Chapter Twenty-Two: Where the Roses Remain - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
Some hearts do not need another miracle to be healed. They need a hand that stays, a voice that whispers “I love you,” and enough ordinary mornings to believe it.
The First Night After Forever
The last notes of the wedding music drifted through Blackwood Palace long after the guests had begun to depart. Candlelight shimmered beneath the great chandeliers, catching the scattered rose petals on the ballroom floor and illuminating the faces of those who had gathered to witness the impossible become real. Outside, the gardens lay beneath a silver moon, and the iron gates stood open to the winding road that descended toward Briar Hollow. For the first time in ten years, there was no fear waiting beyond those gates, no terrible bargain demanding its price, and no lonely man standing at a window to watch the last traces of happiness disappear into the darkness.
Isla stood on the staircase with one hand resting in Fitzherbert's. Her ivory wedding gown whispered against the marble steps whenever she moved, and the delicate flowers woven into her hair glittered softly beneath the candles. She had danced with her sisters, embraced her father, laughed with Beatrice, and listened to a dozen different guests insist that they had never seen the palace so beautiful. Yet, whenever she turned, she found her husband watching her with the same astonishment that had filled his eyes when she first walked toward him at the altar.
“You are staring again,” she whispered.
Fitzherbert did not bother pretending otherwise. “I am looking at my wife.”
“Your wife is beginning to suspect that you have forgotten how to blink.”
“I have been extraordinarily busy.”
“With what, precisely?”
“Attempting to understand how I have become the luckiest man alive.”
Her teasing expression softened. “You have become very good at saying things that make me smile.”
“I have had an excellent teacher.”
She glanced toward the ballroom. “And here I believed you had spent the entire evening practising that speech you gave before the wedding.”
“I did practise it.”
“How many times?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Isla stopped halfway up the staircase. “Twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-eight, if one includes the disastrous attempt I made while shaving.”
She pressed a hand over her mouth, but the laughter escaped before she could contain it. Fitzherbert regarded her with exaggerated dignity.
“I see nothing amusing in this.”
“You practised telling me you loved me twenty-eight times?”
“I was attempting to make certain that I did not forget the words.”
“And after all that practice, you still looked as though you might faint when I came down the aisle.”
“I was faced with the rather terrifying possibility that you might change your mind.”
Her laughter faded. He had spoken lightly, but she recognised the old fear beneath the joke. Even tonight, surrounded by flowers, music, and all the people who loved them, some part of him still remembered the possibility of loss.
Isla stepped closer and took his face gently between her hands. “Look at me, Fitzherbert.”
He obeyed.
“I walked toward you today because I wanted to. I said those vows because I meant them. And I put this ring on your finger because I intend to keep choosing you long after the flowers have withered and everyone has forgotten how magnificent the wedding cake was.”
His mouth curved. “The cake was magnificent.”
“You ate three slices.”
“It was a momentous occasion.”
“You also claimed that a fourth slice was necessary to ensure the happiness of the kingdom.”
“And I stand by my decision.”
She laughed and kissed his cheek. “Then perhaps there is hope for you after all.”
He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles. “My hope, my happiness, and my future all appear to be standing directly in front of me, threatening to confiscate my cake.”
“Someone must protect the kingdom from your appetite.”
He drew her closer, smiling so openly that her heart ached with tenderness. “Come, my beautiful wife. Before you discover another crime of which I am guilty, let us go upstairs.”
She slipped her arm through his. “Very well. But I should warn you that my list of complaints is considerably longer than you imagine.”
“I have survived a curse, an enchanted palace, and a wedding attended by your entire family. I believe I can survive your complaints.”
“An ambitious claim.”
“I am a prince. Ambition is practically compulsory.”
She squeezed his hand, and together they continued up the staircase, their laughter following them into the quiet corridor.
Their chamber had been prepared with particular care. A small fire glowed in the hearth, soft gold curtains framed the tall windows, and a vase of white roses stood upon the dressing table beside a silver mirror. The candles cast warm shadows over the familiar furniture, while beyond the windows the moonlight rested upon the gardens and the still waters of Moonmere.
Isla stepped inside and paused. She remembered entering this chamber for the first time, exhausted, frightened, and uncertain whether the man who owned the palace would ever allow her to feel safe within its walls. She remembered the silence, the unanswered questions, and the terrible loneliness she had sensed behind his anger. The memory did not disappear simply because she was happy now. It remained, a small ache beneath the warmth in her heart, but it no longer ruled her.
Fitzherbert closed the door and turned to find her standing quietly beside the dressing table.
“Isla?”
She looked up. “I was remembering.”
His expression grew attentive. “Something unpleasant?”
“Not entirely. I was thinking about the first time I stood in this room.”
He followed her gaze toward the bed, the fireplace, and the tall windows. “You were frightened.”
