*A/N: This has been an amazing journey for me and I'm so glad that you all were so wonderfully supportive and positive. I learnt a lot about myself while I wrote this and I was astounded that people actually liked my story, and further astounded that my first attempt at writing something was so well received. Thank you all so much. A huge thank you to those who reviewed steadily every week; your support and comments were utterly delightful and helped me continue when I felt at a bit of loss of what to write!

The novel began with two incredibly separate perceptions; only coming together during the proposal scene and the day before it, the first time the action is split so directly down the middle of their two points of view. After that, I switched quickly between the two of them, so that you would know how they were both learning how to love each other and how their married life developed.

Here is the final chapter, with the two of them finally together as one.

.

.

.

Epilogue

Margaret

"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves"

John

"Save men's opinions and my living blood, to show the world I am a gentleman"

All I can feel is heat; tearing, burning fire. I can't breathe. I've lost something, I know it; something should be in my arms and isn't. I try to reach for it, but I can't move. I'm sinking into flames.

Margaret is restless with fever, sometimes talking with people only she can see. She speaks to Edith, which terrifies me. I force myself to stay awake, holding her hand and wiping her brow, so that I can drag Margaret back to me if she tries to leave with her departed cousin.

I see peculiar things; mostly strangers who seem to know me and call to me joyfully. They grab at my gown, pulling me, dragging me to a place I know I should want to go, but I have a niggling feeling that I'm leaving something important behind that I shouldn't. Edith comes to me, smiling, and tries to get me to follow her. I desperately want to see Edith again, but I'm not sure if I should leave. An expansive shape next to me, with the voice of a demon but the body of an angel, speaks to me continuously. Sometimes it weeps, which scares me. Angels should not weep. I try to claw myself back to the angel – it seems important and it begs me to do just that – but my body will not obey me.

She is ill for so long that a wet nurse has to be engaged for Tristan, which adds to Margaret's distress. In her fevered state, she imagines the wet nurse as a wicked fairy that has stolen her child; the oddness of her delusion even scaring my unflappable mother.

That vile woman is here, hurting me and my child. I dream I am giving birth to a beautiful boy, the midwife helping me, only for the midwife to turn into a hideous harpy, spitting fire. I try to snatch the child to my breast and to safety, but the harpy is too quick, her talons raking at the child's skin, blood pouring out of him, out of me. I scream at the horror of it. The angel is there by my side, and I beg him to save the child, but he doesn't. He just stands there and weeps, just like he always does.

Mr. Jenkins comes to the manor many times to administer medicines to Margaret, his expression very grave. Caoimhe prays fervently over her mistress, Mother holds Margaret's hand tightly between her own.

But I'm the one who is here when her fever breaks.

Margaret's body finally relaxes its contortions, her face unlined of pain for the first time in days. Her eyes are clear and capture mine easily; staying focused on me this time. I stretch out next to her, touching as much of her skin as I can with my body. I bury my face in her hair, and tearfully thank her over and over again for coming back to me.

The first thing I see is the angel with the dark voice; John, still real, still an angel, still here with me. I am back with my husband, back with my children. All mine, always mine, forever. If death cannot sever us, nothing will. We are built of iron and steel; we have conquered the world; we are the rulers of our kingdom. John, John.

Even after the fever breaks, Margaret is still too weak to leave our bed. The only bright times in her day is when the children are brought down from the nursery to visit with their ailing mother. When they are taken away from her, Margaret cries bitterly, as if it is the last time she might see them. She spends the rest of her time sleeping fitfully in my arms.

I know I'm no longer so ill, but the weight of it is still pressed to my chest, making it hard to breathe. Only when John's arms are around me can I feel calm. I hug each of my children close, needing to convey years of love in a single moment, in case it is my last. I'm not ready, I have so much to live for. Let me stay, I beg. Anyone, anyone, let me stay, please. I cannot live without them, even if I am the one who leaves.

Slowly – achingly so – she does get better. Once she is well enough to leave our room, she drifts from me a little; desperate to make up the lost time with our newborn son and the older children. I wait patiently for her to return to me, knowing that she needs this.

I know I'm pushing John away. He has never left my side in all of this, and I repay him by losing myself in my mind. When we aren't with the children, I'm quietly thinking of them, memorizing them. Laying next to him at night, I almost ignore him, so wrapped up in our children and our lives outside each other. I hate that I'm doing this but I can't stop myself. Safe, safe, they must be safe first. The children first, then John. John is next, I tell myself. Fix the children, then John, then yourself.

Eight months after she recovers, the two of us make love again, for the first time since the beginning of her pregnancy. I pull Margaret atop me, wrapping her securely in my arms, kissing her ceaselessly. I bury myself inside her, thrusting into her occasionally, but mostly we just hold still, savoring the feeling we've been desperately missing for so long. Our lovemaking isn't sexual, only comforting. We are still for so long that I feel myself soften inside her, but I still do not pull away.

"No more children, Margaret," I beg in an agonizing whisper. "No more. I won't survive if I lose you. We have our three children. Please. Please."

Margaret presses her forehead to mine; she is quiet for so long I grow afraid again. Finally, in a small voice, she agrees. Then we both sob in anguish for how close we came to losing each other.

I can feel him deep inside me, exactly where I always want him. It's as if our souls are touching; the pleasure, the intensity of it too great to bear in any other way than these small gifts of climax. He stays inside me for hours, as a goodbye. I know it will be months, if not years before he forgives himself enough to do this again.

It takes me an extremely long time afterwards before I enter her again, so terrified am I of getting her with child. Margaret tells me repeatedly that her illness had not been my fault; that we had simply been unlucky. I know in theory that Margaret is right, but it does not help my feelings of guilt. But soon, Margaret's spirit returns and, lost in passion, we break our promise several times. We are still very careful, but, almost four years after the horrifying incident, Margaret gives birth to another boy – Noah. This birth is mercifully quick, only six hours long, as though to make up for her agonizing preceding one. I thank God for their safe delivery – my handsome fourth son and darling wife.

Another miracle child, who I was clearly meant to have in spite of our promise. Three births, just as I wished, with an extra angel given to me by the grace of God. My darling children, my beautiful husband. My family complete at last.