Epilogue
The surface of the dresser was so tidy and immaculate, avoid of any knick knacks or bric-a-brac that the small, folded note left conspicuously on the varnished wood stood out. The interest of Grand Duchess of all Imperial Russia Phoebe Althea was immediately piqued when she spotted the piece of paper. Curious, she opened it. She only needed to scan the first few lines before a proud and satisfied smile graced her regal face.
Dear Grandmama,
Wish me luck! We'll be together in Paris again soon.
A bientot!
If Phoebe had any emotional reaction at all, her regal facade was practiced enough (old habits truly did die hard) that she let Reychel express these emotions for her. Her lady's maid was wiping at her eyes, able to read between the lines just as clearly as her mistress did.
"They've... they'veeloped!" Reychel squealed. She swooned through a longing sigh. "It's a happy ending..."
Phoebe shook her head, the corners of her mouth upturned ever so slightly. "No... it's a perfect beginning..."
The priest had been annoyed at being awoken rudely in the middle of the night. But at least he hadn't asked questions.
Glancing with bemusement between the couple standing before him on the Pont Alexandre III bridge (a landmark that had seen far more suicides than weddings take place upon it, in its day), the priest addressed the bride first. "Mademoiselle, do you intend to take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?"
The woman - as beautiful as a princess - smiled softly, at peace with her decision. "Yes."
The priest cleared his throat, moving on to the very specific question this peculiar bride had instructed him to ask her. "Even if it would mean for you to give up all claims to power and riches and any titles of royalty?" He figured she was probably one of those madwoman types, who had delusions of grandeur.
The groom turned to his intended, shocked. "Monica!"
Monica swallowed. "I would," she vowed solemnly. "I do..."
The priest dipped his head. On their own heads be it, and Godspeed for this couple. As for him, he just wanted to go back to bed. "Then, I now pronounce you husband and wife." He nodded to Chandler in an almost admiring way, like, I can't believe you're willing to have this girl. "You may kiss the bride."
Monica turned to Chandler expectantly. This time, she let him be the one to initiate it as he drew her close, holding back for just a moment before sinking her, sinking them both into a long and dreamy wedding kiss.
Monica clutched at her... at her husband and deepened it, her hum of contentment turning into a delighted squeal of laughter when they broke apart and Chandler swept his bride off her feet, spinning her in his arms.
As the fairy lights of Paris whirled in a kind of dervish about them, as she and Chandler embraced, the heir apparent to the title of Grand Duchess of all Russia was content in the knowledge of only one title: that of this man's wife.
She was no longer Mona, a poor and lowly and orphaned street sweeper. But she was also not the princess Monichivna, heir to the deposed Russian throne. Now, she was Monica. Now, she had a new name, a full one: Monica Bingayev. The poor bride to a reformed con artist and thief.
Gazing into Chandler's eyes, Monica knew: home. Love. Family. No longer would she have to search for them, for she had found them all. In journeying to the past, she had found her future, and that was in this man's life and in his arms.
At last, she knew who she was. At last, she was complete.
