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Her world was small, and dark, and foggy, like the gloom that settled over the mountains as rain approached. Cloudy memories of sorrow and heartbreak, of fear and loss, woven tidily into her and Sir Lewyn’s travels across the continent.

Sir Lewyn dropped her off with Lord Seliph, a name she definitely knew and a face she felt she somehow should have, and wandered off somewhere. While he was as close to a parental figure as she could remember, Sir Lewyn never felt like he was fully in any single place; he felt almost inhuman at times, tragically mortal in others. To be around him was both comfort and isolation.

Why would the liberation army be any different?

Dropped as she was into the middle of battle with them, unarmed and holding onto the staff that a girl with hair like firelight had passed to her, Julia felt nothing but fear as enemies came upon them from the rear, the sounds of axes and hoofbeats drawing nearer every second. Lord Seliph yelled to press forward and regroup, to face them near the forest for protection. She knew she wouldn’t make it. The hoofbeats were practically on top of her, signaling the sharp metal of an axe ready to bite into her flesh.

“Miss!”

Julia looked up in amazement at the man on the horse next to her, his hand stretched down, grasping for her. His hair was golden, like the sun, like a throne, like a prince in a faerietale being read to her by candlelight.

Who would have read to her by candlelight?

“Let’s go!”

She gasped as he lifted her by her arm easily, settling her astride on the horse. Her dress lifted, pushing up her legs with the action, and she scrabbled to pull it down even as the horse jolted forward, throwing her back into the chest of her rescuer.

The man wrapped his arm around her waist, stopping her backwards slide, and spoke. “Apologies for the liberty — and for your dress — miss, but we’ve got to get out of here, and I didn’t think you’d make it fast enough on foot.”

“…th-thank you,” she managed to squeak out. The forest was fast approaching — or perhaps they were fast approaching the forest, now that she was thinking about it — and she could see the rest of the army waiting in the trees. The priestess who had given her the staff was sliding off of the blue-haired archer’s horse, moving to stand behind Lord Seliph, while the rest of the army readied their weapons and checked for wounds.

Lord Seliph smiled at them. “Julia! You made it! Thank you, Diarmuid, for helping her. I fear the battlefield is not as quickly traversed by those of us without horses.”

“You’re nearly as swift as any horse, milord,” said the man behind her. “Or did you not beat Lester here?”

“I had to stop to grab Lana,” the blue-haired archer (Lester, she guessed) said, sounding distinctly aggrieved. “In a fair race —"

“Your horse would win?” Diarmuid slid off the horse behind her and cleared his throat. “Miss, unless you wish to stay on, may I offer you a hand and get you behind the front lines?”

“Ah…yes.” Julia hated the way she could only manage to force out a word or two every time she was asked a question, but she genuinely had no idea what to say, if anything, let alone if it would be welcomed. “Thank — oh!”

The knight had passed her outstretched hands, letting them rest on the tops of his shoulders, and clasped his hands around her waist. Her fingers scratched automatically at the pauldrons on his shoulders for purchase, finding none, but it didn’t seem to bother him, his arms lifting her off the horse in one fluid motion and settling her gently on the grass under their feet.

When was the last time she had been touched, let alone so gently?

And then he went off, leaping back on his horse and readying his sword, and the healer girl was at her side again, tucking her away behind a tree but still within healing range, and the sounds of battle were ringing in the air.

She felt his hands on her waist until the battle was well past and the small army had taken up residence in a captured castle, burning fires to keep the cold of the night and the cries of the dead at bay.

_________________

It seemed that they were constantly on the move, stopping only to rest for the night and to fight against the armies that were poured out against them like water through a child’s hands. Dahna was no different; dark mages swarmed at them from every side as they pushed through the scraps of grass and road that lined the desert, hoping desperately that they could get to Leonster in time to help the boy she’d heard referred to as Lord Leif, the lost Prince.

“He’s been leading the Thracian forces in a revolution against the Empire,” Diarmuid explained as they walked side-by-side. His horse was slowed by the shifting sands under their feet, so he had jumped off and lifted her down, lightening the load for the animal considerably. She wasn’t having near the trouble with the sand that he was, but it was nice to have the weight of her Mend staff and Nosferatu tome latched securely to the side of the horse. “They say the last knight of Leonster rides at his side…along with a young princess…of Nordion.”

