“What?”
“Simon says we’re going to move there, we’re going to get married, and we’re going to live happily ever after.”
“Oh, Simon says that?”
“Yeah.”
“So I guess we better do it then.”
“Definitely,” he grins, kissing me passionately.
I melt into his embrace, perfectly happy to let him sweep me off to a distant island nation where we will make love, and babies, and live out the rest of our lives with the secret of his formula kept between us.
“But what about Veronica?”
“What about her? You don’t need to worry about that,” he says.
“I don’t?”
“She insisted on me producing samples while I was captive, so I blended up a little something for her specifically.”
“She’d have to be stupid to take anything you made,” I laugh.
“Not stupid, just absolutely high on her own supply of hubris. Around now, or perhaps later today, Veronica is going to wake up as a cat, and she is not going to be able to return to her previous state. Z-Corp will call her a repeated no-show, and hire for her position. It’s all going to be over, a blip in the corporate archives.”
EPILOGUE
Lydia
“Henry! It’s time for lunch!”
Mince pies are steaming in the oven. Tomato sauce and butter are on the table, along with a bag of white bread. It’s not a fancy meal, but it’s his favorite one.
My son, Henry, is eight years old and most days he roams the hills of our hundred-acre property in ways that most people back home would probably disapprove of. He has Simon’s eyes, Simon’s hair, and Simon’s intelligence—hell, I basically gave birth to my husband’s clone. It happens.
At my call, a black and white puppy comes bursting into the kitchen, all muddy paws and gleeful panting.
“Henry!” I growl. “Get that dog under control!”
“Sorry, Mum,” he says, traipsing in after the hound.
My son has a local accent, and a taste for plaid shirts and fixing things, just like his father. Also, much like his father, sometimesHenry looks more like a wolf pup than a boy, a fact that Fergus, our herding dog, absolutely loves. Fortunately, Henry has more control over his shifting than his father did. An advantage of youth, Simon would say.
Speaking of Simon, he’s asleep in the corduroy recliner we found on Marketplace. The entire house is decorated in secondhand Kiwiana.
As Henry sits to eat, having washed his hands first, I go and wake Simon.
“Lunch is ready,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeah?” He smiles up at me. His eyes have a few more lines around them than they used to, and his hair is dappled with silver. He’s grown a beard that suits him incredibly, and developed an interest in both cricket and rugby that makes the locals down at the pub accept him as one of their own.
“Mince and cheese,” I tell him.
He gets up, kisses me, and goes to sit with Henry. The two of them discuss the weather, the big stone down by the creek, how long Fergus chased a rabbit for—right across the valley, apparently—and whether or not we’re going to get rain. I sit down across from them and join the meal. Pastry and meat is a winning combination in any culture, and I adore listening to the chatter of a small, but loving family.
This is a simple life, a good life, and my happily ever after.
A mewl at the door gets me up from my seat.