“I was terrified.”
He lowered his eyes. “I know.”
For a moment, neither spoke. He had never asked her to pretend that the beginning of their story had been beautiful. He had learned, painfully, that loving someone did not make the hurt he had caused disappear, and that remorse was not a request for forgiveness. It was the responsibility to become better.
“I wish I could return to that night and meet you as the man I am trying to be now,” he said quietly.
Isla reached for his hand. “I wish you could, too. But then I remember how far we have come, and I think perhaps our story would have been different if neither of us had needed to learn so much.”
His eyes searched hers. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
“I have forgiven you for many things, my love. That does not mean every memory has stopped hurting, and it does not mean I shall never remind you when you are being impossible.”
A faint smile appeared on his face. “I would hardly expect otherwise.”
“But it means I can look at you now and see the man who has changed. The man who listened when I spoke, who stood beside my father, who learned to laugh again, and who loves me without asking me to pay for that love with my happiness.”
She lifted his hand to her lips. “That is the man I married.”
He stood very still, emotion gathering in his amber eyes. Then he drew her into his arms, resting his cheek against her hair.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I know.”
He pulled back to look at her. “That is your answer?”
She pretended to consider the matter. “Would you prefer a written declaration, properly signed and witnessed?”
“Perhaps. I should like something official.”
“Very well. Let it be known that Fitzherbert of Blackwood is an extraordinarily handsome man, a hopeless romantic, and the most dreadful cook in the kingdom.”
He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
She smiled sweetly. “You may appeal the decision in the morning.”
He laughed, a deep, warm sound that made her heart feel almost too full to bear. She had heard him laugh before, but something about this laughter was different. He was not struggling to hide it, nor was he waiting for the moment when happiness might be taken away. He was simply a man laughing with the woman he loved.
When he kissed her, she smiled against his lips. The kiss was gentle and unhurried, and when they parted, he brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured.
“You have told me that several times tonight.”
“And I have barely begun.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You intend to spend our entire marriage complimenting me?”
“I have made a list.”
Her eyes widened. “You have made a list?”
“Twenty-eight pages.”
She burst into laughter. “You are absolutely impossible.”
He bent to kiss her again. “And you are my wife.”
This time, she did not answer with a joke. She reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held him as though she wished to tell him everything her heart could not put into words. He held her just as tightly, and for a long moment they stood together beside the fire, surrounded by the quiet warmth of the chamber.
There was no urgency between them, no need to prove the depth of their feelings through grand gestures or perfect words. They had already endured enough nights in which fear had demanded every breath. Tonight, they were free to be tender, awkward, amused, and wonderfully ordinary. When Isla struggled with the tiny buttons at the back of her wedding gown, Fitzherbert offered his assistance with the confidence of a man who had never encountered a difficult button in his life.
“How hard can it be?” he murmured.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Famous last words.”
“I have managed complicated matters of state.”
“And now you must confront a row of buttons.”
“I do not believe the kingdom adequately prepared me for this.”
She laughed when he fumbled the first button, then the second. By the fourth, he was muttering under his breath, and by the sixth, he had begun negotiating with the gown as though it were a particularly stubborn diplomat.
“Perhaps,” Isla suggested, “you should surrender.”
“I have never surrendered to a piece of clothing.”
“Then tonight shall be a historic occasion.”
He looked at her through the mirror, his expression wounded. “You have very little faith in me.”
“I have a great deal of faith in you. I simply have more experience with my own dresses.”
He finally managed the last button and stepped back with a triumphant expression. Isla turned and kissed his cheek.
“Well done, Your Highness. The kingdom is safe.”
He put a hand to his chest. “I shall remember this moment when you next accuse me of being unromantic.”
“I should not be surprised if you include it in your memoirs.”
“Chapter One: The Night I Defeated the Gown.”
She laughed so hard that she had to lean against him. He caught her gently, and the laughter slowly quieted into a smile. He kissed her forehead, and she tucked herself against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
Later, when the fire had burned lower and the room had grown quiet, Isla lay beside him beneath the blankets. Fitzherbert held her with an almost reverent tenderness, his fingers moving slowly through her hair. She had thought herself too tired for conversation, yet the peace of the moment made her want to speak.
“Fitzherbert?”
“Yes, my love?”
“Are you happy?”
He looked down at her, surprised by the question. “More than I know how to say.”
“Truly?”
He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “I have spent ten years believing that happiness was something other people were allowed to have. I watched it from a distance. I heard it in the laughter of visitors and saw it in the windows of houses where families gathered for supper. Eventually, I convinced myself that I no longer wanted it.”
She listened without interrupting.
“And then you came here,” he continued. “You argued with me. You challenged me. You looked at me as though there were still something human beneath all the bitterness I had allowed to grow around my heart. I did not know what to do with that kindness, Isla. Some days, I still do not.”