Julia hummed in acknowledgement, noticing how he stuttered his way through the last sentence. “Nordion?”

He paused, swallowing hard. “My mother is — or was, I suppose, before the Empire took over Augustria — the princess of Nordion. She’s been…away for most of my life with my little sister, but I heard she came to Leonster to stay.”

“You have a sister?”

Diarmuid scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I don’t talk about her, do I? Yeah, King Lewyn told me all about my mother and Nanna — that’s my sister’s name. Last he’d heard, they were still in Leonster, and since it looks like Bloom is getting ready to attack it…”

He wouldn’t look at her, watching his boots as they pushed through the sand, and Julia felt a pang of sadness. To lose one’s entire family, one’s sibling and mother, and then to hear that they may be in immediate danger was more than any human should have to bear — certainly more than she could bear.

Not that she had any family to speak of. At least, nothing that she could remember; her life before about seven years ago was simply fog. She could have, she supposed, had a family before then, but it wasn’t the same. Without memories she was free of grief even as she was free of love.

Impulsively, she laid her hand on his arm, hoping the gesture wouldn’t be too unwelcome. “They will be safe. I am sure that a prince has many capable retainers to keep him and his guests free of danger.”

“Mother may very well be doing the protecting.” A soft smile came to his face as they turned south, the path to Leonster in view a ways off. “She’s a fierce fighter, skilled in every weapon known to war as well as every type of magic.”

Julia blinked. Her mental picture of the Princess of Nordion shifted from skirts and courtly manners to a woman wielding a shimmering sword high above her head, clothed in snow-white armor. “I see.”

“She’ll like you,” Diarmuid said suddenly. “I don’t remember much about her, but I remember how fond she was of all of the children I would play with.”

“I am hardly a child.” The sentence slipped out before she’d thought the words.

He turned to her, feet halting in the rough rocks that had replaced the sand, and she realized that her hand was still on his arm, fingers twitching against the warmth of his skin. She couldn’t place the expression he wore, something darker than wonderment and softer than anger. It was an expression she’d seen before, she was sure, somewhere in the mist of her past, though never directed at herself —

Something caught her eye from the side and she glanced over, seeing Sir Oifey’s javelin raised high, the sun glinting off its point. “The signal,” she said, dropping her hand back to her side and curling it in the familiar, alienating mass of her robes. “We must make haste.”

Wordlessly, he seated her on the horse and lifted himself in front of her, urging the horse forward.  She clung to him as they flew over the rough road, watching as the other members of their army came into view alongside thunder mages with a banner she knew instantly to be of the Empire’s House Friege.

How did she know that?

______________________

With the castles nearby having been captured and Bloom defeated — though he fled before any true harm could come to him — they settled in to Alster for the next few days to rest and recuperate. Julia joined Lana in their makeshift hospital bay (a room that a thunder mage named Tine, new to their ranks, said was often used to quarantine illness) and began the slow, arduous work of healing those injured in the battle.

Among the injured was the blue-haired knight of Leonster, Sir Finn, who had to be persuaded for upwards of an hour by Sir Oifey to leave Prince Leif with Lord Seliph and see his wounds tended to. When he was finally lying down, armor to the side of the cot, he turned to Julia, eyes widening.

“What is your name?”

Julia looked behind her, then back at him. “Me, sir?”

He nodded, face serious. “Yes.”

She raised her staff, letting the magic flow through her and start knitting together some of his deeper gashes. “I am called Julia, sir.”

The knight relaxed into the cot, face smoothing out into a polite curiosity. “I see. Thank you for your healing, Miss Julia. I apologize for my bluntness, it’s just that you look…very much like someone I used to know. Where are you from?”

“I do not know.” It was the same thing she had to say to everyone. “Sir Lewyn found me wandering some years back and took me with him on his travels. I have only been with Lord Seliph’s army a short while.”

“Lewyn is alive,” Sir Finn said, nodding slowly. “Good. We stand a better chance with his wisdom and power. Do you know —" he broke off, looking directly at Julia as she started to address the large wound on his arm. “There was a young girl, with golden hair on the battlefield, and a feather —"

“Nanna is just fine.” Diarmuid walked into view, sword still hanging from his belt. “She’s arguing with Lord Seliph and Prince Leif on what we should do about Bloom.”

