With the house finally quiet, Drina sits at my side, drawing a small, weathered pendant from deep within her many scarves. She fingers the chain already at my neck—the one with the shard from Oued Laou, the one Hasna pressed into my hand in the blue-shadowed market, the very one Tarmo later set in a pale disk of Radium, claiming it would “keep me anchored to the earth, or at least, to myself.”

Drina cupped a black stone in her palm, her other hand resting warm above my heart. She began to chant, low and lilting, the old words sliding between the air and the stone:

“Chavi, chavi, bakhtalo dji,

Mullo nashti lel tut adoi.

Drom baro, ratto jekh—

Tiri bavol, tiri zi,

Tute returns, lifetimes three,

Sastimasa, bakht, suti.”

Blessings for the magic ones, for babies born and unborn, for a soul that travels and always, somehow, finds its way home—again and again.

Drina’s voice drops to something warm and old, meant for me alone.

“This will help, love. The stories that started with this stone—they haven’t finished yet.

Drina’s voice turns low and melodic as she knots the chain around my neck, letting the black tourmaline settle against her skin.

“Pani, drom, chey—kezi nasul le leste.

Dik, kan, djipen—Romani bakh teu vaste.”

“Water, road, girl—no harm come to her.

Sight, ear, heart—may Romani luck be in your hand.”

Her breath is warm, the words both secret and blessing. I feel the weight of stone and hope at once—a ward for the unfolding road.

Now you carry them forward, with friends and foes in equal measure. Wear it close. It’ll remind you that the only history that matters is the one you choose, day by day.”

She fastens the pendant with gentle, practised hands, the metal cool and strangely calming over my heart. “This is all the magic I can offer, may the gods have mercy on you, Ancient one” and with that she gets up.

The tumult of the night fades, replaced by the silent weight of what’s been placed—gifts, burdens, legacies—upon me. I squeeze Drina’s hand, grateful for her steady presence in a world that refuses to stop spinning.

Outside, I hear the Boswells bantering, Tarmo’s low voice, a city full of dangers and wonders. Inside, it’s just me, miracles, and the drumbeat of two unborn hearts—each moment a step into new stories, waiting to be told.

I hear footsteps hesitate at the door. Tarmo appears, for once, looking not like a force of nature, but like a man on uncertain ground. He doesn’t come closer right away—just stands there, glancing at the place where Drina fastened the pendant over my heart.

His voice, when it comes, is low and stripped of his usual stoicism.

“Elena… May I?”

He gestures gently toward the bed, the space beside me, and for a moment I hardly recognise him—this hesitation, this careful asking.

I nod, a gesture small and deliberate, biting back old habit and letting something softer through. “Yes, Tarmo. Tonight you can.”

He crosses the room, moves with the rare carefulness of a man carrying something holy. Tarmo lays down at my side, stretches an arm toward me, pausing again.

“May I hold you?”

The admission—his want, his awe—hangs in the air like incense.

I shift closer, feeling the warmth that’s always drawn me to him, the history and unfinished longing between us. His arm comes around me, not possessive but reverent. He lets his hand rest tentatively over my belly, fingers wide, just feeling the shallow rise and fall of my breath, the drum of new beginnings beneath the surface.

My breasts start dripping again. 

For a long time, he says nothing. We lie in silence, the world pared down to heartbeats and steady breaths. Just as my eyes start to drift closed, I hear him, barely above a murmur, more confession than conversation:

“Maybe the gods knew I’d only learn gentleness at the end of the world.”

I turn my head toward him, feeling his breath stir my hair, sensing the decades of bravado, pride, and longing distilled into seven quiet words. I look up at him and allow him to kiss me. 

The Boswells’ murmurs outside, London pulsing below, Drina’s magic settling over the shards and threads of our story.

When he finally speaks, it is only a whisper, meant for us alone. “I never thought I’d beg for a second chance to hold a miracle. Thank you, Elena.”

I close my hand over his and let the silence hold us, for once not a pause before the next battle, but a real rest—a lull between storms, golden, brief, and utterly authentic.

I wake before dawn, the sky over London a broth of pewter and blue. I’m warm—something rare. Tarmo’s arm is draped around me, heavy and home-like, the edge of his suit is wet from the liquid still oozing at a steady flow. He slept like a guard at my gates, troubled but steadfast.

For a moment, I let myself breathe in the strange comfort. Three hearts thrum beneath my palm—my own, then lower, the double beat of whatever miracles I now carry. But there’s something else, too: two men, both stubborn, compelling, and obstinately mine in different ways.

I.Ph.