She rested her hand over his. “You do not have to know what to do with it every moment. You only have to let yourself receive it.”
His throat moved as he swallowed. “And if I become afraid again?”
“Tell me.”
“If I have a dreadful day?”
“Tell me.”
“If I wake from a nightmare and cannot remember that the curse is broken?”
She lifted herself onto one elbow and looked into his eyes. “Then I shall remind you. I shall tell you where you are, and I shall hold your hand until you feel safe again. You need not be ashamed of the days that are difficult.”
He gazed at her as though no one had ever offered him such a simple mercy.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It will not always be easy. But it need not be lonely.”
For several seconds, he could not speak. Then he pressed a kiss against her forehead and drew her close.
“Thank you for staying,” he whispered.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you for learning how to let me stay.”
He closed his eyes, holding her against him, and she felt the tension gradually leave his body. Outside, the branches moved softly beneath the moon. The old clock continued to mark the hours, but neither of them watched its hands.
Just before sleep claimed her, Isla lifted her face and kissed his chin.
“Goodnight, my husband.”
He smiled. “Goodnight, my beautiful wife.”
“And Fitzherbert?”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, I expect breakfast in bed.”
He sighed. “I was afraid you would ask for something unreasonable.”
“Perhaps you should have married someone else.”
He kissed her nose. “Never.”
She settled against him, smiling, and this time when sleep came, Fitzherbert did not keep watch over the door. He slept with his wife in his arms, while the first night of their marriage passed peacefully into morning.
The Morning We Chose
The sunlight had barely reached the edge of their bed when Isla awakened. For a few moments she remained still, listening to the birds beyond the window and the faint crackle of the dying fire. Fitzherbert lay beside her, his dark hair scattered across his forehead, one arm resting comfortably around her waist. Without his usual grave expression, he looked younger, almost boyish, and she found herself wondering how often the world had mistaken his silence for strength when it had actually been a shelter for his loneliness.
She brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes.
His eyes opened.
“Are you inspecting me?” he murmured.
She gave a startled laugh. “You were asleep!”
“I was attempting to be.”
“Then why are you awake?”
“Because my wife is staring at me as though she expects me to grow horns.”
“Perhaps I am wondering whether you snore.”
“I do not snore.”
“You cannot possibly know that. You are asleep when it happens.”
He considered this accusation with considerable seriousness. “A clever argument.”
“Thank you.”
“A completely unfounded argument, but clever nonetheless.”
She laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He drew her closer, and for a few minutes they remained beneath the blankets, trading lazy kisses and ridiculous accusations. Isla told him that he had stolen most of the bed during the night. Fitzherbert insisted that he had merely been protecting her from an imaginary draft. She informed him that she was perfectly capable of fighting a draft on her own.
“Of course,” he said solemnly. “I have witnessed your remarkable courage against flour, wooden spoons, and an innocent breakfast tray.”
She slapped his shoulder with the pillow.
He caught it and pulled her into his arms, laughing. “Violence before breakfast. I see that marriage has brought out the very worst in you.”
“Then you must take responsibility for your influence.”
He kissed her forehead. “Gladly.”
The warmth of his smile stayed with her even when she noticed his gaze drifting toward the tall clock in the corner. It was not yet ten, but she recognised the change in him: a slight tightening of his shoulders, a quietness entering his expression, a familiar tension in the hand resting against hers.
She touched his cheek. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Fitzherbert.”
He sighed. “You have become very inconveniently good at knowing when I am lying.”
“It is one of the many talents I bring to this marriage.”
His smile was brief. He looked toward the clock again. “I know that you are here, Isla. I know you are my wife. Yet every morning, as the hour approaches, some part of me begins to prepare for the moment you will leave.”
She drew closer. “Because of those fifteen mornings.”
He nodded. “For fifteen days, I watched you walk through the gates. I told myself that allowing you to go was the only decent thing I could do, and I knew that you had every right never to return. Even after the curse broke, I could not quite stop expecting the room to become empty again.”
Isla took his hand and pressed it between both of hers. “My love, the fact that you remember those mornings does not mean you must keep reliving them.”
He looked down at their joined fingers. “I do not know how to make myself believe that.”
“Then do not force yourself to believe it all at once. Begin with what you know. You know that I am here now. You know that I chose to marry you yesterday. And you know that I have already threatened to make you prepare breakfast for the rest of your life.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “That final fact is particularly difficult to ignore.”
“Good. Then let us begin there.”
She sat up, drawing the blankets around her shoulders. “Tell me three things you can see.”
He looked at her, puzzled. “What?”
“Three things. Anything in this room.”
He studied her face before playing along. “You. The window. The clock.”
“Good. Two things you can hear.”
“The birds. Your voice.”
