Epilogue

Next Halloween

Graves Glen

Tamsyn had always loved Halloween. You got candy, you got to be out after dark, you got to dress up... zero downsides,

in her opinion. In fact, maybe that’s what had drawn her to acquiring in the first place. She got to dress up as someone else,

she got to go to spooky places, and, sure, she was usually getting something like “Demon’s Eyeball Encased in Glass (1702)”

as opposed to M the Girls’ Nights with Gwyn and Vivi; and the ultimately disastrous but still fun First Annual Penhallow Brothers’ Bonfire and Barbecue Night, Tamsyn had never felt so... wholesome .

Well, she amended as she looked again at Bowen in his robes and felt a pleasant shiver at the idea of taking them off later

this evening, at least mostly wholesome.

“Gwynnevere, your mother is a saint!” Rhys announced as he and Vivi entered the room, out of their own witchy costumes and

back in jeans and sweaters. “I swear, I only gave Taran one piece of candy, but apparently even that scant amount of sugar

was enough to turn him into a whirling dervish of madness.”

“You gave him five pieces of candy because you are a whirling dervish of madness,” Vivi corrected, slipping an arm around her husband’s waist, her indulgent smile taking

any sting out of the words. “Although you’re right about Aunt Elaine. Offering to take Taran for tonight should definitely

mean even a witch qualifies for sainthood.”

Tamsyn smiled again, remembering Taran tearing around Something Wicked, a caramel apple in each hand, one of which had eventually

ended up stuck to his honey-blond curls. She’d helped Vivi clean him up, and as Tamsyn had been wiping the last streak of

caramel off one chubby cheek, Vivi had said, “Tell Aunt Tamsyn thank you, Taran.”

Another reminder of how easily these people had made room for her in their family, and she would never stop being grateful

for it.

As Vivi and Rhys filled Gwyn and Wells in on the rest of Taran’s Halloween antics, Bowen slid closer to Tamsyn on the sofa, slipping an arm around her hips and pulling her into his side. She went easily, resting her head against his chest as he lowered his voice to ask, “How much longer do we need to stay here and be social?”

Tilting her chin up to look at him, Tamsyn tweaked his beard again. “Until I finish my wine.”

“This wine?” Bowen asked, nodding at the glass she’d set on the trunk, and before she could answer, he sat up, picked up the

glass, and proceeded to down the entire thing.

“There,” he said, sitting the empty glass back down with a decisive thump. “Finished. Guess we should go now.”

“Ah, the mountain man returns to his lair,” Rhys said, but he was smiling. They all were, Tamsyn realized, looking at both

her and Bowen with real fondness, and once again, she thanked whatever quirk of the universe had landed her here in this place

with this family.

“Honestly, the fact that he came over at all is a miracle,” Gwyn said, then tilted her glass of wine at Tamsyn. “Sure you’re

not a witch? Because the transformation you’ve done on this one seems pretty magical to me.”

“Nah, I’m just really good in bed,” Tamsyn replied, and everyone except Bowen—who was too busy blushing—laughed.

They said their farewells at the door, the women hugging and kissing cheeks, the Penhallow brothers doing their usual thing

of vaguely insulting each other before offering claps on the shoulder and handshakes, and as Tamsyn and Bowen stepped out

onto the house’s front porch, the full moon bathed the surrounding woods in pale silvery light.

It was cool, the air soft and smelling like woodsmoke, and Tamsyn paused to take a deep breath, tilting her head back to look at the sky.

Behind her, Bowen wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in and resting his chin on the top of her head.

“If it weren’t for the cars in the driveway, we could be back in 1957,” Tamsyn mused. “This place reminds me of Tywyll in

a weird way.”

“It’s the woods,” Bowen said, his voice a low grumble. “And the mountains and the magic in the place.”

“It is magic,” Tamsyn agreed, turning in his arms to face him, her own arms sliding around his neck.

“This,” she told him, giving him a light nip to his lower lip that had him sucking in a quick breath, “is where you’re supposed

to say something like”—she lowered her voice to imitate his growl—“‘ You’re magic, cariad. ’”

Bowen pulled her in closer, their hips flush, and now Tamsyn was the one feeling a little breathless. “You’re better than

magic,” he said.

Simple words, nothing flowery or poetic, but they meant more to her than any sonnet or soliloquy, because coming from this

man, it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her.

“I love you kind of a lot, Bowen Penhallow,” she said softly, and his teeth glinted in the darkness as he smiled.

“The feeling is mutual, fy negenth i, ” he told her. “Now let me take you home and prove it.”

And he did.