god of light knew Rixton would be without a leader once Ransom and my father were found out, and Ithrandril had breathed life back into Bram so he could lead the people away from this dark chapter.
They believe him. Or, at least, they don’t ask for particulars. To question the judgment of Ithrandril is to doubt the very fabric of reality itself. And sometimes, people are more willing to walk through life in a fog than see with the truth and clarity that would shake their world apart.
I finger the key at the base of my collarbone. But maybe they are right. Perhaps it was all a work of the gods.
Or just a woman.
A woman who only wanted to live.
