Now it was January of 2001. “Well then,” Mick said huskily, “heaven will be having good luck for a thousand years to come—the first man past the pearly gates the morn had dark hair.”
No, Maggie thought, she wasn’t going crazy. She’d never felt more sane. Drained, shaky, grief-stricken, joyful, but sane. The last two months hadn’t been a dream. She’d been asleep all her life and now was awake.
Robin was gone, the relics were gone, Thomas was—no, he wasn’t gone, he was with her always. “So is the Story,” she said aloud.
“A romance,” said Rose.
“An epic,” Mick offered.
“Tragedy.”
“Myth.”
“All of it,” said Maggie, “true if not real. All of it real, if not true. Written small and personal, affecting all existence.”
“You sound just like him,” Rose said.
Maggie smiled even as the tears ran down her face like warm kisses. The aurora filled the sky with light. The bells pealed. And she knew that while it might be hours yet before the dawn, the dawn would come.
*
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