“For what could you possibly require pardon?”
“I swore to save Maren and to protect you. But you were the hero, weren’t you? You were the one who made me brave when I might have given up. You were the one who stood up to Jasper—without knowing Osbert would come to your aid. You used the healing blade to save me. You made sure Maren reached the ocean alive. You were your sister’s hero, and you are mine. My brave, brave Clara.”
A blush warms my face, and for once I do not mind. “How could I have been brave if you had not been beside me?”
“You would have been.”
In silence, we watch fireflies rising up from the grass like little freely moving stars. And I think about not being a stork, about never becoming a stork. Yet I have changed. I have left childhood behind, and it is true—I have been braver than I thought I could be.
“It is all fine and good being brave,” I say as the moon peeks out from behind a cloud. “But could we take turns at being the hero? It is a lot of work, you know.”
“I rather like being the damsel in distress,” O’Neill teases. “I was about to ask to borrow a dress.”
“Never!” I shove him hard and he rolls into the grass. And we laugh as we have not laughed in months, as I never thought we’d laugh again.
CHAPTER THIRTY
With one hand, O’Neill raps the brass doorknocker against the wooden parsonage door. With his other hand, he clenches my hand. His palm is damp, and I suspect it is not from the heat of the day. Even a willing groom is likely to have nerves just before his wedding.
He knocks again, and we wait. “What if no one is at home?” I say. “Perhaps someone else in the town could marry us. A judge or a justice of the peace.”
“Hello,” a voice calls from behind us. We turn around to find a black-robed priest carrying a basket brimming with blueberries. “I was in the gardens and did not hear you arrive.”
“Good afternoon,” O’Neill says. “My name is O’Neill, and this is Clara. We would be most grateful if you’d marry us, Father.” His words come out in a rush. His nervousness is most endearing.
“O’Neill, you say?” The priest grins, showing all three of his teeth. “Isn’t that a wonder? My name is O’Neill, Patrick O’Neill, although I’m called Father Patrick by most.” He brushes past us and opens the door. “Come in, come in. My housekeeper’s gone away to see her son, so don’t mind the dust.”
He takes us to the kitchen and gives us cups of cool water and bowls of blueberries doused with cream. “Lad,” he says, leaning close to O’Neill. “You put me in mind of someone.”
“Perhaps we have met before. My guardian and I are traveling merchants and might have stopped here, although I do not remember it,” O’Neill says. He spoons the last of the blueberries into his mouth. Cream runs down his chin, and he wipes it away with his hand.
“Glory be!” the priest says. “That birthmark! Now I know you, lad.”
O’Neill fingers the heart-shaped birthmark on his chin. “I was an orphan.”
“Yes. Yes, you were. It was in Virginia, my parish. Near my childhood home. And I found you under the apple tree where my brother was buried, a babe with a birthmark just like he’d had.”
“Your brother Seamus,” O’Neill says. “My guardian has told me the story many times. He named me O’Neill for your brother because he did not think I looked like a Seamus.”
“He raised you well,” Father Patrick says. “That I can see, even with these old eyes. Glory be to the Lord, who doth provide.” His face is alight with happiness. “And here you are with your fine young lady, asking to be wed. I am blessed to witness this day.”
Seeing the priest’s joy makes my heart sing. Everything that has happened in our lives, from O’Neill’s babyhood under the apple tree until now, has worked together to lead to this one perfect day.
“Will you marry us, Father?” I ask. “Today?”
“It would be quite unorthodox, without banns or special dispensation. I am sure my superiors would not approve. But how could I refuse the boy with my brother’s birthmark?”
Father Patrick marries us in the parsonage garden, beneath an arbor of fragrant pale-pink roses. The gardener, his five-year-old daughter, and her crooked-tailed kitten are our witnesses. O’Neill and I exchange rings we found among the Sea King’s treasures—gold bands that are perfectly sized and matched, as if the Sea King had somehow known our future. Perhaps he had.
The little girl claps when we seal our vows with a kiss, and the kitten startles and runs to hide in the hedges.
“Come here,” I say to the girl. I take a pearl from my pocket, one of three I kept from Maren’s jar to remember her by. “My sister gave this to me, and it is very special. Keep it so that you may always remember this happy day.”
“Is it a treasure?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, “a very great treasure. It came from sadness but led to joy.”
O’Neill kisses my cheek. “Mrs. O’Neill Scarff,” he whispers in my ear. “You are sweet and kind as well as brave.”
“I do not know if I am any of those things,” I say, “but I am happy.”
“Not as happy as I am.”
“Do you pick a fight with me so soon? Five minutes after the wedding?”
He quiets me with a kiss. If that is how he chooses to win our arguments, so be it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Smoke funnels out the chimney of the cottage where I was raised. Twilight is upon the mountain, and the lamplight glows golden through the windows.
How they knew we were coming, I do not pretend to know. But as the horses halt, Auntie and Scarff spill out the door and run to us. Osbert scampers at their heels, howling with wyvern delight.
Kisses and tears are exchanged in abundance.
“She is safe, our Maren?” Auntie asks, gripping my elbows.
“Safe with her Sea King father,” I say. “And she is happier and more beautiful now than you could ever imagine.”
“For that, I am glad,” Auntie says. “And I am glad you are home safe as well.”
“Hear, hear,” Scarff agrees.
O’Neill lifts my hand to show them my rings. “We are married,” I say, blushing as befits a bride.
“By the very priest who found me under the apple tree,” O’Neill says. “That is a story you will enjoy, Scarff and Auntie.”
“So young!” Auntie clucks her tongue. “But no matter. It was meant to be. We have always known it, haven’t we, Ezra my love?”
Overcome with emotion, Scarff replies by gathering O’Neill and me into his arms again. His eyes and beard are wet with joyful tears. “All our children are safe and happy,” he says. “Who could wish for more?”
After breakfast the next morning, O’Neill leads me to the Wishing Pool. His face shines with love and mischief.
“Look,” he says. He points to the tree whose vandalized trunk has always warned us of the fruitlessness of wishing. Someone has changed the words.