Page 102 of This Is Not True Love’s Kiss

Marsten’s lips spread into a wide smile, and he tipped his head. “Take a look and see.”

We’d stopped, and for the first time since we started walking, I actually took notice of our surroundings.

My breath caught in my throat. Lor’s family was gathered. My family. We’d become closer over the last few months, and I’d attended every family dinner. The Wolfgangs weren’t as insufferable as I’d originally thought. They were kind and welcoming and they always asked about Fair Folk customs and culture. They were open to trying new traditions, new foods. They’d made me feel less lost in this new world.

Then my breath caught in my throat as my gaze landed on Lor, standing there in front of everyone, looking so ruggedly beautiful with his wavy brown hair that hung to his shoulders. His tight-fitting black trousers and simple white silk shirt, the top buttons opened to show his muscular chest that I loved to run my hands over.

His eyes shone as he stared at me. I still didn’t understand what this was. Then I saw Morton sitting on a pedestal behind Lor and the ribbons tied around the tree trunks.

My hand floated to my mouth. This was a marriage ceremony. My marriage ceremony.

Marsten had let go of my arm and joined the small crowd. Ceri and her father appeared, and she flashed me a wide smile. Meera and Fargus both sat on a branch hanging over the little clearing.

I walked forward, my gaze locked on my husband.

He stretched out his hands and I grabbed them as he pulled me toward him.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Our wedding,” he said simply.

“We already had a wedding, unless it was someone else I married?”

He shook his head, hands tightening around mine. “I want a real wedding,” he said. “Done the Fair Folk way. Not using the godwitch traditions. I don’t want to bind myself to you in the name of any godwitch.”

Tears sprang to my eyes once again. Lor was always doing this. These little things that gave me a fresh start, a new beginning, where I didn’t have the horrors of the past hanging over me. I never even thought about redoing our wedding, but this was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“If everyone could please grab a ribbon,” Morton said.

Everyone complied, separating to find a different tree or branch where a ribbon was tied.

“How did you know about this?” I asked, but I already knew. Lor had assembled a team of historians and Fair Folk to work together to record our history, our culture, everything. He could’ve asked any of the Fair Folk about our marriage traditions, how we married in secret, without the knowledge of our masters, who never would’ve allowed us to marry each other. That did them no good when we couldn’t produce children with anyone but mortals. I’d attended a few Fair Folk weddings to mortals, all done in the name of the love and relationship godwitch, done in one of their temples with their book, their words.

But I’d attended many of our own weddings. These were intimate ceremonies, only meant to have the closest friends and family invited. And instead of binding us and our love to the godwitches, we bound ourselves to our family and friends, our community. They promised to be there for us, to help us when we were struggling, to aid us in times of need, to do everything they could to be the village every husband and wife needed.

One by one, our family members stepped up, tying our hands together with their ribbon. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I watched each ribbon layer over the next, Lor standing there before me, such a strong and steady presence, his own eyes shining with tears.

Finally the last ribbon was tied, and Morton spoke. I didn’t hear much of what he said. We’d never had a script for those who married us. But I stared into Lor’s eyes, and I knew I’d never forget this moment, never forget the love I felt for this man, for this home, this community. It had taken four thousand years, but I’d finally found where I belonged.

EPILOGUE

Aoife, One Month Later

“You’re sure she’s missing?” Lor said as we stood in front of a painting that had been slashed with some kind of weapon, the canvas torn to shreds.

Ambrose stood next to us, frowning, staring at the painting with a peculiar look in his eyes.

“How could Margaret be missing?” I asked. “She lives in these paintings. Are we sure she isn’t just hiding somewhere? Maybe someone came at her with a sword and scared her?”

“Why would someone do that?” Ambrose asked. “Margaret is the sweetest . . . person, erm, painting out there. She wouldn’t harm a fly. There would be no reason for someone to attack her painting.”

“I’m telling you,” Morton piped up from where he slithered along the floor, pacing back and forth, “she’s missing. We always meet in the library every morning, and this is now the fourth morning she hasn’t appeared. No one has seen her!”

Smoke puffed from the bookwyrm’s nostrils, which flared with irritation. He and Margaret had grown close over the years, and I could see the concern in his rigid body, hear it in his voice.

“That is strange,” Lor said. “Margaret is not one to hide.” He stroked his jaw. “But who would do this to her?”

Ambrose’s fists clenched. “Maybe one of the many visitors we’ve had over the last month? All these meetings and trade agreements and this new conclave meant to stand against the brotherhood.”