She smiled. “And one thing you know.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he lifted their joined hands and kissed her fingers.
“I know that you are here because you wish to be.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Exactly.”
He drew her closer, and she rested her forehead against his. “Whenever the past grows too loud, my love, we shall return to what is true now. We do not have to erase the memories. We only have to remember that they are memories.”
His expression softened, and he kissed her gently. Then, as the silence threatened to grow too solemn, Isla glanced toward the clock and brightened.
“Now, I believe it is time for breakfast.”
Fitzherbert looked alarmed. “You intend to make me cook?”
“You promised.”
“I promised many things. I was in a highly emotional state.”
“You also promised to love me forever.”
“That promise remains in full effect.”
“Then surely a little toast cannot defeat you.”
He stared at her. “You are a ruthless woman.”
She slipped out of bed and held out her hand. “And you adore me.”
He took it, smiling. “Unfortunately, that is beyond dispute.”
Their breakfast was every bit as disastrous as Isla had predicted. The first batch of toast burned, the tea was too weak, and Fitzherbert managed to spill honey across the very table he had insisted was perfectly clean. Isla laughed until tears gathered in her eyes, then accused him of attempting to starve his own wife on the morning after their wedding.
“I am providing you with a memorable experience,” he replied, scraping the blackened toast into a dish.
“I shall remember it as the morning my husband tried to murder me with breakfast.”
“An unnecessarily dramatic interpretation.”
“Then eat the toast.”
He paused.
She smiled sweetly.
He looked at the toast, then back at her. “I believe we should summon the cook.”
Isla burst into laughter, and he laughed with her. When she reached across the table to steal a piece of bread from his plate, he caught her hand and kissed her knuckles. She tried to look stern, but he was smiling too warmly for her to maintain the pretence.
At ten o'clock, the old clock began to chime.
Fitzherbert heard it, and she felt the familiar tension in his fingers. Before the final stroke could fade, Isla rose and went to the window. She opened the curtains wider, allowing sunlight to pour into the room, and turned back toward him.
“Come here.”
He stood and crossed the room.
She took his hands and led him to the window, where the gardens were bright with morning light. The roses moved gently in the breeze, and Pear sat upon the balustrade, his mended wing tucked neatly against his side.
“Look at all this,” Isla whispered. “The garden is still here. The birds are still singing. The sun has risen, and the world has not ended simply because the clock has struck ten.”
He looked at her, his eyes shining.
“And I am still here,” she added.
A trembling breath escaped him. He drew her into his arms and held her close, burying his face against her hair. She felt the warmth of his tears against her cheek and held him tighter.
“It is past ten,” she whispered.
He nodded against her.
“And I have nowhere else to go.”
He pulled back, his eyes wet and his smile disbelieving. “Isla, you cannot say things like that without warning.”
“Would you prefer that I submit a written notice?”
He laughed through his tears. “Please do not.”
She kissed him, gentle and lingering, and he held her as though the embrace were the answer to a question he had been asking for ten years. When they finally parted, the clock stood silent behind them, and no dread followed its chimes.
For the first time, ten o'clock was simply an hour of the day.
The Roses Remembered
The sun had warmed the gardens by late morning, and Isla insisted that they go walking before the clouds gathered. Fitzherbert objected that her shoes were unsuitable for the path, that the grass was damp, and that she had not finished her tea. She listened to every objection, then took his arm and led him outside anyway.
“You have a remarkable ability to ignore sensible advice,” he observed.
“You have a remarkable ability to offer it when nobody has asked.”
“I am responsible for your welfare.”
“And I am responsible for your continued humility.”
He glanced at her. “You believe yourself capable of making me humble?”
“Not entirely. But I enjoy trying.”
They walked beneath the stone arches, where the roses had begun to open in the morning sun. Their petals were a rich, living red, touched with drops of dew, and the white blossoms shone against the dark leaves. Isla stopped to breathe in their fragrance, and Fitzherbert watched her with a tenderness that made her cheeks warm.
“What?” she asked when she noticed.
“Nothing.”
“Another lie.”
“I was thinking that the garden has never looked so beautiful.”
She glanced at the flowers. “They are lovely.”
“I was referring to you.”
She rolled her eyes, although she could not hide her smile. “You promised to spend the morning being sensible.”
“I promised no such thing.”
“You promised breakfast.”
“A promise I fulfilled to the best of my ability.”
“You burned it.”
“An unfortunate technical detail.”
She laughed and slipped her arm through his. They continued toward the southern terraces, where the stone pathway descended toward a sheltered garden filled with roses and lavender. The breeze carried the familiar scent of her childhood, and when she saw the flowers growing along the old wall, she stopped.
“My mother's roses,” she whispered.
Fitzherbert looked at her. “Do you remember them?”
