Page 125 of In Her Own Rite

“No, no,” I say, stepping forward. “Let me see.”

He nods hesitantly, then turns to the doors, pulling them apart.

I feel the air escape my lungs. There, in the middle of the woodworking shed, is an arch. It’s beautiful: four pillars reaching up to a canopy above, the wood carved to look like twisting vines. It’s painted gold, and I can see that he’s carved different designs into the pillars. Wrapped around the canopy on top and coming down over the corners of the beams are hundreds of paper flowers in different shades of vibrant purple and violet.

Rhodoras.

“Kieran,” I breathe, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to one of the beams. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s us,” he says quietly, as my hand reaches for one of the carvings. “It’s our different moments. Look, here. The quarry.”

I eye the delicate shapes he’s etched into the beam. He’s right: there we are, our profiles in view as we look out at the rocks over the water.

“And here, at Moon Lake,” he says, pointing to a different beam. I see us in the water, my arms wrapped around his neck as we’re facing each other. He’s carved ripples in the water around us, and I can see the shore and the setting sun etched to look like they’re in the distance.

I look over the different beams, my eyes stinging. There’s dozens of scenes carved into the wood. It’s us. It’s our story.

“And look. Sunflowers,” he says, pointing to the top of the arches where they blend to meet the canopy above. He’s carved golden flowers, thick and strong, into the place where the wood meets. “Because of the pattern on that sweater you wear.”

“Cinnamon?” I ask, noticing little bundles of cinnamon sticks he’s carved along the base of the arches.

“For how you make coffee.” His voice wavers with nerves, and I look up at him.

“It’s how my mom made it. And the paper rhodoras, for what you gave me for my rite,” I whisper.

“No. Well, yeah, also. But also because, when you were still on Halluk…” He swallows and runs a hand over his hair. “I don’t know. I missed you, and I wanted some part of you close to me. You told me about your mom’s favorite poem, so I bought a poetry collection at Heimig’s bookshop. And when I started reading them and I finally got to that one, I realized… it’s about you, to me.”

“Tell me,” I say softly, stepping closer. He’s still visibly nervous, and I find myself smiling as he reaches for his back pocket, looking for something.

“I—Sorry, I was gonna prepare better for this. I wasn’t planning on doing this today, but I just… Hang on, let me find it.”

He turns around, looking at the tables behind him, where his tools are laid out neatly, not yet used in this space. Finally, he seems to spot it—a small blue clothbound book sitting on the far end of the table. He grabs it, then walks back to me, opening to the right page.

“The poet finds a rhodora plant in the woods,” he says. “He’s amazed by its beauty—even the petals falling from it make the dark water on the ground beautiful. And he realizes from seeing it that its beauty isn’t wasted. Here,” he reads aloud. “‘Beauty is its own excuse for being.’”

Kieran looks up at me, his eyes tinged with pink.

“I don’t know,” he says nervously. “Sorry. I was gonna do a whole speech, but I—”

“Stop it,” I say softly, stepping closer. “I love it. Just tell me.”

“You make my life better, Em,” he says. “I cursed the years we spent apart, but you were right. They weren’t wasted. Love is never wasted. It justifies itself—it’s its own reason for being. And loving, and being loved by you, is the best thing about my life. Has been for years, even before we finally got together. And I hope you know now that you never need to earn it. Not from me.”

I swallow, and he wraps his arms around me, the book pressing gently against my back.

“I spent months wrestling with this stupid arch for a client,” he murmurs into my hair, “and I couldn’t get it right. I realized it’s because I didn’t know how to make it feel true. Because I don’t know how to talk about love if it’s not about you.”

“Kier,” I say, looking up at him, the tears spilling over my cheeks. “Ijekayyatik.”I love you.

“I love you, too,” he says back, kissing me. “I was going to take you out for dinner—”

“Can you stop taunting me with dinner and justaskme already?” I say, laughing, our faces pressed together. “I don’t need dinner. I want this. I want you.”

“Em.” He swallows, pressing his forehead against mine. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you. Our souls belong together; I’ve known that for years before I could admit it to myself. Maybe since the first time I saw you. Will you—will you marry me? Will you be my mate?”

“Yes, yes,” I say, kissing his face, the broad, blunt cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. I feel the tears spilling over my cheeks, taste the salt as they come between our faces, as he claims my mouth.

“Yes, I will,” I whisper, pulling away. “Kiyyuni.”

“Kiyyuni.”

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