In the grand scheme of things, trying to eat while crying is never a good idea. But that doesn’t stop Fione and me from doing it the moment I walk in on dinner and we see each other. It doesn’t stop her from holding up her son, Zeran—a dark-haired little bundle of joy that does me the honor of spraying spittle all over my face. It doesn’t stop Varia from nodding at me with a faint smile. It doesn’t stop Fione from pulling me through the palace and into Malachite’s disbelieving arms, into Y’shennria’s, into Crav’s and Peligli’s, who are now human and living at her orphanage. Reginall, their tutor, takes my hands gently and weeps when I show him the flower-like scar over my heart. A heart that’s in my chest now. Nightsinger is the Windonhigh ambassador, Fione and I bursting into her office and her mane of tawny hair spiraling as she turns, streaking behind her like a banner as she runs to embrace me. Yorl stands no chance, either, his peppermint cordial flying everywhere as he races into my arms, asking streams and streams of curious polymath questions.

It only stops when Fione insists we share in her frankly terrible stew without a care in the world.

Chaos is, thankfully, only ever sometimes chaos. There are promises to meet again, plans and tea dates and sparring sessions and tutor visits to the orphanage, and then, finally, silence.

A silence in which only Lucien and I reside.

He leads me to the balcony of his apartment in the palace, the marble of it still dusted with sand from the construction.

In Lucien d’Malvane’s outstretched hand is a bag that reads Heart.

“I never told you, did I?” He smiles down at me with velvet affection. “Why I stitched that word.”

“I assumed it was because you were running low on creative juice.” I smirk.

“Not quite.” He takes my hand and presses the bag into it. “My heart. You’re my heart, more than the one in my chest.”

The swell of tears in my eyes starts again, but this is too happy a moment for them to fall. They hang there, bright and sparkling in the twilight, as my smirk melts to a smile.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re rather corny, Your Highness?”

His kiss comes suddenly, like a shooting star, burning sweet on my lips and buzzing in my stomach—he remembers. He remembers our silly little promise, his joking threat to kiss me whenever I called him that. Even now. Even three years later. Maybe he thought about it every day. Three whole years. He’s been waiting for three years, and all of it pours out of him and into me: the longing, the joy, the dreams, all the nights and days we missed, and all the nights and days we’ll have together from now on.