“I remember the way she used to walk among them in the evenings. She would tell us that roses were stubborn flowers. They could endure a hard winter, lose every leaf, and still return when the season was right.”
She knelt beside one of the bushes and brushed her fingers lightly over a pale blossom. “When my father became ill, I thought everything she had loved was disappearing. The garden was dying, the house was growing quiet, and I was so afraid that I would lose him that I could scarcely think about anything else.”
Fitzherbert knelt beside her, his expression gentle. “I wish I could have spared you that sorrow.”
She looked at him. “You cannot spare me every sorrow, my love. Nor would I ask you to try. I only want you to stand beside me when they come.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “I shall.”
She studied his face, then smiled. “And I shall stand beside you. Even when you become disagreeable.”
“Especially when I become disagreeable?”
“Someone must protect the kingdom from your dreadful manners.”
He laughed and helped her rise. They walked a little farther, stopping beside the old stone bench where Isla had once sat alone, wondering whether she would ever feel safe in the palace. She rested her hand upon the weathered stone.
“I remember sitting here and thinking that I did not belong anywhere,” she said.
Fitzherbert stood beside her, silent.
“I thought my father's illness had taken away my home, and the bargain had taken away my freedom. I could not imagine a future in which I might choose something simply because it made me happy.”
He turned toward her. “And now?”
She looked at the open sky, the roses, and the palace beyond the trees. Then she looked into his eyes.
“Now I am standing here with the man I love, deciding whether to spend the afternoon reading in the library or stealing honey cakes from the kitchens.”
“An agonising choice.”
“Indeed. Perhaps you should assist me.”
“I shall have to consider the matter carefully.”
She smiled. “You know, I believe you have become much less frightening.”
He gave her a wounded look. “I was once considered a terrifying figure.”
“You were also considered a very lonely one.”
He fell silent. She stepped closer and touched his cheek.
“I do not love you because you were frightening, Fitzherbert. I love you because you found the courage to become kinder. I love you because you learned to listen, because you stopped asking me to be afraid of you, and because you allowed me to see the heart you had spent so many years hiding.”
His eyes shone. “You have made it very difficult to pretend I am a terrible man.”
“Then stop pretending.”
He laughed softly and kissed her forehead. “As you command, my love.”
She took his hand and led him toward the palace. The afternoon passed in small pleasures. They read together in the library until Fitzherbert began making comments about the ending of Isla's book, at which point she threatened to ban him from all literature. They shared honey cakes in the music room and argued over which tune they should play. Finally, Isla sat at the piano and began the melody of their first dance.
Fitzherbert stood beside the instrument, watching her fingers move across the keys. “You know,” he said, “I had intended to make a very impressive speech before our first dance.”
She glanced up. “What happened?”
“You looked at me.”
“That is generally what people do when they are about to dance.”
“I became distracted.”
She smiled. “You have been distracted by me for years.”
“And I see no prospect of improvement.”
She laughed and held out her hand. “Come here, then.”
He crossed the room and took it, drawing her away from the piano. There was no orchestra, no audience, and no glittering ballroom to witness them. There was only the afternoon light, the familiar music, and the man who had once believed that happiness was a thing beyond his reach. They danced slowly across the quiet room, their steps imperfect and occasionally ridiculous.
“You are stepping on my feet,” Isla informed him.
“I am attempting to lead.”
“You are attempting to crush my toes.”
“You have an extraordinary talent for exaggeration.”
She deliberately stepped upon his foot.
He stopped. “Was that necessary?”
“Entirely.”
He stared at her for a moment before laughing, and she joined him until they could no longer manage the dance. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, their foreheads touching.
“I love you,” he whispered.
She smiled. “I love you, too.”
“Even when I step on your feet?”
“Especially then. It gives me a reason to complain.”
He kissed her, and they stood together in the warm afternoon light, laughing softly between kisses. Outside, the roses stirred in the breeze, and the old palace seemed to breathe around them, no longer a place devoted to the preservation of sorrow, but a home learning how to welcome joy.
The Second Night Beneath the Moon
By the time evening arrived, the palace had settled into a gentle quiet. Their family had gathered for supper, and the table had been filled with warm food, candlelight, and the sort of affectionate teasing that made even the most ordinary conversation feel precious. Grover had insisted upon recounting the moment Fitzherbert stumbled over his own cloak during the wedding procession. Beatrice claimed she had witnessed the incident from three separate angles and would happily describe each one in detail. Cecily laughed until she could scarcely speak, while Lavinia hid her smile behind her glass.
Fitzherbert endured the conversation with admirable dignity until Isla leaned toward him and whispered, “I believe you are becoming a favourite topic of discussion.”
He replied without looking at her, “I have always maintained that your family possesses a distressing amount of free time.”
“You love them.”
“I have developed a profound respect for their endurance.”
