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Thomil opened his eyes and knew for certain in his broken heart:

This was how the Caldonnae truly died.

In pain too great for two small souls to bear without corruption.

"That lady you work for." Carra's voice took on an immature note of delight, and she nudged Thomil with her shoulder. "You like her, don't you?"

"That's—beside the point. I trusted her."

"Gods, Uncle, you're serious! After all the lectures you've given."

"I know." Thomil swallowed the derision because he deserved it for letting himself fall so deep into those green eyes.

Thomil cradled one open hand in another, tracing circles on his left palm with his right thumb. His calluses had softened in the last few months. How had he let this happen? Sure, when the mages told a Kwen to do something, there wasn t much room to argue. If they wanted you to change jobs, you changed. But this was the first time Thomil had let a Tiranish person change something inside him.

Thomil had said that how a person felt about their actions didn't matter; only the actions themselves mattered.

She sobbed without respite. First holding Aunt Winny, then Alba then her pillow long into the night. She hadn't meant to cry so long—had never cried so long in her life—but there had never been so much to grieve.

"You're the worst kind of murderer, I think," he said, and she felt the terrible words vibrate against her knuckles. "The kind who won't even see the crime. You've never worshipped a god of truth." As roughly as he had pulled her hand to his chest, he shoved it away, Disgusted. "You worship delusion."

"I don't," Sciona whispered through an irrepressible grin. "Would you like to find out with me?"

"Damn it, Highmage Freynan... Of course I would." And bless him; behind the veneer of calm, he looked almost as excited as she was. They had, after all, been working on this project together for the better part of three months. Here was the fruit of all their labor.

First, it was impossible that she had had the balance to make the climb on her own two feet. Second, it was impossible that Thomil had picked her up and managed all those stairs with her in lis arms. It was impossible that when her head had fallen against lis chest, he had still smelled of sage and fresh water.

"Oh, but before you get to that, here." Sciona set the try basket from Ansel on the nearest table. "Have a muffin. Or four."

"You don't think your colleagues might like some?"

"I'm sure they would. That's why they're all for you."

"I want little grandnieces and nephews. All that talent you have. You must pass it on." As if Sciona had cultivated her talent so some man could put his name on it and his sons could reap the benefits she hadn't enjoyed.

In his heart, he doubted it was possible to raise a Caldonn child in this city of metal and gears, but he would be betraying all his ancestors if he didn't try. As long as the two of them stayed together, he could tell himself that the carnage of the crossing hadn't been for nothing.

The Caldonnae still lived.

For it was we who had drawn the circles. We, who had shepherded the others toward their destinies. We, who had rearranged the kingdom like trees in our very own wood.

And though it had taken slow, painful time, I knew who I was without him. I was more than the girl, the King, and the monster of Blunder's dark, twisted tale.

I was its author.

He'd used his magic to destroy the final Scythe Card. And though he had said it to me only in the quiet of our room, he did not wish to be cured. He, in his own small way, was still holding on to what had happened in the alderwood. To his magic, his secret legacy. To Taxus.

"Thinking about the last time we were here?" he said, offering me his hand. "When you pummeled me to the ground?"

I pulled him close, stood on my toes, whispered into his lips. "One of my fondest memories."

He kissed me, fingers weaving into my hair. "Mine too, Miss Spindle."

… we threw yellow irises in the air. Irises, for my mother. And yellow because... well, Elm had been particular about that.

When Filick handed them their gold bands, Elm looked into lone's eyes. "A hundred years," he said to her, as if she were the only one in the room. "I'll love you for a hundred years—and an eternity after."

Ione didn't wait for him to slip the ring over her finger. She threw her arms around him, kissed him unabashedly, earning a jubilant shout from Emory and many more tears from the rest of us.

When the ceremony began, Ravyn stood at Elm's side and I at lone's. Ravyn's hands were clasped in front of him, unshaking. When he glanced my way, the corner of his mouth lifted as it often did. Only this time, he let his smile bloom until it took over his entire face.

I couldn't go on.

Elspeth.

No. I'm not ready. Not yet.

Finish the story, dear one.

My voice shook. The two were together—

Together.

So the two were the same.

The girl, he whispered, honey and oil and silk.

The King…

We said the final words together, our voices echoing, listless, through the dark. A final note. An eternal farewell. And the monster they became.

"It's time to let her out."

Ravyn didn't move.

The Nightmare turned, his mouth a hard line. "Do it now."

"Don't you want to say goodbye?"

"To you, stupid bird?"

Ravyn crossed his arms over his chest. "To her, parasite."

"I had my Deck to collect. History to revisit—and rewrite. A path to draw for you and the Princeling, both of you Kings in your own right." The Nightmare clung only a moment longer to his namesake Card, then released it into Ravyn's hand. "And I was not yet ready to bid Elspeth goodbye."

"You're telling me I've had the means to free her all this time?"

The Nightmare grinned. "Yes."

"You didn't—Why—" He pinched his nose, swallowing fury. "You make it so hard not to hate you."

"Please. Have I not paid? Have I not lost pieces of myself, following you into the wood? It was for her." He looked up into those ancient yellow eyes, tears threatening his own. "Tell me the truth. Is there a way Elspeth and I will meet again on this side of the veil?"

"I thought I was the father she deserved. That I could carry her through this terrible, violent world. I hadn't done it well with my own children, and when I woke in her young mind, the first thing I fel, after five hundred years of fury"—his voice softened—"was wonder. Quiet and gentle. I remembered what it was to care for someone."

"She gave me that, too."

"That is what Elspeth thought. That no one would care for her if they saw her for who—what—she truly was."

"I do," Ravyn said without pause. "I care for her."

She smacked his hand away and continued down the corridor, but not before she tended Elm a lingering glance that, even half-dead, Ravyn knew the meaning of.

He waited for her to go before shooting his cousin a grin. "Well, then."

Elm's teeth tugged at his bottom lip. "Shut up."

"I can touch people. No visions. No magic. Blissful nothingness. Fit as a fucking fiddle."

Jespyr feigned a gasp. "Emory. You can't talk that way in front of the King."

Emory jumped from Ravyn's bed. Curtsied with an invisible skirt and bowed before Elm. "Apologies, Your Holiness."

"It's Highness, you little—"

Held lone Hawthorn close. He knew, in all the rotten, broken pieces of himself, that everything in his life had led to that moment, as if written in the lines of the trees. A crooked, wonderful circle, with his name in the heart of it.

"Help me," he whispered to lone.

She put her hand over his, the two of them bearing the weight of the Shepherd King's sword. They pulled in a breath at the same time. Then, over the Deck of Cards, they held the tip of the sword against Hauth's chest—the same place he'd stabbed lone.

And pressed.

"I'm going to crown him."

He looked over his shoulder, waiting once more. "Neither Rowan nor Yew, but somewhere between. A pale tree in winter, neither red, gold, nor green. Black hides the bloodstain, but washes the realm. First of his name—King of the Elms."

"I will find him."

Ravyn winced—tried to focus. "Elspeth," he said again. "Tell Elspeth not to hate me."

Something fractured in the dark room I inhabited.

The Nightmare's hands shook on his sword. Unflinching, five hundred years old, he looked down at Ravyn, his lost descendant, and trembled. "I wanted a better Blunder for her. If you perish, that Blunder will never exist."