“I don’t want to just sweep it under the rug. I wish there was a spell to undo it. Something I could do.”
“You can drink this for a start.” Rowan picked up the mug, now cooled enough to drink.
Briar cupped it in his hands, bringing it to his lips. He sipped, chamomile, honey, and the carnella blooms—with their earthy taste—smooth on his tongue. Warmth spread gradually through him like liquid sunlight. He took another drink, this one easier to swallow than the first. Though his aches and tight muscles remained, a balm of comfort worked its way through him.
He set the mug down and picked away one of the scabs left by the forest’s thorns. He let his blood drop into the glass of water and honeysuckle pollen. They waited. Briar pressed a hand to his chest and felt something subtly shift. Like a stake between his ribs had eroded enough to slip free. It had been there so long that the relief at its removal almost hurt. The glass, however, remained clear.
“It didn’t—?” Rowan’s voice snagged. He was still watching the glass. It hadn’t turned color.
Briar frowned. His breath came easier. Shadows no longer crept into his vision. So why…
It started as a speck of sky in the clear liquid. A spiral of blue ink gradually swirling outward until the whole glass was the color of a robin’s egg.
Rowan’s jaw slackened with a huffed breath of disbelief and elation. Briar broke out in a grin. He flexed his fingers and, to test his strength, stood. Trembling and precarious, but he stood and knew he wasn’t about to fall.
“Rowan… Rowan, I think it—”
Rowan leapt up and seized him around the middle, spinning him, nearly kicking over the coffee table, hugging him so tightly that unhealed injuries twinged in reminder. Briar laughed. Then burst into tears. Thehappy sort, which was new. He buried his hands in Rowan’s hair and kissed him in a senseless euphoria. It was a special kind of gift to kiss and not wonder if this one would be the last.
All the trouble he’d caused, the whole tangled mess, Briar could handle it now. He had the time. Rowan pulled back and looked at him with fathomless hope.
“Now we have our lives back, what should we do?”
Briar drew him close and said, “Do you still have that ring?”
EPILOGUE
SEVEN WEEKS LATER
One last loop of red thread, and the string of bell-shaped flowers was done. Briar tied it off and set the embroidery hoop on his lap to admire his work. Along the chalky blue of the ribbon, he’d stitched runes for love and courage, delicate berries, white baby’s breath, the leaves of rowan and briar trees, and lastly, strings of carnellas. Symbols that were woven into the fabric of his life.
It was the third he’d decorated. Another in white, the second cornflower blue.
Vatii hopped along the arm of the lounge, eyeing it sideways. Her feathers, returned to their iridescent glory, gleamed in the early dawn light.
A creak of the ladder from the loft, and Rowan leaned over the back of the chair to see Briar’s work. “It’s early for you to be up yet.”
“I’m down to the wire finishing this,” Briar said. “But it’s done.” He loosened the screw of the embroidery hoop and spread the ribbon across his hands.
“It’s perfect.” Rowan took Briar’s hand, the one wearing two rings nested atop each other, and kissed his knuckles. “I should get ready. Sorcha will be here soon.”
Briar tilted his head back, looking at Rowan upside down. “Hey.” Rowan turned around. “After today, you’ll be my husband.”
Rowan returned to him, this time to kiss him full on the mouth.
A flurry of preparations followed once Sorcha arrived, Ciara in tow. Briar found himself shoving a croissant in his mouth while Sorcha plaiteda ribbon into his hair, teasing the rest. Ciara showed Briar a dance she’d made up, twirling around in her dress of white tulle.
Past noon, the carriage arrived, driven by Diarmuid with his Clydesdale at the yoke. Sorcha helped pile Briar into it. Only then did he begin to feel nervous. Vatii sat on his shoulder, and they watched the town pass them. The forest canopy crowning the rooftops was protective instead of looming. Speckles of red dotted the fields.
It would be some time before Coill Darragh accepted tourists again. For now, Briar harvested carnellas in small amounts to ship to people suffering from Bowen’s Wane. He and Rowan ventured into the woods sometimes. They were careful, listening and wondering when it would ask for something in return. So far, it hadn’t, content with the hundreds of tithes given. These days, their postbox was often stuffed with letters and parcels from people cured of their curses. Some expressed gratitude, others included small tithes or gifts, despite any insistence that they weren’t necessary.
Linden himself had been tried and convicted for his crimes. He’d denied them all the way to his prison cell, where he would remain until he found a means to leverage himself free. Perhaps he would not own up to his mistakes, but it brought Briar satisfaction to know the suffering wouldn’t pass through generations any longer.
Briar endeavored to forget him, which for men like Linden, was perhaps the worst fate of all.
Briar’s magic still took an effort to summon. He got headaches. Sometimes, his muscles seized. But death no longer dogged him, and when the long-term effects of his curse made him tire, Rowan was there. His family. The people of Coill Darragh, too.
As they got closer to the town square, people stopped to wave or take photos of the carriage. Briar waved back, basking in the attention. Ciara bounced in Sorcha’s lap, blowing kisses out the window. Some of the townsfolk had their party dresses on. Some of those dresses Briar had made himself. Everyone had the same mark on their throats, one Briar shared.