A wry smile crossed Sir Finn’s face. “Of course she is. Miss Julia, may I sit up now?”

“Ah, yes.” She moved closer, setting her staff down.  She moved her hands to support him at the shoulder, but his arm was still obviously tender and he was far too heavy for her.

“Here.” Diarmuid moved across the bed from her, sitting the knight up in one fluid motion. “He’s bleeding pretty badly from this side, Julia.”

Julia nodded, moving to switch him places and begin healing again.

“Thank you,” Sir Finn said, sounding out of breath. “I saw you on the battlefield — one of Seliph’s knights. Your name is…?”

Diarmuid swallowed, straightening his back. “Diarmuid of Tirnanog. Son of Lachesis, Princess of Nordion.”

Sir Finn went so still that Julia glanced up at his face to ensure he hadn’t suddenly died. His skin had gone white and his breathing was shallow, barely moving his chest as he stared at Diarmuid. “I see,” he said after a long pause.

“You knew my mother, I believe.”

“I…ah…”

“In Sir Sigurd’s army,” Diarmuid said. “It was my understanding that you both fought alongside Sir Sigurd.”

“Yes,” Sir Finn said, brow clearing. “Yes, I had that pleasure, briefly.”

“And afterwards, when she sought refuge in Leonster.”

Sir Finn’s voice was softer now. “Yes. Any compatriots of Sir Sigurd were being hunted down. She came to escape, having left her firstborn — you — in a safe place with a woman she trusted.”

Diarmuid’s next words came out mild, with an undercurrent of tension. “Nanna tells me you have been a father both in blood and name to her.”

A smile came to Sir Finn’s face, making him look far younger than he had moments ago. “She is a light to all who meet her. I am honored to be her father.”

“She said much the same — that she was honored to be your child.”

Julia tried to leave unobtrusively, knowing that there were other patients to attend to now that Sir Finn was not actively bleeding.

Diarmuid stopped her, his grip firm on her shoulder, gaze fixed firmly on the man on that cot. “Do I have that same honor, sir?” His grip tightened almost painfully, and she noticed that he was shaking slightly.

Ah.

Heal, she thought instinctively, knowing that her staff would do nothing against emotional wounds and trying anyway. Heal, heal, heal…

Sir Finn looked at him for a long moment, choosing his words carefully. “You are grown. A grown man has no need of a father.”

“A man always needs his father.” The words slipped out before she could bind her tongue to silence. She covered her mouth with one hand, pulling away a fraction before noticing that Diarmuid was using her shoulder like a crutch.

So she stayed.

“What apology can I make?” Sir Finn asked softly. “For leaving you alone all these years, for Lachesis — for your mother’s disappearance, for my cowardice in not trying to find you —"

Diarmuid relaxed, his hand now simply resting on her shoulder. “You took care of Mother. You raised Nanna and kept her safe through everything. You acted as a true knight of Leonster.” When Julia glanced up at him, she could see unshed tears shining in his eyes. "There’s no apology to make.”

Julia left quietly as father and son sat together, a companionable silence punctuated only by a few sniffs — from which man, she could not tell — and stepped over to her next patient, then the next, healing all she could find.

It did not stop her from turning back to see Diarmuid tending to his father, his easy grin firmly in place, her heart throbbing in answer to a question no one would ask.

_____________________

The sight of Ishtar — how she knew the woman’s name, how she was enough to send her heart rocketing against her chest in fear, she could not know — led her to warn Lord Seliph in hushed tones. He accepted her counsel graciously, warning the rest of the army, but her blood was cold as the robes of a sage were draped upon her by Lord Lewyn, who offered her a small smile and a pat on the head along with them.

“It is enough,” she said to herself, clutching her tome with white fingers. “I can protect them.”

“Of course you can.”

She knew the voice behind her — strong, valiant, with a touch of good humor — better than she knew herself. Diarmuid smiled at her, turning to Lord Lewyn. “Sir Oifey and Shannan have need of your counsel regarding Meese.”

He nodded, leaving quickly with only a hand on her head, then Diarmuid’s shoulder as farewell.

Once she could not hear his steps anymore, she ventured to ask the question his confidence in her had posed. “Do you believe that?”

“Without a doubt.”

She couldn’t turn to face him, couldn’t bear to see his face when she asked. “And if I fail? If Ishtar wins, if we fall here?”

