The light reached the shore, washing over us like warm water. I felt it in my bones, a sense of rightness, of completion, of something broken finally being mended. The golden leaf in my palm pulsed in response, its warmth spreading up my arm, feeling like it was soaking into my very soul.
“The Clach na Fìrinn accepts your service,” Hilda saidformally. “The binding is complete. The Order of Caledonia is whole.”
The light faded slowly, retreating back toward the island until only a soft glow remained, visible even in the soft morning sun.
“So,” Lia said, breaking the reverent silence. “Does this mean we have to do this ritual every year? Because I’ll need advance notice, I think. I’m not sure I can take much more.”
Sophie laughed, the sound bright and joyful. “I don’t think it’s an annual thing. More of a once-in-a-lifetime situation.”
“Thank God. I don’t think I could handle this level of emotional intensity on a regular basis.”
We made our way back up the path to the castle, the formal solemnity of the ritual fading into the comfortable camaraderie of friends. Shona discussed herb garden plans with Faelan. Willow and Liora compared notes on their respective gifts and if they could be combined during readings. Kaia was examining my golden leaf with professional interest, muttering about metal composition and magickal properties.
At the garden gate, I paused and looked back at the loch.
The soft glow still emanated from the island. The Stone of Truth, finally at peace.
“Agnes?” Sophie appeared beside me. “You coming?”
“In a minute. I just want to...”
“Contemplate?” She smiled. “Go ahead. You’ve earned it.”
She left me there, and I stood at the gate, watching the light on the water.
It all felt momentous and mundane in the same breath.
So much had changed.
And so much had stayed the same.
The Order was complete, and the Kelpies were no longer a threat.
Graham was alive, and we were getting married, and I was going to have a life I’d never let myself imagine.
But I would still run Bonnie Books. And he would still run The Tipsy Thistle. And Loren Brae would move on, focusing on the drama of the next quiz night, and whatever fresh gossip came our way. It would be the same as every small town out there, a community who loved and fought together, with an added dash of the magickal.
But it wasn’t over. Hilda had been right about that.
The Cailleach was still out there somewhere. The other branches of my family—the Alewives, the Lost Branch—were still scattered. The Three Queens were still separated.
And I had made a promise.
It seemed us Bookkeepers liked to make promises.
I supposed it ran in my blood, after all.
I needed to find the Alewives and restore the connection between our broken family branches, as The Three Queens must not remain scattered.
“One thing at a time,” I murmured to myself. “Today. We celebrate. Then, apparently, I need to marry Graham. After that, I’ll find the Alewives. I promise.”
The loch glittered in response, as if agreeing with my plan.
I turned away from the water and walked back throughthe garden gate, where my family was waiting and where my future husband was probably pacing in the castle, worried about how long the ritual was taking. Where a whole community of witches and warriors and gnomes and hedgehogs had made a place for me.
Where I belonged.
The sun climbed higher. The rowan tree swayed in a gentle breeze, and the Stone of Truth glowed softly on its island, watched over by Kelpies that had finally remembered what they were meant to be.
