“English,” Phoebe replied.
“I knew you were different.” On this rather ambiguous note, Mrs. Judd decided that they had visited long enough. “I’m going to spend Labor Day at the Cape with my kids. If you are going to stay here, can you bring in my mail? Oh—and if you could feed my cat, I’d appreciate it. Just leave food out on the back porch. She’ll find it if she’s hungry.”
Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Judd trod off in the direction of home.
Marcus wrapped his arms around Phoebe and held her close. His heart was beating a bit fast, which put their bloodsongs out of sync. “I’m not sure if this is a good idea.”
“I am.” Phoebe sighed happily. “I choose you, Marcus MacNeil. I choose this place. I choose to wake up here tomorrow, next to you, surrounded by memories and ghosts, with no electricity and a falling-down barn.”
Phoebe held Marcus until his blood stopped racing and their hearts were beating to the same rhythm.
Evermore.
“I’m sure you never dreamed we’d end up here,” Marcus said. “It’s not exactly a beach in India.”
“No,” Phoebe confessed, thinking of Pickering Place with its elegant furniture, and the grandeur of Sept-Tours. Then she looked back at the MacNeil house. She thought of all that had been lost within its walls, and all the joys that might be found there.
“I didn’t realize how much this place still mattered to me,” Marcus said.
They stood, hands entwined, and looked over the farm where Marcus had lived so many years ago, and which was now his. Hers. Theirs.
“Welcome home,” Phoebe said.
Evermore, sang their two hearts.
Evermore.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I don’t know where to start, and so I find myself taking Hamish Osborne’s advice: begin at the end.
To Laura Tisdel and the entire team at Viking: thank you for the many kindnesses shown to the author and the depth of expertise you all brought to this project in every department and at every stage of its production.
To my stalwart supporters, Sam Stoloff of the Frances Goldin Literary Agency and Rich Green of ICM Partners: I could not do this without the two of you.
To my publicist, Siobhan Olson of Feisty PR: thank you for taking on All Souls and reminding me to have fun.
To my operations manager, right arm, and co-conspirator, Jill Hough: I am so grateful for you every day and for all the many ways you make this possible.
To my gentle readers Candy, Fran, Karen, Karin, Lisa, and Jill: thank you for always saying yes when I asked if I could trouble you with another draft.
To my historical experts Karen Halttunen, Lynn Hunt, Margaret Jacob, and Karin Wulf: thank you for being so patient with an early modernist who drifted into the long eighteenth century. I pestered you with questions, peppered you with my reactions to the period, and in general made a nuisance of myself. You responded with generosity and lent your considerable expertise to this book when called upon to do so. You will all know better than anyone that the remaining mistakes are my own!
To the family and friends (two-legged and four-legged) who pick me up, dust me off, and carry me along—you know who you are: thank you for being part of my circus. My mom, Olive, can share in this experience and is a source of joy as well as inspiration. Thanks, Mom, for always being my biggest cheerleader.
To my Karen, no words could ever express how much your support and love make this all possible.
First, and last, this book is dedicated to the memory of my beloved father, John Campbell Harkness (1936–2015), whose roots extended down into the soil of Pelham and Hadley, who lived much of his life in Philadelphia, and who shared his love of history with me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Deborah Harkness is the number one New York Times bestselling author of A Discovery of Witches, Shadow of Night, and The Book of Life. A history professor at the University of Southern California, Harkness has received Fulbright, Guggenheim, and National Humanities Center fellowships.