“Julia.” His hands met her arms, spinning her to face him, thumbs stroking at the top of her shoulders. “You aren’t responsible for the whole army singlehandedly. All of us are here, working for the same thing.”

“Survival.”

“A future.” Diarmuid leaned down, looking at her in the eyes. “A future where we can be safe and happy and —" he broke off for a moment, cheeks dusted with a tinge of pink, then cleared his throat. “And where we have nothing to fear but famine, floods, or fire, rather than evil men and their dark gods.”

Her darkest thought slipped out without her permission. “What if I am not built for peace? I have no knowledge of my past — naught but glimmers of blood and of screaming. What if I am — what if I have done more than — what if I cannot suit peace? Even my magic keeps me alive at the expense of others. What if I am a child of darkness and war, and nothing else?”

Diarmuid shook his head, his hair brushing against her own, hands tight where they held her. “If anything, you’re a woman of light, not of darkness. You’ll wear peace like jewels,” he said softly, “and prosperity like a crown.”

Julia blinked, her mouth refusing to form words, her heart unfreezing in an instant, roaring to life. Instead, she reached shaking hands up to his face, feeling his hair slide around the tips of her fingers, and leaned her head forward, tipping her lips up to his and pressing against them softly.

Stupid girl, idiot girl, lustful girl, just like your poor excuse for a mother, a voice in her head shrieked, horribly familiar and entirely alien. You see a hero and think he is for you. What have you done?!?

She ripped her mouth away from his, covering it with her hand, spinning out of his hold and hunching over, her back towards him, knees threatening to give out any second. “I am sorry,” she blurted out, voice high-pitched and shivering, “I am so sorry, forgive me, I did not…I…I…”

Her eyes closed by themselves, images flashing in her mind — a kind man, reading her a story from a thick leather book — a woman with fluffy hair and a sad smile, a crown on her head — a small boy with a smile like sunshine, holding the hand of a robed figure radiating malice — voices screaming, a woman soaked in blood, lying on the floor, magic swirling from her hand.

“Julia!”

She didn’t even feel herself hit the floor.

_________________________

She woke in a bed in what she somehow did not need to be told was Meese castle, captured successfully in the time she’d been unconscious. Lana stood over her, brow pinched in worry, and then it seemed as if the entire army was crowded around her cot.

Sir Seliph pressed her hand, thanking her for waking up and assuring her all was well. The rest followed suit, with a few hugging her and most patting her on the shoulder or offering her food and water, chattering about how much they had missed her.

“You should have seen Diarmuid,” Lady Nanna said to her quietly. “He came racing in, screaming for Lana, holding you in his arms. You looked near dead.”

“I thought she was dead,” Lana said grimly, fluffing the pillow behind her back. “What happened to you? We couldn’t find any marks of injury, but you slept for a week.”

Her memory as more of a blank than usual. Julia shook her head. “I do not recall,” she said truthfully, voice rusty from disuse, “one moment I was…conversing with Sir Diarmuid, and the next…”

What have you done?!?

“…I woke up here,” she finished, ignoring the loud voice in her head. “I am sorry to have worried everyone.”

“I told you, she fell where she stood,” came Diarmuid’s voice. “No one was around, nothing hit her.”

Lana and Lady Nanna moved away, conversing over the possibility of dark magic, and Julia could finally see Diarmuid, sitting on the edge of a cot near the fall wall. His face was drawn and cheeks sunken, the shadows under his eyes prominent even at a distance.

“Are you well?” The question flew out of her mouth before she could stop it.

For a moment, Diarmuid simply sat, looking at her, face unreadable. Then he stood, walking briskly over to her and sitting on the chair next to her bed, pulling it as close as possible. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then snapped it shut, raising his head to look her in the face. “Don’t do that again,” he said, voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. “I nearly took off Seliph’s head for making me fight while you were — asleep.”

“My apologies,” she said softly. “For…falling asleep. And for…my actions before, I should —"

His head dropped into her lap, the rest of him split between the cot and the chair. “Rest,” he said, his voice muffled. “I need rest. As do you.”

The rise and fall of his breathing easing out, the lines on his forehead disappearing silenced her next sentence and she leaned back, closing her eyes. When she awoke sometime later, he had moved his arms to loop loosely around her waist, his head still nestled in her lap, breathing deep and even. She dared move her hand slightly, brushing back a few stray golden hairs from his face, marveling at the sight.

