Page 101 of The Trick of It

“Apparently, a stone tumbler?” Rhys said, showing her the card. “It says Lib bought it with extra profits because it was cheaper than paying someone to tumble the stones from the quarry on her behalf.”

“Oh, look at that,” Seph noted thinly, holding the letter to her nose. “She signed it: You’re welcome.”

“We can, erm … put things back how they were,” he assured her, crossing the room and putting his hands on her shoulders. “Bucket of paint and a day of dragging things around, and it’ll be back how it was.”

“What?” she said, wild-eyed as she looked up at him. “No, we cannot! Now I know it can be this and I’ll never be satisfied with what it was again. Don’t you see?”

He looked at her for a long time, remembering what it had been like, arriving here with that green letter, back when they’d been rivals. Back before he’d known what it could be. What it might look like otherwise.

“Yes,” he said gently, “I do see.”

“Oh, good,” she said, her shoulders sagging under his fingers. “But I still must be very cross with Libba the next time I see her, all right? Do not ruin that for me.”

“I would never,” he promised. “Do you want to look around a bit more, or would you rather just go to bed?”

“Let’s go to bed,” Seph said, lifting her hands and putting her fingers over his on her shoulders. “This will all still be here in the morning, won’t it? It’ll all still be here when we wake.”

“Yes, gwrach,” he told her, turning her toward the staircase and her rest. “It will all still be here when we wake.”

Epilogue

Two Months Later

Hibernal Solstice, 1817

Rhys Caradoc entered the shop just as a series of sparkles erupted from his wife’s fingers, jumping and fizzing over a candle flame, much to the awe of an assembled trio of sailors. He paused, leaning against the door frame, and watched as she handed them, one by one, the little curls of tissue paper with the fairy fire powder inside.

“Just throw it right at the flame. Go on!”

Pop, pop, pop.

Fireworks in miniature.

“I can only afford one,” the shortest of the sailors said, frowning at his options, a jar of fairy fire curls or a box of tissue paper butterflies, next to the demonstration set that Seph had likely been making fly for them moments before. “How’s a gent to choose?”

“If you bring them sparklers onto the boat, the quartermaster will have a fit,” his friend reasoned, reaching out to touch one of the tissue paper butterfly wings. “And you’ll run out of ’em eventually. I say the bugs.”

“I like the sparkles,” the biggest, deepest-voice sailor protested, crossing his massive arms. “If you buy the bugs, I will buy the sparkles.”

Rhys chuckled to himself and moved around the till, planting a kiss on Seph’s cheek and depositing his handful of newly arrived mail on the counter to sift through while she made the transaction.

There was a long, thin parcel from Northampton. A replacement candle from the one they’d used up, courtesy of Father Wheeler. Rhys could smell the lavender through the packaging. Two letters from London, as well.

“The circus agreed,” he exclaimed, tearing open the fancier of the two. “They’ll do a week’s tenure at the pavilion come July!”

“Oh, Rhys,” she cried, turning to clap her hands together as the sailors departed, murmuring happily amongst themselves with their bounty. “That is wonderful! I cannot wait to see Nini again.”

He nodded, handing her the letter. “She feels the same.”

There were purchase orders and invoices in the stack, as well as a copy of Ackermann’s that made Seph squeal like a piglet and bounce on her toes, snatching it from his fingers.

“Goodness,” he tutted, watching as she tore to the back of the circular immediately to begin devouring the oddities and scientific tools section. “Don’t make me have jealous feelings toward a bit of wax paper, Seph.”

She shushed him, her hair sparkling in the afternoon light as she turned her back to him to flirt with her bloody circular.

Toward the bottom of the stack, there was an unusual envelope. Emerald green, with a white wax seal. It was heavy. There was something inside it beyond a simple missive.

Rhys froze, not quite trusting his eyes as he stared down at it, heavy and glossy between his fingertips. “Erm,” he said. “Seph?”