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My grandmother hadn't given me the compass simply so I could survive.

She'd wanted me to find my way back to a life worth living.

The estate mattered.

Our name mattered.

But the people who loved us mattered more.

And what we chose to do with the things we'd been given mattered most of all.

"She always said roots hold when kingdoms fall," I told Guy.

He smiled. "She sounds like a wise woman."

"She was." I looked toward the house. "Terrifying, too."

"I can imagine."

I laughed softly. "She would've liked you."

"Would she?"

"Eventually."

Guy laughed. I loved that sound. I'd spent three years hearing him shout my name in frustration through Sherwood Forest. Now I got to hear him laugh. I considered that a considerable improvement.

We stopped beneath the yew tree.

From there, I could see most of the estate.

The hall still had three holes in the roof.

The burned wing needed to be demolished and rebuilt.

The west pasture was overgrown, the bottom acre was full of rushes, and the south stable leaned at an alarming angle.

Smoke rose from a chimney that hadn't been used in six years. Somewhere in the courtyard, someone was shouting at Much about a wheelbarrow.

I smiled.

There was more work ahead of me than I could finish in a season. Probably more than I could finish in a year.

Little John had written it all down on four pages and had taken to reading me a new complaint every morning at breakfast.

But the land was mine again.

My father's name was carved into a stone beneath the great oak in Sherwood, where anyone could read it.

My people were safe. Some had returned to their families.

Others had found a home here.

And beside me stood the Alpha who'd spent three years trying to catch the Ghost of Sherwood. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had ink on his fingers from helping me work through the estate accounts.

I took his hand.

I was home.