“He was like that nearly the entire week,” Lady Nanna said quietly, tending to a sleeping soldier in the cot next to hers. “Even told Lord Seliph to go ‘piss into the wind’ when he asked him to fight.”

Julia’s mouth curled up into a small smile. “How very ill-mannered of him.”

“He fought, but he wasn’t happy about it. And as soon as he could be, he was back at your side.”

“I can only bring him unhappiness.” In the still of the infirmary, among the sleeping patients, the words almost felt safe to say.

Nanna raised an eyebrow. “Does he look unhappy to you? Perhaps,” she said quietly, finishing the bandaging she was doing and picking up her candle to leave, “life is to be enjoyed, rather than endlessly suffered through.”

Julia watched her go, considering the point. Was her life really something meant to be enjoyed?

Stupid girl.

She settled back, letting her own tiredness and the comforting weight of Diarmuid in her lap lull her to sleep.

________________________

They had to move so immediately to rescue Miletos and recapture Chalphy that she and Diarmuid did not see each other again until they met on the battlefield, her staff alight and keeping everyone alive, his sword flashing in the sun.

“Thank you!” He shouted as her spell enveloped him, the cuts on his face from a stray explosion healing in an instant.

“Be careful!” She shouted back. “We are nearly there!”

“Nearly?” Diarmuid laughed, riding towards her, eyes darting around the battlefield to ensure no enemies were present. “Then I can ask?”

“Ask?”

He sent her a blinding grin. “Marry me?”

Her jaw dropped open, world narrowing to the golden-haired knight on the brown horse

“I don’t have a ring on me,” he continued, sliding off his mount, “but Nanna says she has Mother’s tucked away in her trunk, and —"

A pillar of light shot up into the sky, and both turned to look, identical sighs of relief breaking the air.

“Chalphy is defeated,” she said quietly, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. “We are nearly through.”

“Gods willing,” he agreed, then reached out his hand. “We’d better meet them there as quickly as possible.”

She accepted his hand up onto the horse, relaxing as the familiar weight of him settled behind her and he nudged the steed into a gallop. “Find your mother’s ring,” she said, surprising herself with how wide her grin was.

The only sign he gave that he heard her was his arm tightening around her and a kiss pressed to the top of her head, but she laughed out loud for the first time she could remember.

________________________

Her world was small, and dark, and perfectly clear. Her only thought was to kill the enemy commander Seliph. Her master demanded it. Her master’s word was law.

It did not matter how many lives she had to snuff out in the process. It did not matter the screams she heard. Nothing mattered but death. Not even the small voice screaming in her head to stop.

Until her name sounded across the battlefield.

At first it was one voice, familiar as her master’s own, the owner’s green hair blowing in the wind. Then more voices, younger, more desperate, more…worried? Youths on horses and on foot, scrambling towards her.

Enemies, she knew. But her hand would not move, and her voice would not sound.

“Julia,” a blue-haired boy, a few years her senior, said, grasping her hands, throwing her spell book to the side. “Julia, come back to us.”

Her head was screaming, memories of this boy, of the others calling her name, breaking against her skull. She couldn’t remember, she had to remember, she had to kill them all, she had to save them all.

“Julia, please,” said a girl tearfully, waving her staff. “I can’t heal her, milord, it’s not working.”

The girl wanted to heal her. The boy wanted her to remember. What was she supposed to remember? Weren’t these the enemies of her master?

Who exactly was her master? Why did she obey him?

“JULIA!”

The voice ripped through her as the crowd parted for a brown horse, the man on top of it throwing off his helmet, dismounting the horse mid-stride. The sun glinted above him, bouncing off his armor, lighting his every movement.

A prince from a faerietale.

“Julia,” he said again, in front of her, eyes wide.

“Diarmuid, be careful, she’s not herself, Manfroy —"

“Dead,” he said grimly. “Not even a minute ago. Lester still has my sword — I left it with him, but the bastard’s dead, so she should be recovering, Tine said with possession like that —” he broke off, staring at her. “Look at her, the red’s fading from her eyes.”

