Hawthorn rose from his seat and strolled down the dais, stopping shortly in front of her. He gazed at her like he had that day in the carriage, before everything changed or solidified or liquified—she was never really sure.
She still wasn’t fully sure when he reached out and kissed her, his lips casting the rest of the room into shadow.
She was dimly aware of yet more gasps and exclamations, but she no longer cared for them. She no longer cared about anything but the fact that Hawthorn was kissing her as if he never planned to let go.
Eventually, of course, he had to.
The world carried on spinning around them.
“Well,” said Maytree, now smiling through her shock, “now that that’s settled…”
She clicked her fingers, and the boughs overheard burst into flowers, sending a shower of petals over the entire room. The banners shimmered, the thorns of the castle crest adjusting themselves around a golden oak—a symbol that honoured Juliana’s own name. The great hall brimmed with life and colour, white and gold, sunset and dawn.
Most wonderful of all was when the petals started to spin around her, dissolving her of dust and grime, pulling at her braid, twirling it into perfect curls. A crown of some sort blossomed at her temple, something fine and laced brushed her ears. Her mud-streaked uniform disappeared, replaced instead by a gown of white and gold, stitched with thorns.
Her sword still gleamed at her side, but in a polished golden sheath; she was a knight and princess both.
Juliana looked up at Hawthorn and smiled.
And his.More than anything else, she was that.
His wife, his equal—a true creature of Faerie.
Julianawasquitesurethat even if she lived for centuries, she would never again experience the revelry that she did the night of her wedding. It seemed the entirety of Faerie somehow miraculously appeared, their humours elevated to the point of divine. She felt different, too, quivering with a strange kind of energy, the way she always expected magic to feel, like her blood was filled with champagne.
She tried to trace the feeling back. Was it after she brought Hawthorn back, or after the ceremony? Was it just a result of celebrations, or something…more?
“I don’t have to marry Hawthorn!” cried Serena, twirling about the room. “Um, no offence.”
“None taken,” replied Hawthorn, who had barely taken his eyes off Juliana since they exchanged vows. “I rather think this arrangement has worked out better for everyone.”
Serena beamed, and a short while later, Hawthorn was finally tugged away to repeat the tale of the past week or so to another group of latecomers.
Juliana seized the moment to rush to the buffet table and stuff some food in her mouth. She wasravenous,and yet every time she’d approached it the last couple of hours, someone had swept in, eager to hear her story or gush about the wedding, which was lovely but so was the food which had been eyeing her all night.
“I never get tired of palace delicacies,” said a gravelly voice. “The chefs here are utter magic.”
Juliana turned. Mabel stood in a nearby alcove, her dark robes blending into shadow. Juliana was quite sure she had not been there a moment ago.
“Any point in asking how you got here so quickly?”
Mabel smirked. “I have my ways.”
“If you’ve come to claim your favour, witch, I beg you do so tomorrow. I’m having really quite the delightful day.”
Mabel snorted. “Fear not. Today is not the day. I’m not even quite sure what it is I plan to claim… only Iwillclaim it. Of that, you have my word.”
Juliana nodded. “But no first-born children?”
“No first born, or second-born, or anything after. The Guild of Witches actually banned fathers promising their children in the year of Briar 314.”
Juliana raised an eyebrow. “But not mothers?”
“Of course not! They do all the hard work. They want to bargain off their newborns? Fine. Can’t say I really blame them. Loud, horrible things, children. Tough on my teeth, too.”
“What?”
“I’m teasing, dearie. I don’t eat children. Not anymore.”