She laughed, and he reached beneath the table to take her hand. His thumb moved slowly over her knuckles, a quiet gesture of affection that made her heart feel warm. When supper ended and Grover embraced his daughter before retiring for the night, he held her a little longer than usual.
“You are happy, my child?”
Isla looked across the room at her husband, who was listening while Beatrice told him that his wedding speech had been far too formal. He caught Isla's eye and smiled, his expression softening in a way that only she seemed able to recognise.
“Yes, Papa,” she whispered. “I am happy.”
Grover kissed her forehead. “Then that is all I have ever wished for.”
When her father had gone, Fitzherbert approached and offered his hand. “May I borrow my wife?”
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”
“An important matter of state.”
Isla looked suspicious. “Which state?”
He leaned closer and kissed her cheek. “The state of my heart.”
Cecily groaned dramatically, Lavinia burst into laughter, and Beatrice declared that the prince had become entirely too sentimental to be trusted in polite company. Fitzherbert accepted their criticism with a bow, then led Isla away before anyone could invent another accusation.
They crossed the quiet corridor and stepped onto the terrace overlooking Moonmere. The night air was cool and fragrant, carrying the scent of roses and lavender from the gardens below. The moon rested above the trees, its reflection shimmering across the water, while the palace windows glowed behind them like warm golden stars.
Isla walked to the balustrade and rested her hands upon the stone. Fitzherbert joined her, carrying two cups of warm tea. She accepted hers with a grateful smile.
“You remembered that I take honey.”
“I have remembered rather a lot of things about you.”
“Such as?”
“You prefer honey to sugar. You read the last page of a book when you are impatient. You hum when you are thinking, and you become suspiciously quiet when you are sad. You dislike the sound of thunder, although you pretend otherwise. You will always give away the larger piece of cake, provided you believe no one has noticed.”
She looked at him, deeply touched. “You have been paying an extraordinary amount of attention to me.”
“I am attempting to improve my judgment.”
“Your judgment is perfectly adequate.”
“Then I am attempting to understand how I became fortunate enough to be loved by you.”
Her smile softened. She set her cup on the balustrade and slipped her arms around his waist. “Perhaps you should stop trying to understand it and simply enjoy it.”
He drew her closer. “That sounds remarkably like advice from a woman who intends to make me very happy.”
“I should hope so. That is rather the point of marriage.”
He laughed softly and kissed her forehead. For a little while they stood together beneath the moon, watching the water and listening to the quiet movement of the leaves. Then Isla looked toward the roses climbing along the terrace.
“Do you ever think about who we were before?” she asked.
He understood immediately. “Yes.”
“Does it still hurt?”
He considered the question before answering. “Sometimes. I remember the nights when I believed there would never be another morning worth waking for. I remember the sound of the gates closing behind you, and the way I convinced myself that I had done the right thing by expecting nothing.”
He paused, looking down at their joined hands.
“But I remember something else now. I remember the way you came back. I remember how you looked at me when I thought I had ruined everything. I remember the day you began to laugh in this palace as though you belonged here.”
He lifted his eyes to hers. “I used to believe that the curse had taken away the life I was meant to have. Now I think perhaps the worst thing it took from me was my belief that I could ever be loved again.”
Isla felt tears gather behind her eyes. She took his hand and pressed it gently against her heart.
“You are loved,” she whispered.
He looked at her.
“You are loved when you are brave, and you are loved when you are afraid. You are loved when you make me laugh, and you are loved when you have no idea what to say. You are loved when you are strong, and you are loved when you need someone to hold you.” Her voice trembled. “You do not have to earn it every morning, Fitzherbert. You do not have to spend the rest of your life proving that you deserve it. You are allowed to be happy simply because you are here.”
His eyes shone. “I do not know how to answer you.”
“You need not answer. Just believe me a little more than you did yesterday.”
He drew her into his arms, pressing his cheek against her hair. She held him while the tears came, not asking him to hide them or apologise for them. When he finally lifted his head, she kissed his cheek.
“There,” she whispered. “Still handsome.”
He laughed unsteadily. “You have a remarkable disregard for dignity.”
“I married the man, not the dignity.”
“And I married the most troublesome woman in the kingdom.”
“You say that as though you regret it.”
He looked at her with such tenderness that her smile began to tremble.
“Not for a single moment.”
She kissed him, and the world seemed to grow quiet around them.
After a while, Isla stepped back and looked up at the moon. “I want to make you a promise.”
He took both her hands. “Then I shall listen.”
“I promise that I shall not love you only when you are strong. I shall love you when you are uncertain, when you are frightened, and when the past returns to trouble you. I shall not expect you to become a man who has never suffered. I shall love the man who has suffered and is still learning how to be happy.”