She could feel life returning to her limbs, the color in the world brightening. Her master was dead — Manfroy was dead, the man who had killed so many, who had entranced Julius with that book, her poor brother, gone now entirely, who had threatened her father and hated her mother —

“Julia,” the blond boy said, taking her hands as the others stepped back, “Julia, please, come back to me.”

She staggered with the impact of her memories returning all at once. “Diarmuid,” she whispered, “Diarmuid.”

He crushed her into a hug, the rest of the army surrounding them, and she let herself breathe in deeply.

“Julius,” she said as his hold loosened and everyone else began to take up positions on the battlefield. “I have Naga’s blood in me, I have to — I have to stop him. I have to save him.”

“Not by yourself. I won’t leave you.”

She kissed him, the screaming in her head absent, she knew, for good since Manfroy’s final breath. “Help me then.”

They made it to Velthhomer, a priest helping her find the Book of Naga, and then they seemed to fly across the battlefield, Diarmuid holding her to him, Lord Seliph and Lord Leif riding hard beside them, Lady Nanna following closely behind.

She freed Julius from Loptus. It was all she could do for him, for the memory of her brother that once wore his face, for the sake of her brave mother and for the memory of her imperfect, loving father.

The victory was a mess of tears and laughter, of hastily bound wounds and broken mending staves. The citizens of Grannvale — her citizens, her people — cheered Lord Seliph’s name from every plain and building. The crowd in front of the castle was nearly deafening, and when Lana tackled Lord Seliph in front of them, kissing him so enthusiastically that the hair tied at the nape of his neck came undone, they cheered even louder.

Diarmuid pulled her away without a word after the quick, barebones dinner that the army opted for, leaving the feast for a day they weren’t exhausted. She followed him down a corridor as familiar to her as breathing, looking around at the castle with new eyes.

“This is the way to my old room,” she said.

His grip on her hand tightened. “I asked the kitchen staff,” he said, almost apologetic. “And Seliph said we could all find our own rooms in this wing, and I figured…”

“You figured?”

He stopped, not letting go of her hand, and turned to face her. “I figured I should do this away from everyone. I know I already asked, and you kind of said yes, but…” Diarmiud dropped to one knee, the hand not holding hers slipping into his pocket, pulling out a ring. “Julia, from the first time we met, I…” he paused, blinking a few times. “I forgot my speech. Marry me?”

She was laughing and crying as she nodded, letting him slip the ring — a twinkling silver band with a deep pink stone inlaid in the center — onto her finger before launching herself into his arms.

And, despite her lord brother’s suggestion, she stood firm on the idea that Diarmuid had no need to find his own room in the family wing for the night.

________________________

“I’m not leaving you,” Diarmuid said to her, crossing his arms. “I’m your husband. You’re my wife.”

“Augustria needs you,” said Lord Seliph gently from his right. “You’re her son, and she’s suffered without leadership for far too long.”


“So is Ares! And he’s actually lived there. I can help here in Grannvale, and —"

“And you need to live there, Cousin” said Lord Ares firmly. “To get to know the land and her people. Just as Grannvale needs Lady Julia.”

Diarmuid turned to her, anger and desperation written all over his face. “I won’t leave you.”

Someone cleared their throat from the other side of the council room. “Baby.”

Lord Ares flushed, turning from stern commander to embarrassed newlywed in a moment. “Lene, I —"

“If Julia comes and checks out Augustria, she’ll know what we need, and can tell the king without any interference, right?”

“That’s a good point,” Lord Ares said slowly. “Less opportunity for corruption.”

“And,” Lene continued, looking at Diarmuid. “After Diarmuid lives in Augustria for a year, he’ll get what the people need, and he can be your voice in court and council so you don’t have to constantly travel, right?”

Diarmuid snapped his fingers, pointing. “Excellent point, Cousin. Inspired.”

Lene turned towards Lord Seliph. “Settled, Your Majesty?”

Lord Seliph laughed outright. “Settled, Lady Lene. Augustria could have no finer queen.” He looked at Diarmuid, then at Julia. “I shall see you two in a year, and look forward to your reports.”

Lord Ares sighed. “I suppose it will do. So long as your head is in Augustria.”

“Along with my heart,” Diarmuid said. He turned to her, flashing the smile that had reminded her of a faerie tale prince more than a year ago. “Shall we go and prepare?”

Julia took his hand, placing it above her heart. “Let us see where the year takes us. Together.”

“Together,” he echoed.