Epilogue
The city holds its breath.
And then, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a skittish creature, the city embraces a fragile joy. Giddy laughter mixes with weeping and the pealing of bells.
The Storm is gone, and in its wake all is illuminated.
Everywhere are upturned faces. On some, the smiles are soft, astonished, smiles belonging to those who only knew the warmth of sunlight from stories. The sixth and seventh rings are found stranger than when they were lost, farms and forests of odd creatures and odder plants. Under shimmering branches, people rise as if waking from a dream, bearing curses as badges of their time in the Storm.
And in the third, in the arms of a weeping prince, Vesper Vale slips into a land between that of the living and that of the dead.
The prince tells her a thousand things. A promise:All will know your name and what you have done for us.
A plan:I’ll find a way. The mancers must know—I’ll find a way to wake you.
But most of all, he pleads:
Come back to me.