“The law will see the rest done properly,” he said. “Harold was known in several questionable circles, even before his name was struck from Oxford’s rolls.” He paused to nod toward the ledger “This will close more than one open investigation.”
Marcus removed one hand from his wife to clap his friend on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Alexander,” he said. “For arriving when you did.”
Alexander glanced toward Catherine, then back.
“I never questioned the truth,” he said. “Nor did Rosalind.”
Catherine gave a small, weary smile in reply.
“Your belief is most gracious,” she said.
Alexander shook his head.
“No,” he said. “It was precisely what was due.”
The constable gave a quiet signal for his men to begin their final inspection, and with it a weariness fell upon Marcus like ash—fatigue mingled with the slow unravelling of what had been held too taut for far too long.
Marcus turned to Catherine and drew her closer, the satchel long since discarded, the artefacts it had carried forgotten for now.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asked, his voice pitched low against the growing hush of the clearing.
She looked up at him then, bruised and pale, yet fiercely composed, and nodded once.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I am.”
He closed his eyes for but a moment, then pressed a kiss to her temple and turned toward the path that would lead them away from ruin—away from broken trusts and buried lies—and onward into the quiet promise of something better.
Epilogue
The morning sunlight poured in broad, golden bands through the tall, mullioned windows of the Penwood Manor library, brushing the worn spines of leather-bound volumes and illuminating motes of dust that hovered lazily in the quiet air.
Outside, early bees traced erratic paths through the flowering vines just beginning to climb the southern walls, but within, all was calm, ordered, and thoughtful, the way Catherine liked her mornings best.
She sat at the central worktable with a soft shawl draped around her shoulders despite the warm weather. A freshly unwrapped fragment of Romano-British pottery sat in a silk-lined tray before her; its ochre clay still faintly scented with earth.
With delicate care, she turned the shard between her gloved fingers, noting the unusual curvature of the rim and the intricacy of the moulded pattern. The notation parchment beside her already bore several neat lines in her fine script.
Her figure, slightly bowed over the table, revealed the gentle swell of her abdomen beneath the empire waist of her morning gown with unmistakable evidence of the child growing within her.
It made her movements slower these days, her silences more reflective. And yet, despite the months of discomfort and changing rhythms, she had never felt more content.
Across the table, Marcus glanced up from his own work. He had been cataloguing the accompanying fragments, but his pen had stilled mid-line. His gaze lingered on his wife, his expression unreadable to any but her.
When she looked up, she caught him watching her, and her lips curved in a smile that was both knowing and amused.
“You are meant to be examining the tablet, my lord,” she said lightly, arching a brow.
“I am,” he said without apology, leaning back slightly in his chair. “And yet the composition is flawed. The artefact is notable, but the woman holding it rather outshines the find.”
She shook her head, though her smile deepened.
“You flatter outrageously,” she said.
Marcus gave his head a non-negotiable shake.
“Entirely factual,” he said. “You are more radiant than any artefact in this room.”
