"Hmm?"
She placed her hand on his heart. "You do that so very well."
And They Lived
Happily Ever
After . . .
Should all men pile their joys up on a single spot,
mine would surpass them all.
—
Juventius
Epilogue
How happily? Well . . .
All Hallows Eve was a very special holiday at
Belmore
Park
. If one looked down from the fanciful roofline, through the leaded glass windows that sparkled like starlight, and into the great room—the busiest and most lived-in room inside the ducal home—one would see that there was magic in the air. It floated through the room along with a table, a book or two, and a few chairs, including the one occupied by His Grace, the Duke of Belmore.
"Marianna."
"Yes, Papa?"
"Put the chair down, please."
A floating book sailed past his head. "Marianna."
"Sorry, Papa," she said, then he heard her mutter, "I need to concentrate."
Alec stifled a groan and leaned over the arm of the chair to look down at his eight-year-old daughter. Standing about eight feet below him, she was dressed for the holiday celebration in green silk taffeta and lace, and her black hair was held back from her innocent face with bright green ribbons that matched her eyes, those gamine green eyes. She stared up at him as he hovered above her, bit her lip, then gave him a small wave. "Hallo, Papa."
He smiled down at her. "Having a problem?"
She nodded.
"You can do it, sweet. I know you can." He gave her a nod of confidence he was far from feeling.
She smiled up at him as if he had just given her all the stars in the sky. She raised her chin a notch, closed her eyes so tight that her small face twisted with her effort, raised her hands high, then slowly lowered them.
The chair slammed to the floor. He shook the ringing from his ears and loosened his tight grip on the chair arms. He'd had plenty of practice landing over the years. His daughter opened her eyes, as if she expected to have failed again. But one tentative look and delight shone from her face. She ran into his arms. "Oh Papa! I did it! I did it!"
He held her tightly. "Yes, sweet, you did it." He raised his eyes to the doorway where his wife stood smiling, her love for him showing in her face. That face. She still looked as young and bright as she had that day in the forest, despite the fact she was the mother of six. She hardly changed, but she'd changed him, had shown him what it was to live, and over the past thirteen years they'd made plenty of memories.
She mouthed a thank-you, then cleared her throat. "Everyone's waiting."
Nodding, he stood and stooped down so his daughter could climb onto his shoulders. Her giggle bubbled through the room and she turned to her mother as he ducked under the doorway, her small hand patting his head. "Papa does this so well."
Hours later, after the songs, the bonfires, the dancing and games, the whole family returned to the great room where a tall clock chimed eleven, the ormulu clock on the mantel chimed four, and the walnut century clock chimed midnight. The Duke of Belmore checked his pocket watch. It was
.
Shaking his head, he leaned back in a chair, a grounded chair, and watched his children—a mixture of mortals and witches who were loved and cherished by their parents. They were his life, his blood, his pride, and he made sure they knew it. Jonathan, the eldest son and heir, now age ten, glanced up at the mantel and with a casual wave of his warlock's hand fixed every clock in the room. It was said his magic was even stronger and more flawless than that of his great aunt, the MacLean—Mary MacLean—whom all their daughters were named after and who sat across the room examining Gabriel's newest bald spot. Over the years Alec had come to know the woman who'd given him Scottish. He'd learned to ignore her and her familiar's penchant for taking other forms—haggard old flower women, inn-keeping giants and dwarfs, Caribbee servants, and deaf butlers.
His warm gaze drifted to a quiet corner. Marian's corner. She was the eldest child at twelve and the tradition breaker —the only female firstborn in the Castlemaine line in seven hundred years. One finger idly twisted her mink brown hair while she read about knights and ladies and dragons, occasionally glancing up with a dreamy look in her midnight blue eyes. Marianna was now playing draughts with her seven-year-old brother, James. He was the only mortal in the Castlemaine lot, but he was sharp and quick and could usually outmaneuver his siblings' magic—with the help of an ermine weasel named Beezle.
Six-year-old
Marietta
sat in her Uncle Stephen's lap while he slowly read to her about meanings and symbols of all the flowers and plants in the gardens. Her eyes began to drift closed, and Alec smiled, watching his brother read on while she fell fast asleep. Just that afternoon she'd proudly announced that she'd zapped the warts off every toad in the lake.
Alec stood up, dusted the gingerbread crumbs off his coat, and walked across the room just as four-year-old Rosemary galloped in on a willow broom. She blew him a kiss as she trotted by. Shaking his head, he mounted the stairs and heard the MacLean clear her throat and chide, "Subtlety, Rosemary. A witch must learn subtlety."
He laughed to himself and greeted by name each of the servants he chanced to pass as he continued up the flights and down the hallways. He opened the roof door and stepped outside where his Scottish was waiting.
For it was there, among the fanciful beasts, under all the glimmering stars in the clear night sky, and amidst a sprinkling of pink rose petals that the Duke and Duchess of Belmore made magic.