Her sweet face crunched tight as she wrinkled her nose at him. “Fit as a fiddle.” Her eyes twinkled. “And sore in places I didn’t know existed!”
With a deep, relieved laugh, he hugged her to him and kissed the crown of her head. For a moment they lay quietly.
“I am sorry,” he finally said, his voice fierce, his heart heavy. “I am sorry I was such a muttonhead and didn’t understand.”
For a heartbeat or two she was quiet. He listened to her breaths, which suddenly turned into a chuckle. “I think I might forgive you. You’re the only man who has ever made snowdrops and crocuses bloom for me in December.”
Frowning, he drew back a little so that he could look at her. “What?”
“Look around you, Fox.” She trailed a hand over his cheek. Her lips curved. “Look what we wrought last night.” She exerted gentle pressure until he turned his head.
What he saw made his eyes widen. “How—”
“Magic,” she said with obvious and intense satisfaction. She stretched out an arm, wriggled her hand. “Oh yes, it’s all back.”
Around them the delicate green stems of snowdrops mingled with sturdy crocuses, white mixed with yellow, lilac, and blue.
Suddenly, she chuckled. “To imagine that the man who gave me a lecture on the importance of rational thought drove a ghost stag across the country—oh, it’s too delicious!” She smothered her merriment against his chest.
Fox blinked. He took in a deep breath. Well, he supposed he’d better get used to it all, since it seemed he would be married to a modern-day witch after all. Grinning, he lay back and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “So tell me, now that I’ve joined with the Lady of the Land…”
She blushed a little.
He raised his brows. “You can’t be
shy
?”
Fascinated, he watched her cheeks darken. “Can’t I?” With a smile, she reached out to draw his head close.
Their kiss went on a bit longer than she might have planned, since he simply couldn’t let her go so fast. The feeling of having her safe in his arms once more was just too delightful. He deepened the kiss until she moaned and shivered.
Grinning, he released her—and earned a thump onto his shoulder. “Cocky chap.” Then she smiled and stroked his shoulder. “You were a magnificent Stag King.” She tugged at a lock of his hair. “Despite being such a cocky fellow.”
He inclined his head. “I am glad to hear it. I aim to serve my lady.” He kissed her hand. “Now tell me: Since we’re now joined with this land, I suppose we should stay close to it, should we not? I know a small, snug house nearby where we could settle down.”
Her eyes widened. “You, the slick man about Town? Settle down in the country?”
“Oh yes.” He blinked up at the sky, which arched wide and blue above them. It had almost the same color as Amy’s eyes. Indeed, upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a rather nice sky. He supposed he could get used to the Fenland fog as well. He might just spent foggy days in bed with his wife. Now, there was a cheerful prospect if he’d ever heard one! He was already looking forward to foggy days.
“A small house?” Amy prodded. “With a cat? And dogs?”
He grimaced. “If you like.”
She laughed. “And a child or two?”
A child?
Their
child.
Suddenly choked up, he leaned his forehead against hers. “Or three or four?” he asked softly.
“Cocky, redheaded girls with fierce temperaments?” she whispered.
“Small boys with golden curls and magic inside them.” His hand stroked over her hip.
“Little boys with golden curls?” She resolved into giggles. “Oh no! Their cousins will tease the poor mites to no end!”
Fox shrugged. “They can always turn them into frogs.”
She kissed him. “You learn fast.” The sentence ended on a gasp as his hand closed around her breast.
“I move fast, too.” He grinned and stroke his thumb over her nipple. And for the next few moments neither of them spoke while they made love among the snowdrops and crocuses to the song of the robin.
Afterwards they dressed, whispering and chuckling. It amused her to no end when he stared at her ripped chemise in dismay. He took his revenge by slowly kissing his way up her back while he laced her stays and dress, and all her wriggling and moaning did not help her. By the time they were both dressed and bundled up in their coats, they were grinning like a pair of fools.
Fox bent to pick a purple crocus, which he tucked behind her ear. “Shall we go?” He held out his hand, watched her eyes widen.
“On foot?”
“Well… somehow we forgot to talk about this part of the plan.”
Another laugh gurgled in her throat—a sound he would never grow tired of hearing. She took his hand. “Then by all means, let’s go—and hope somebody remembers about us.”
