Riley was the same, her hands and mouth in constant, frenetic motion. When she wasn’t coordinating fae offerings, they went off-site to distract themselves. Hiking and taking the bus out to local museums. Places they could find quiet together. It helped, eased the tightening in his chest. But even though neither of them brought it up, they were still having sex like they were running out of time.
The morning of the ritual dawned bright and clear. By noon, a local crowd had gathered on the castle lawn, people spreading blankets across the grass. Rich, warm spices filled the crisp air—clove and cinnamon and ginger—along with peat smoke from the bonfires. Eilean passed out mugs of mead to the adults and hot chocolate to the children while a man who must be Ceilidh’s cousin played the fiddle, his bow moving fast enough that the strings blurred.
There were honey cakes and iced buns arranged on trays as offerings for the fae and ribbons wrapped around the ash trees to mark the occasion. Children and adults alike chatted with their friends and neighbors. A buzz of excitement hummed in the air, everyone dazzled by the idea that they’d come to witness a once-in-a-lifetime supernatural event.
When he met Riley in the entrance way, Clark could tell by the care she’d taken with her clothes, the extra makeup on her face, that she was nervous.
“Everything’s going to work out,” he told her, adjusting the garland of pale purple heather that sat at her brow. “You’ve done all you can to prepare.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was wan, her eyes jumping back to the crowd. “It’s just—there’s a lot of people out there.”
At first, he thought this wasn’t like her—the nerves, the concern about what others might think—but Clark knew that Riley had always felt like an outsider, that she faced near-constant ridicule and rebuff for her work. The more people who knew about what she did, the more people who could reject her. She must have always feared this on some level, even as she’d worked to grow her business—the difference was now she was letting him see how she felt, trusting him enough to lower her guard.
“Hey.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You can do this.”
Riley gritted her teeth in an approximation of a smile as someone started snapping pictures of them with a mounted flash. “How do you know?”
“Riley.” He bent his knees so she’d meet his eye. “Because it’s you.”
Going over to his bag, he pulled out a tissue-paper-wrapped parcel. “I was going to give this to you after but . . .”
She took the gift and unwrapped it carefully, slipping her fingers underneath the tape so as not to tear the paper.
“Clark.” Riley gasped, looking down at the handsome, leather-bound notebook he’d gotten custom made from a local artisan a few days ago. A near-perfect match to the one she had from her Gran, only new.
“It’s for your own observations. You’re an expert, just like your gran, and you’ll want to pass down what you’ve learned—”
She cut him off with a kiss, so Clark guessed she liked it.
A little while later, they took their positions in front of the castle entrance.
The music faded to a stop, the crowd growing still, hushed as they took out the cursed artifacts.
Clark held the manacles, and Riley the dagger. In addition to honoring the fae, they wanted to remember Malcolm and Philippa, their bravery, their doomed love.
They carefully arranged the metal objects in the grass and then Riley placed a length of woven rope around them, the interlocking knots symbolizing remembrance, the reunion of their spirits, now protected for eternity.
At her cue, the children, rehearsed and eager, scattered wildflowers over the arrangement—thyme and thistle—the blooms falling like teardrops, like rain.
The crowd seemed to vibrate with energy. It was as though Clark could feel them, the way he felt the earth under his feet, the looming stone of the castle at his back.
Hope was in the air. All these people, gathered for the chance to see a wrong righted. To see someone change things. To beckon in a new future for their home, one full of potential unhindered by ancient feuds and spilled blood.
As Riley turned and reached for his hands, Clark felt a bit like he was getting married in front of witnesses. The idea made him significantly less uncomfortable than it should.
“Ready?” She steeled her shoulders.
Clark nodded and squeezed her hands as a breeze came in from the east, random and extravagant and somehow familiar.
The force of the sudden gale made the trees sway, startling birds from their nest. Spectators sat up on their knees, turning and pointing as leaves gathered on the wind, swirling until the foliage circled him and Riley like some kind of cocoon.
“The weather patterns in this castle don’t seem strictly natural,” he said, gazing over either shoulder at the swirls of forest green and crimson and umber as they whipped by, blowing Riley’s hair against her cheeks.
She smiled. “I think it’s a good sign.”
He worked to block out the spectators, the press that had arrived with cameras and microphones extended. To focus only on Riley, to let his love for her flow through him like water, to feel her love for him from the place where their hands joined.
“Shall I?” Clark had to raise his voice to be heard over the whooshing of the air around them.
At her nod, he took a deep breath.
Clark had been lost when he came to Arden. Not just for six months. No. He’d been lost for so long that he’d stopped wishing to be found.
He’d feared Riley when they first met. She’d made him so angry, so frustrated. Had seen him before he knew he wanted her to.
Even then, Clark had wanted her, not just her body; he’d needed to care for her.
Her laugh in the dark. Her fierce determination. The way she hummed absently sometimes while she worked.
Clark had spent his life studying how other people lived and loved—all of it filtered through the distance of time. He’d preferred emotions muted by soil and centuries.
He’d been avoiding this. Missing this. What a sodding shame.
“I love you,” he said, loud, clear. It felt different, good different, to get to say it first. “I love you,” he repeated, softer, an indulgence.
“I love you.” Her voice was quieter—sweeter, he thought—but just as sure.
A cheer broke out from the crowd. The fiddle picked back up, fierce and celebratory. People raised their glasses, knocked them together with such exuberance that liquid sloshed over the rims.
The breeze stopped, and for a second the leaves froze, seeming to hang in midair, before all at once the foliage fell to lie limp on the ground at their feet.
A wave of confusion washed over him, followed by dread. He leaned into Riley. “The scent?” But he already knew.
She shook her head. “No change.”
Her eyes slid to the press person in the first row. He’d turned to his camerawoman, whispering in her ear.
“Damn.” Clark hadn’t truly thought about, hadn’t let himself imagine, how damning the framing of a story around failure could be to Riley’s reputation.
Either she’s deluded or she’s a charlatan. That was what he’d convinced himself because the truth was harder to buy, less convenient.
Now the same conclusions would run online, come up when you searched her name.