My eyes burned.
“Wulfric…”
“Go home, my heart.”
And there it was, the open exit I had spent my whole life searching for.
I’d always known where the doors were, how many people stood between me and safety, how long a stairwell would remain passable and what route to take when the first one failed. Even before Brian died, some part of me had lived that way, measuring risk and keeping myself ready to move.
Afterward, I had made a whole life of it. Run toward the fire. Get everyone out. Never stand still long enough to admit what I wanted. The strange thing was, now that the exit stood open, I finally understood I hadn’t been trapped here at all.
I looked at the electric lights, at people who didn’t know England had fallen while they browsed old spoons and toast racks.
Then I looked at Wulfric. The grumpy Saxon lord who knew when I hadn’t eaten, who taught me that some things were worth standing still to defend. The man who had lost everything and still found the courage to build again.
I threw the brooch into the light as the pavilion vanished. Sound collapsed inward, the siren cutting off abruptly.
Wulfric stared at the empty darkness behind me.
“You did not go.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Honestly, men. I crossed the space between us, caught the front of his tunic in both hands, and looked up at him.
“Because I love you, you impossible man.”
Something broke open in his face.
“I love you,” I said again. “Not because I’m trapped here. Not because your people need me. Not because an old woman with terrible customer service told me to find you.”
His laugh escaped rough and startled.
“I choose you,” I said.
Then he kissed me. There was nothing careful about it, nothing hesitant left between us, only his hands in my hair and rain on my face and the fierce relief of being held and cherished by a man I had crossed centuries to find.
Epilogue
DARCY
Three months later,on a cold morning washed clean by snow, I discovered there were few things more difficult than organizing your own wedding when half the settlement considered itself part of the planning committee and the other half had begun drinking before noon.
“I only moved the benches six feet.”
Anya stood in the doorway of the new hall with her arms folded over a blue wool gown, the color deep enough to make her dark hair look almost black, and regarded me with the tired patience of a woman who had already heard this argument more than once.
“You moved them three times.”
Behind her, Gilda snorted so loudly that a child carrying a basket of winter apples turned to look.
She had recovered from the infected wound with the same stubbornness she brought to everything else, although the story of her near death had grown steadily more heroic with each telling and now apparently involved three Normans, a wolf, and an angel who had personally refused to let her into heaven because she would only rearrange the furniture.
Her arm remained stiff when the weather turned cold, but that hadn’t stopped her from appearing at sunrise in a mulberry gown, her gray hair braided beneath a fresh linen covering, announcing that no bride should be trusted to make sensible decisions on her wedding day.
I pointed out that I had organized evacuations through fire. Gilda had informed me that was easier than planning a wedding.
