To laugh.
To live.
The wind sped eastward, racing back to find the boy.
It ran so quickly it dried its own tears.
EPILOGUE
A cool tendril of breeze wound through the open window and stroked my cheek. It stirred the Smith mansion’s ashes, fluttering them like snow. The stone and the marble were hot, but the wind brought a cool, refreshing, sweet-meadow breeze. It pushed away the smoke and brought the smell of wildflowers, violets, and the hint of rain on a grassy field.
At the fluttering of my hair and the gentle lover’s pressure on the back of my neck, I turned and smiled as Finn stepped close.
His fingers played with the hair at the back of my neck as I leaned into him.
The boy, the wind whispered.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Finn wrapped his arms around me and held me against his chest. I felt secure, safe against the beating of his heart.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, and the wind carried his words away.
“Everything I did,” I said, looking toward the river and the sun shining over it, “I did to come back to you.”
He smiled against my cheek, and then, bending, he put his arms under my legs and lifted me up. He cradled me against him, carrying me like a husband carries his new wife over the threshold.
“What are you doing?”
He brushed a kiss over my nose. “I’ve got a ticket for a train?—”
“No—”
“And a hotel room under the name Mr. and Mrs.—”
“When did you?—?”
“Smith. Remember what I said in the inquisitor’s chair? I’ve been waiting to hold you for what feels like my whole life. To love you. You’ll be you, and I’ll be me, and we’ll love, Mari. We’ll get on the train, we’ll take a ride, and we’ll love.”
It sounded perfect. It sounded like heaven. But . . .
“Finn. What about—?” I stopped at the look on his face.
He nodded. “I know. Trust me. I know. But if we abandon joy because of sorrow or throw happiness on the ground because of pain . . . don’t you think we should hold onto the good things, onto love, when we can? Don’t you think we should celebrate it? If not now, when? We can’t let joy be blackmailed by darkness.” He swallowed and then asked cautiously, “Right?”
I reached up and brushed a hand over his cheek. My throat was raw when I replied, “Right.”
He smiled and carried me over the burned, smoking threshold.
“Can we really ride the ghost train in real life?” I asked.
He smiled down at me. “I don’t know. I guess we’re about to find out.”
We did.
And now?—
My friend?—
