Page 30 of Never Been Gargoyled (Harmony Glen #4)

Dazy

T he cottage felt different now that it might be our permanent home. Smaller, cozier, but somehow more precious. I'd spent the last few days arranging my few belongings in drawers that smelled like cedar and lavender, trying not to think about the judge's ruling that could come at any moment.

Feydin watched me fold sweaters with the same intensity he'd probably once used while studying legal documents. His gray eyes tracked my every movement, like he was memorizing the way I smoothed wrinkles from fabric or the particular way I tucked sleeves.

“You know,” I glanced up at him perched on the edge of the bed, “most people don't find laundry folding that fascinating.”

His wings shifted against his back. “I find everything you do fascinating.”

“Even when I'm being neurotic about perfect corners on fitted sheets?”

“Especially then.”

I laughed despite the knot of anxiety in my belly. “You're weird, Feydin. But I like weird.”

“Good,” he said seriously. “Because I plan to be weird around you for a very long time.”

The way he said it made my chest ache in a good way. Whatever happened with the estate, we had each other.

But I still held my breath every time the phone rang.

On Friday morning, while I was making pancakes in the cottage's tiny kitchen, Feydin's phone buzzed. I watched his face change as he read the message, his expression shifting from neutral to something I couldn't interpret.

“What is it?” I asked, flipping a lopsided pancake.

“Judge Harrison's clerk. She wants to see us at the courthouse this afternoon.”

My stomach dropped to somewhere around my ankles. “This afternoon? Alright. What do you think she’ll tell us?”

He set down his phone and came over to where I stood at the stove. “I don't know.”

I nodded, though I wasn't sure I could actually speak around the lump in my throat. The pancake I'd been flipping was starting to smoke.

“The pancake,” Feydin said gently.

“Right. Pancake.” I scraped it off the pan, adding it to the growing pile of breakfast casualties. “I'm not really hungry anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

We spent the morning in a strange kind of limbo, pretending to read books and making conversation that didn't quite stick. Feydin kept flexing his wings in a way that I was learning meant he was agitated, and I couldn't sit still for more than five minutes at a time.

Thirty minutes before the appointed time, he flew us to the courthouse.

“Whatever happens,” I said as we walked up the front steps, “I want you to know that these past few weeks have been the best of my life.”

Feydin stopped and turned to face me. “Don't talk like it's over.”

“But what if?—”

“No.” He cupped my face in his hands, stroking my cheekbones. “Whatever the judge decides, it's not done for us. The estate doesn't define what we have.”

“I know. I just… I wanted to say it. In case I forget to do so later.”

He kissed me, soft and sweet and full of promises I desperately wanted to believe.

Inside, we were directed to Judge Harrison's chambers rather than the courtroom. Rebecca was already there with her lawyer, both looking tense. Rebecca's perfect composure seemed to have cracked around the edges.

Judge Harrison gestured for us to sit. “I've reviewed all the evidence presented in this case, including the letters and medical records discovered by Mr. Budiere.”

My heart surged against my ribcage. Feydin's hand found mine under the table, linking our hands together.

“The question before this court,” the judge said, “is whether Helga Morrison's will accurately reflects her true intentions, or whether her biological daughter has a stronger claim to the estate.”

I held my breath.

“After careful consideration, I find that the evidence supports the validity of Ms. Morrison's will. The letters presented by Ms. Hartwell, far from supporting her case, actually demonstrate a pattern of increasingly hostile behavior when her attempts at contact were not reciprocated. Furthermore, the medical evidence shows that while Ms. Morrison was suffering from early-onset dementia during the period when some of these letters were written, making her inability to respond a matter of medical incapacity rather than deliberate rejection, she had the opportunity to reply for years prior to that. Her will was written and notarized prior to her diagnosis. Even if she’d wanted to change it and leave the estate to her daughter, I’d question her capacity to do so after her diagnosis was made. ”

Rebecca's face went white. “Your Honor, surely?—”

“I'm not finished,” Judge Harrison said sharply. “The will stands as written. The Winterbourne Estate belongs to Ms. Osborne.”

I won. I actually won.

“This is ridiculous.” Rebecca stood up so fast, her chair rocked behind her. “That old woman owed me. She threw me away like garbage and then gave everything to some stranger. I deserve that estate, and I'm not going to?—”

“Ms. Hartwell.” Judge Harrison's voice could have frozen fire. “You will sit down and remain silent, or I will hold you in contempt.”

Rebecca remained standing, her face flushed with anger. “You can't just?—”

“Bailiff,” the judge called.

Rebecca's lawyer tugged at her sleeve, whispering something that made her finally sink back into her chair, though her expression remained angry.

“Let me be clear,” Judge Harrison said. “Any harassment of Ms. Osborne, any attempts to contest this ruling through frivolous litigation, or any behavior that could be construed as threatening toward Ms. Osborne will result in serious legal consequences. Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Rebecca's lawyer said quickly when Rebecca remained silent.

“Good. This matter is closed.” The judge stood. “Ms. Osborne, congratulations on your inheritance. I trust you'll take good care of the estate.”

I nodded, though I felt like I was floating somewhere outside my body. It was over. The estate was really, truly mine.

Rebecca stood as we left, her face twisted with rage. She followed, and out in the hallway, she stomped over to me.

“This isn't over,” she hissed. “I don't care what that judge says. That place should be mine, and I'll?—”

“Ma'am.” Someone from the courthouse came over to stand beside us. “Judge Harrison asked me to escort you from the building. ”

Rebecca's mouth opened and closed, but she seemed to finally understand that she was out of options. With a snarl sent in my direction, she stalked toward the exit, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

I watched her go, then turned to Feydin. He was staring at me with an expression of pure joy, his wings spread slightly behind him like he might take flight at any moment.

“We won.” The words felt strange on my tongue.

“We won.”

“The estate is mine.”

“It's yours.”

“I can finish the gardens. Create the botanical garden. Everything we planned.”

“Everything.”

Something broke open inside my chest, all the fear and anxiety of the past weeks rushing out all at once. I launched myself at Feydin, wrapping my arms around his neck as his wings came up to enfold us both.

“I can't believe it,” I laughed against his mouth between kisses. “I actually can't believe it.”

“Believe it.” He spun me in a circle right there in the courthouse hallway. “It's real. You're real. We're real.”

When he set me down, I was crying and laughing at the same time, overwhelmed by how this day had turned out. Not just the estate, but the future we could build there together.

“So.” I wiped tears from my cheeks. “Are you ready to fly me home? ”

“Always.”

We walked out of the courthouse hand in hand, Feydin's wing draped around my shoulders. The afternoon sun felt warmer than it had in weeks, and for the first time since this whole ordeal began, I let myself believe that everything was going to be alright.

The estate was mine. Feydin was mine. Our future stretched ahead of us like the gardens we'd create together.

We had all the time in the world to watch beautiful things grow.