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“Yes, wife?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly yours.”

He carries me toward the bed beneath the stars.

And as the candles flicker and the sea crashes against the rocks below, I realize something extraordinary.

I spent my life bringing broken statues back to life. I never imagined one would teach me how to live.

Epilogue Two

Morpheus

Five Years Later

I’ve commanded emperors, conquered nightmares, and brought entire civilizations to their knees.

Yet I am currently being held hostage by a three-year-old girl with pink fingernail polish.

And I’ve never been happier.

“Daddy, don’t move!”

I freeze.

My daughter narrows her enormous violet eyes at me.

They are my eyes.

An unfortunate inheritance, according to her mother, who claims one arrogant immortal in the family was already more than sufficient.

But the dark curls?

Those are entirely Calla’s.

As is the stubborn little chin.

The dramatic sighing.

And the extraordinary ability to make me surrender every ounce of dignity I possess.

“Forgive me, princess.”

She dips the tiny brush into a bottle of bright pink polish.

“You messed it up.”

“A terrible offense.”

“Very terrible.”

“I shall endeavor to do better.”

She considers this.

Then nods solemnly.