She squeezed his hands. “And I promise that I shall tell you when I am afraid, rather than pretending that I can carry every burden alone. I shall let you care for me, even when my pride tells me I need no one. We have both spent too long believing that love means being brave every moment. I want us to learn that we can be tired together, frightened together, and still be safe.”
Her eyes glistened in the moonlight. “Most of all, I promise that you shall never have to wonder whether you are loved. I shall tell you when you wake, when you return from the garden, when we quarrel, and when we sit together with nothing at all to say. I shall tell you until the words become so familiar that even the darkest part of your heart believes them.”
Fitzherbert stared at her, emotion leaving him almost speechless. Finally, he lifted her hands and kissed them.
“Then I must make you a promise of my own.”
She smiled through her tears. “I am listening.”
“I promise that I shall never again ask you to prove your love by sacrificing your happiness. I shall never mistake your kindness for something I am entitled to, nor your forgiveness for something I can demand. You are not mine because I have been fortunate enough to marry you, Isla. You are beside me because you have freely chosen to be, and I shall honour that choice for as long as I live.”
He pressed her fingers against his heart. “I promise to tell you when I am afraid rather than hiding behind anger. I promise to listen when I am wrong, and to apologise when I have hurt you. I promise that I shall never allow a day to pass without remembering how extraordinary it is that I have been given this life with you.”
His voice broke slightly, but he continued. “And when you are tired, I shall hold you. When the world is unkind, I shall stand beside you. When you forget how wonderful you are, I shall remind you. I shall make you laugh whenever I can, even if my jokes are terrible, and I shall dance with you even when there is no music.”
Isla laughed through her tears. “Your jokes are already terrible.”
“I know. It is a burden I must learn to bear.”
She smacked his shoulder lightly, and he caught her hand and kissed it.
“And one more thing,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
“When we are old, when the years have silvered our hair and the world has become quieter, I promise that I shall still find you beautiful. I shall sit beside you in the garden and listen to the stories you have told me a hundred times. I shall hold your hand while we watch the roses bloom, and I shall never become so accustomed to your presence that I forget how precious it is.”
He swallowed, his eyes shining. “And if one day we must say goodbye, I hope we shall have had enough happy mornings together that the sorrow will never be the only thing we remember. I hope we shall have laughed until our sides hurt, danced in empty rooms, and shared so many ordinary moments that they become, in the end, an extraordinary life.”
Tears slipped down Isla's cheeks. She shook her head, laughing softly in disbelief.
“You cannot say things like that and expect me to remain composed.”
“I have never expected you to remain composed.”
She drew him into her arms, and he held her beneath the moon, their tears mingling with laughter. For a long moment, neither tried to speak. There was no need to make their love more elaborate than it already was. They had both spent years searching for safety in different ways, and now they had discovered that it could be found in something as simple as a hand that refused to let go.
When Isla finally lifted her head, she looked at him with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.
“Fitzherbert?”
“Yes, my love?”
“I have decided that you must make me three promises.”
He blinked. “I believe we have just made several.”
“These are additional promises.”
“Of course they are.”
“First, you must never become so busy with royal duties that you forget to dance with me.”
“I promise.”
“Second, you must never allow me to go hungry because you insist upon cooking.”
He looked offended. “I believe the breakfast incident has been exaggerated.”
“You burned the toast.”
“It was slightly overdone.”
“It could have been used to repair the roof.”
He laughed. “Very well. I promise to keep the royal kitchens supplied with competent cooks.”
“Excellent. And third, you must never stop laughing with me.”
His expression softened. “That is the easiest promise you have ever asked me to make.”
“Why?”
“Because you make it impossible not to.”
She smiled, and he kissed her gently. When they parted, she rested her forehead against his.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes. “I love you, Isla.”
“No matter what comes?”
“No matter what comes.”
“In every difficult morning?”
“In every one.”
“Even when I become unbearable?”
He laughed. “Especially then. I should hate to be bored.”
She laughed too, and he drew her into another kiss.
For a little while, they stood beside the balustrade and watched the moonlight shimmer across Moonmere. The palace behind them was quiet, its windows glowing softly against the night. Somewhere beyond the gardens, Briar Hollow rested beneath the same silver sky, and the road that had once carried Isla away from everything she knew now lay peaceful and open beneath the stars.
At last, she nestled into her husband's arms and rested her cheek against his chest.
“Do you know what I want most?” she asked.
“What, my love?”
“I want to remember this feeling.”
He kissed her hair. “Then remember it.”
“I want to remember the roses, and the moon, and the way you are holding me now. I want to remember that the man who once believed he had nothing left to hope for is standing here telling me that he will love me when we are old.”
She lifted her face. “I want to remember that happiness did not arrive because our lives became perfect. It arrived because we stopped being afraid to reach for it.”
His arms tightened around her. “Then we shall remember it together.”
She smiled and kissed his cheek. “And if one day we forget?”
“I shall remind you.”
