EPILOGUE LOVE—HOPE—FAITH The sight of lovers feeds those in love—as does a substantial wedding buffet. On Cowes Island, the autumnal afternoon was fading into russet colors and sea breezes as the Wisteria Society stood around eating oyster canapés, stealing each other’s purses, and admiring the rose garden that hosted the wedding. They awaited the arrival of the bridal couple to lead the first dance on the floor that had been laid at the garden’s heart for this purpose. Amongst them was Vicar Dickersley, his hands shaking somewhat as he chatted with Miss Darlington about the contagion rate of stigmata. He had earlier performed the wedding with an eerie sense of déjà vu and several moral qualms that had been appeased by a hefty donation to his church; now, he really just wanted to go home. But the last boat off the island had already left, and the only other ways back to the mainland were by hitching a ride with a pirate or swimming. Vicar Dickersley was glad he had packed his togs. At last the bride appeared, luminous in white, radiant with joy, hand in hand with her handsome, blushing groom. As they stepped onto the dance floor, the string quartet brought in for this occasion moved their shackles to a more comfortable position and began to play as if, for some reason, their lives depended on it. The groom swept his bride into a waltz. “She looks so beautiful,” Cecilia murmured contentedly to Ned, watching the couple swirl beneath a constellation of paper lanterns. “Who does, my dear?” he asked. “I have eyes only for you.” And grinning, he drew her onto the dance floor. “He looks so pleased,” Charlotte said with a warm sigh to Alex, captivated by the radiant wonder on Tom’s face as Constantinopla allowed him to lead. Alex kissed the top of her head. “What man wouldn’t, at his first and only wedding?” “Hush, you fiend,” she whispered, and he laughed. Catching her hand, holding it between both of his, he half-pulled, half-cajoled her to dance with him. He was surprisingly graceful, and as they followed the others in a wide, slow ring, Charlotte found herself relaxing into the sensual rhythm more than any Plim should have done. But then, she was half Pettifer these days, and half something she had not yet worked out. And so she danced. From across the floor, Cecilia caught her eye and winked. Charlotte smiled in response. Vicar Dickersley, yawning as he watched the three couples, was suddenly so startled that he almost choked. For before his very eyes they were rising off the ground, their feet gliding on nothing more than glimmering light and rose-scented breezes. “What witchcraft is this?” the vicar gasped. Millie the Monster smacked his arm (and stole his cufflink). “Foolish man,” she said. “It’s just a mad, magnificent dream.” As the magic of Charlotte’s wild, uncouth happiness rippled through the garden, the Wisteria Society paused in their conversations and petty crime-doing to watch the young people dance. Tyrants they might be, lunatics they certainly were, but they also appreciated romance with all their vast and peculiar hearts. As one, they sighed dreamily. It really was a beautiful sight. At least up until the wedding cake exploded.
Far south, in the British Museum, silence reigned. The doors had closed for the night, and the staff retired. Only two curators crept through the narrow basement corridors. They looked over their shoulders nervously as they went, half-expecting to be ambushed by old ladies or strange police inspectors. But no trouble befell them, and it was with a sigh of relief that they entered the archives room and locked the door behind them. “Behind the 1802 tax records,” one whispered, unshuttering his lantern to provide a dim light. The other began removing heavy books from a shelf, revealing a small black box tucked almost invisibly in the deep shadows. He drew it out and then paused. Both men looked around, waiting for a woman in an ostrich-feathered hat to leap out, parasol flailing. When this did not happen, they released their breath, and one slowly opened the box. An ugly glass and gold pendant lay on a bed of velvet. “Somehow I thought the real thing would be less hideous,” he said. “No, it was an exact replica,” his colleague answered. “How much do you think it’s worth?” “More than your life, if the pirates ever find out we have it. Put it back now, and let’s go get a beer. This place gives me chills.” They shut the box, returned it to its hiding place, and left the room, locking the door behind them. Hurrying away, they did not see the glimmering that radiated through gaps in the door frame. “What was that sound?” asked one. “Almost like the sea on a shore?” “Nothing,” said the other, and pushed his colleague’s shoulder to make him move faster. “It was nothing at all.” They hastened from the museum, and went to drink enough beer to make them forget they had ever seen an amulet at all.
And south again, down by the docks, an old woman disembarked from a fishing boat. She hobbled a slow way through grimy little streets lined with taverns and splashed with stains of a thankfully indeterminate nature. She was barefoot, her dress torn and smelling of fish, her gray hair hanging like seaweed down her neck. Stopping outside a pub, she sashayed in front of the first man who came out its door. “Hey, mister,” she said, giving him a crooked smile. “Want to get married?” He said no, but she didn’t let that stop her.