Maleficent shrugged extravagantly, and Nanny Stoat signed with the white quill the scribe provided her, dipped in black ink.

Then it was Aurora’s turn. She signed with black ink, a quill of her own, and a great flourish. “And I myself promise to do whatever I can to promote peace between my people. To that end, I will split my time between my kingdoms. Half will be spent in the palace here, and half in my palace in the Moors. But wherever I am, I promise that humans and faeries will be welcome.”

The room broke into applause. There were congratulations all around. Everyone wanted to speak with Aurora.

Lady Fiora wanted to beg Aurora’s pardon for not telling her outright about her suspicions about her brother. Lady Sabine and Lady Sybil wanted to hear about Aurora riding to Phillip and Maleficent’s rescue, which they seemed to think was both outrageous and a bit of a romantic adventure. And her pixie aunties wanted to tell her that while they liked the way she’d arranged her hair, they were sure they could magic it into a much better confection if only she’d let them.

Eventually, people began to file out.

As they did, Phillip walked toward Aurora. He was wearing a woolen doublet with a row of gold buttons up the middle and slashes showing a bright print underneath. His brown curls flopped over one eye, and his gentle smile didn’t reveal anything. Had she not known he was hurt, she would never have guessed.

“You did it,” he told her, “just like you said you would.”

She grinned up at him. “I am glad you were here to see it happen.”

“I have the oddest notion,” he said, “that when I was losing a lot of blood, you told me something I very much wanted to hear. But maybe I misheard you. Or perhaps you were carried away by your concern for me. Perhaps you were afraid I was going to die—”

“I have another riddle for you,” she said, interrupting him. “What is mine, but only you have it?”

She felt her cheeks grow hot. It was no matter that she’d already told him she loved him, even if he wasn’t sure whether it was memory or wishful thinking. She was still shy to say it again.

“That’s easy,” he said. “My heart.”

“No!” she told him. “It’s supposed to be my heart.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, his manner serious, giving the question greater weight.

“Yes,” she said. “Even when you’re not bleeding on the floor of a mine after being stabbed by my mortal enemy, I still love you.”

“Oh,” he said, looking as though he had suddenly become the shy one. “Thank goodness.” He gave her hand a squeeze and moved toward the hall, where the other courtiers were heading. She would follow in a moment. But first there was something she had to do.