Page 67 of Must Love Scones and Secrets
“You look beautiful, Rosalyn. Please enjoy your time here, and don’t worry about anything at home. I’ll see to The Sconery.”
I gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. “I know it’s in good hands with you.”
“Speaking of home,” Juniper interjected, adjusting her gown, “I’ll need to head back shortly after the festivities. Granik’s new crop is showing unusual magical properties, and he’s completely baffled.” A soft smile played across her lips as she mentioned the orc farmer. “You know how he gets when his plants do unexpected things.”
I raised an eyebrow, noting the gentle blush that colored Juniper’s cheeks at the mention of Granik.
“Best get back soon, then. He’ll be lost without your expertise,” I commented, exchanging a knowing glance with Primrose, who also noticed Juniper’s rosy cheeks.
Primrose winked at me.
“Oh, he’s quite capable,” Juniper replied, her blush deepening. “He just…appreciates my perspective.”
“I’m sure he does,” Winifred muttered from where she was smoothing the train of my dress, a knowing tone in her voice.
Primrose cleared her throat. Changing the subject, she said, “I hope you and Bjorn will return for the library’s birthday celebration.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” I assured her. “I know it will be great.”
“Good.” Primrose nodded, then added under her breath, “If I can pull it off, that is.”
“Is there a problem with the celebration planning?” I asked.
“What? Oh, no,” Primrose said quickly—too quickly. “Just the usual planning challenges. Nothing for you to worry about on your wedding day.”
Emmalyn peeked in before I could press further, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “It’s time,” she announced. “Everyone’s assembled in the great hall.”
My heart skipped a beat.
This was the moment Bjorn and I would officially join our lives together.
With Emmalyn, Primrose, Juniper, Zarina, and Winifred, who was carrying Merry, accompanying me, we made our way to the great hall. My friends were dressed in beautiful gowns of various shades of Frostfjord blue and held bouquets of blue roses.
My mother took my arm, guiding me.
“I am so proud of you, Rosalyn. I know we had a difference of opinion when you left Spring Haven, but you are an exceptional woman.”
“Thank you, Mother,” I whispered, kissing her cheek.
“Your lipstick,” my mother chided.
“It's enchanted. No smearing.”
My mother laughed.
Following an attendant, we made our way to the doors of the great hall.
On the other side, a horn sounded, and a harp announced the beginning of the ceremony with a triumphant glissando.
The huge wooden doors opened, revealing the crowd inside.
The massive pillars had been decorated in garlands of blue roses and greens. Overhead, chandeliers burned brightly. The hall’s ceiling had been enchanted to look like the northern lights, ripples of purple and blue waving before a starry background. Snow fell softly, creating a pleasing ambiance but never reaching the assembly. A crowd of well-dressed northerners watched as we entered. Along with them were Tansy and Kellen and Elder Thornberry and Lady Petunia—whose nose was red from the cold.
The hall’s beauty was nothing compared to the man waiting for me.
With his parents and siblings in attendance, Bjorn stepped forward, waiting for me. He stood tall and proud in the traditional formal wear of Frostfjord royalty: a deep blue tunic embroidered with silver runes, a short cloak lined with silk, and his royal silver torc gleaming at his throat. His hair had been pulled up in a bun, revealing his face’s strong lines. Smoke sat faithfully at his side, the firewolf wearing a silver collar that complemented Bjorn’s attire, his ember-flecked fur groomed to a lustrous shine. But it was Bjorn’s expression that caught my heart. A look of absolute wonder and love was painted on his face as he watched me approach.
Behind him stood his family, including the king and queen and all Bjorn’s siblings. Bjorn had been right. It had taken little effort to win over Queen Maren. The gracious queen had greeted me warmly, impressed that someone had finally won Bjorn’s heart.
