The morning air in Virevale was warm and golden, stirred by soft wind and the slow rhythm of goodbyes. Around the carriage, the village had quietly gathered — not in ceremony, but in the casual, shy solemnity reserved for those one truly liked and might not see again.

  Fran stood near the open door, gloves in hand, hair swept into a braid that had already begun to unravel.

  Veltryn House had already been cleaned and shuttered — not by magic, but by ordinary hands, careful and thorough. The curtains were drawn, the hearths swept, and the pantry left empty.

  Gale adjusted the bags on the rear rack, then turned to face the small group assembled near the fence: the reeve, arms crossed but eyes warmer than usual; a few local women with fresh bread tucked into cloth wraps; two elders from the bathhouse committee — one of whom still insisted on calling Fran “our miracle duchess.”

  And of course, Emaen and Namos, standing just a little apart, their children in front of them.

  Fran was already bent down when the boy approached. He looked freshly scrubbed, hair combed back into damp obedience, and wore a tunic far too fine for chasing chickens — which meant Emaen had dressed him.

  He stopped a pace away, fists clenched, face solemn with effort. Then, with all the conviction his six-year-old heart could muster, he declared: “When I grow up, I’ll become a hero and marry you, lady Franny!”

  Gale choked. “What did he just call you?”

  Fran, completely unbothered, knelt down and smoothed the boy’s hair. “That’s very kind, brave knight. But I’m afraid I’m already spoken for.”

  The boy looked appalled. “By who?”

  She tilted her head. “By the Master Sorbet, of course.”

  The child made a face. “That’s not a real name.”

  Gale, eyes gleaming, leaned in. “Oh, it is now. Thank you for reminding me, Franny.”

  Fran gave him a glare that promised suffering.

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  Meanwhile, the youngest — a little girl with her mother’s green eyes and her father’s smile — hugged Gale without warning, then wrapped her arms around Fran’s legs.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  Fran froze. Gale blinked. Emaen, behind them, suddenly found something in her eye.

  Fran crouched to meet the girl's gaze. “And I love you too, wildflower.”

  Gale crouched, his voice gentler than usual.

  “That’s a powerful spell, little one. You sure you want to cast it on both of us?”

  The girl nodded, solemn as a priestess.

  He bowed his head.

  “Then we’ll carry it well.”

  Straightening, he lifted one hand — palm open — and conjured a tiny swirl of blue-green light. The children gasped as it rose, shimmered, and took the shape of a dancing fox, all sparks and movement. It circled them once before bursting into a scatter of petals, dissolving like laughter in the wind.

  Applause erupted. Someone cheered. Someone else offered another peach. The reeve muttered something about damn mages and grinned when he thought no one saw.

  Someone asked if the Duchess would come back next summer.

  She didn’t promise anything. But she said, “We’ll try.”

  Emaen stepped forward next, wrapping Fran in a firm, perfumed hug.

  “If he ever gives you trouble,” she whispered, “remember: sorbet melts fast.”

  Fran exhaled a laugh against her shoulder.

  “You’re not helping.”

  “I never do.”

  Namos followed, less talkative, but no less heartfelt. His arms were strong around her — a silent shield and a promise, all at once.

  “Take care, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “Don’t forget us.”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  And she meant it.

  Minutes later, the last bag was tied, the last farewell murmured, the children waved their last wave.

  As the carriage creaked into motion, the first basket thumped to the floor.

  A furious scrabbling followed. Then a meow — loud, offended, unmistakably Nymph.

  Gale turned just in time to see a black tail vanish beneath the opposite seat.

  “They’ve escaped.”

  Fran didn’t even look surprised. “They always do.”

  The second basket tipped over with a softer thud, followed by the guilty rustle of claws against upholstery.

  “Rudy’s out too,” Gale confirmed, eyeing the shifting lump beneath one of the cushions. “Excellent.”

  Fran sighed and picked a stray tuft of fur from her cloak. “Siljia would’ve bribed them into obedience with cold chicken by now.”

  “She’d have fed them half a bird and tucked them into blankets.”

  “And then told us we were unfit to travel without supervision.”

  “She wouldn’t have been wrong.”

  The carriage swayed gently as the road unspooled ahead. Behind them, Virevale slipped out of sight. In the seat beneath them, Nymph began clawing at something that might once have been a map. Rudy mewled once and climbed onto Fran’s lap, purring as if the entire rebellion had been a success.

  Gale reached over to gently pry a ribbon from Nymph’s jaws. “We’re not even past the river,” he muttered.

  Fran stroked Rudy’s ears. “And already losing the battle.”

  He grinned. “Some homecoming.”

  She smiled too, tired but content. “Wouldn’t trade it.”