They stepped through the circle of stones. For a moment, Fox stopped. He touched one of the stones, then leaned in to press a kiss onto the cool rock.
Thank you. Thank you for bringing her back to me.
He remembered how he had stood here as a small boy, awed by the power of the stones. For a little while he had lost the belief in miracles and wonders, but thanks to Amy he had found it again.
With a smile he turned back to her and led her down the hill. “I am sure somebody will remember about us. Did you know your whole family is here? We will all celebrate Christmas together, I suppose.”
“Ah.” She wriggled her nose. “So when will I have time to finally finish those
Horrible Histories of the Rhine
? I really want to know what happens to Markander after Martinus has slayed that horrible Green Man.”
“Well…” He twined his fingers with hers. “They go to wise Ulrika, of course. And she gives a special cake to Gidonius. And when they drop a crumb of this cake into Markander’s mouth, he wakes and—”
“They live happily ever after,” Amy sighed just as happily.
“Er… no. I think they might all die in the end.”
“Die?” She snorted.
“Those books always end with the death of the heroes. Just think of
The Seven Champions of Christendom
.”
“Bah.” Grumbling, she stomped on. “Stupid book!”
“But they might die in an interesting way,” he offered. “Like… uhm…”
“A mountain drops onto them!” She laughed.
“Exactly.”
“So let’s find out.”
“Yes. Let’s.”
And together they walked on into the reborn world, while behind them the robin heralded a new morn.
~ THE END ~
Author’s Note
When I was writing
Bewitched
, back in 2006/2007, I was also working on my PhD thesis about dragonslaying. So it was, perhaps, inevitable, that my creative work influenced my academic study and vice versa:
The Horrible Histories of the Rhine
might be a fictional book, yet the direct quotations are all taken from an 1824 edition of
The Seven Champions of Christendom
, one of the key texts of my thesis and a forgotten bestseller of English literature.
Other parts of this novel have been influenced by the fantasy fiction I read during my teenage years: I first encountered the concept of the Great Marriage in Diana L. Paxon’s
The White Raven
. I have, however, considerably changed it in order to suit my needs in
Bewitched
.
The circle ritual my heroine performs in the second part of the novel is loosely based on a ritual described in Zsuzsanna E. Budapest’s
The Holy Book of Women’s Mysteries
; and my characters’ many strolls through the park and gardens of Rawdon Park have been inspired by the wonderful BBC series
The Victorian Kitchen Garden
with Peter Thoday and the lovely Harry Dodson. Watching it, I learnt more about gardening than ever before in my life, and I am happy to report that plants no longer automatically wither and die when I come near them.
The poem Lord Munthorpe recites in the British Museum when he is overcome with emotion at the sight of the barometz, was written by the poet and naturalist Dr. Erasmus Darwin and first published in
The Botanic Garden
(1781). (If the good doctor’s name sounds familiar, it’s because he was the grandfather of Charles Darwin.)
For my research of Albany I found Sheila Birkenhead’s
Peace in Piccadilly
and Harry Furniss’s
Paradise in Piccadilly
particularly useful—and yes, there really were water closets in the dressing rooms of Albany even back in the Regency era!
Last but not least, my thanks go to Edward Storey: his book
The Winter Fens
helped me to envision the vast skies and the flat landscape of the Fen District, and many of my descriptions of the land and the people who live there owe their existence to him. You will be pleased to find out, though, that I did not use the fried mice, even if in days past they were thought to be the best cure for whooping cough!
About the Author
Award-winning author Sandra Schwab started writing her first novel when she was seven years old. Thirty-odd years later, telling stories is still her greatest passion, even though by now she has exchanged her pink heart-dotted fountain pen of old for a computer keyboard (black, no hearts). Since the release of her debut novel
The Lily Brand
in 2005, she has enchanted readers worldwide with her unusual historicals.
In 2009 she earned a PhD in English Literature with a study called
Of Dragons, Knights, and Virgin Maidens: Dragonslaying and Gender Roles from Richard Johnson to Modern Popular Fiction
. In addition to knowing all about slaying dragons, she is an expert on the Victorian magazine
Punch
and has appeared on the BBC documentary
Great Continental Railway Journeys
to chat with Michael Portillo about the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. She lives in Frankfurt am Main / Germany with a sketchbook, a sewing machine, and an ever-expanding library.
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