“And if you forget?”
“You shall remind me.”
“And if we both forget?”
He looked at her, his eyes warm. “Then we shall sit beside the roses until we remember.”
She laughed softly and rested her forehead against his. “That sounds like a very good plan.”
“It is the finest plan I have ever made.”
“Better than your breakfast?”
“Considerably better.”
“Better than your twenty-eight-page list of compliments?”
He sighed. “I fear you shall never let me forget that.”
“Never.”
He kissed her, and the last of the evening's tears gave way to smiles. The moon hung above them, bright and unhurried, while the roses swayed gently in the night breeze. They remained on the terrace until the cold began to touch Isla's fingers, and then Fitzherbert drew her cloak around her shoulders and guided her back toward the warmth of their chamber.
At the doorway, she turned and looked at the garden one last time. “The roses look different beneath the moon.”
“They do.”
“They seem almost silver.”
He came to stand beside her. “Perhaps the moon is simply showing them another kind of beauty.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “You have become terribly romantic.”
“I have had an excellent teacher.”
She slipped her hand into his. “And you have become a very good husband.”
His expression softened. “I shall spend the rest of my life trying to deserve that.”
She squeezed his fingers. “You do not have to spend your life trying to deserve me, Fitzherbert. Just spend it with me.”
He drew her close and kissed her forehead. “Gladly, my love. Every day I am given.”
Inside the chamber, the fire had burned low, and the moonlight stretched across the floor in a pale silver ribbon. Isla placed the rose he had given her on the dressing table, its red petals glowing softly beside the window. Fitzherbert watched her for a moment, then came behind her and slipped his arms around her waist.
“Are you happy?” he whispered.
She turned within his embrace. “So happy that I am beginning to suspect you have hidden an entire treasury of honey cakes somewhere in this palace.”
He laughed. “I would never conceal such valuable treasure from you.”
“Then I shall have to investigate.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed.
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “And what shall we do after your investigation?”
She pretended to consider it. “Perhaps breakfast in bed.”
He closed his eyes. “I knew there would be trouble.”
“And then a walk through the gardens. And perhaps dancing in the ballroom.”
“Without music?”
“Especially without music.”
He smiled and kissed her. “Then I shall look forward to tomorrow.”
She rested her forehead against his. “So shall I.”
For a moment, neither moved. They simply held one another, allowing the quiet to settle around them. There were no guests left to impress, no obligations demanding their attention, and no shadows gathering at the edges of the room. There was only the warmth of the fire, the fragrance of roses, and the extraordinary peace of being loved without having to ask for it.
Fitzherbert kissed her once more, then whispered, “Goodnight, my beautiful wife.”
Isla smiled. “Goodnight, my stubborn husband.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“And tomorrow?”
She touched his cheek. “Tomorrow, I shall love you again.”
He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the simple certainty of her words. Then he took her hand and led her toward the bed, where they settled together beneath the blankets. Isla rested her head against his chest and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. His fingers intertwined with hers, and when she lifted their joined hands to her lips, he turned and kissed her forehead.
Outside, the clock continued to mark the hours. The moon watched over the roses, and the gardens rested beneath the quiet sky. But no one was counting the minutes until a farewell. No rose was waiting to be surrendered as the price of another day. No gate stood open because someone had been asked to leave.
There would be ordinary mornings, imperfect breakfasts, arguments about books, laughter in the kitchen, and quiet evenings beneath the stars. There would be difficult days, too, because love could not promise a world without sorrow. But neither of them would have to face those days alone.
Isla had entered Blackwood Palace believing that love was something she might have to sacrifice everything to obtain. Fitzherbert had lived for years believing that his suffering had made him unworthy of receiving it. Together, they had learned that love was neither a bargain nor a reward. It was a choice made freely, a kindness offered without demand, and a promise renewed not only in beautiful moments but in the ordinary hours that followed them.
He kissed her hair, and she smiled against his chest.
“Fitzherbert?”
“Yes, my love?”
“Thank you for choosing me.”
He lifted her hand and placed a tender kiss upon her wedding ring.
“Thank you for showing me that I could be chosen.”
Her eyes filled, and she pressed closer to him.
“Always,” she whispered.
“Always,” he answered.
And beneath the moonlight of their second night as husband and wife, they fell asleep holding hands, their hearts quiet at last. The roses remained beside the window, their petals silver in the moonlight, and the palace that had once known only loneliness became, for that night, the gentlest place in the world.
The curse was broken. The sorrow was no longer their master. And the love they had found did not need to promise that life would never hurt them again. It needed only to promise that when morning came, they would wake beside one another, reach for the same hand, and begin again.
After all the darkness, they had found their light. After all the sorrow, they had found each other. And for this one beautiful night, with the moon above them and the roses breathing softly beyond the window, that was more than enough.