It is dark outside my window. The sun is all gone. Betsy has left me and I can longer hear her humming. That is by no means the end of my story, but rest assured that its remaining chapters are happier. Annesfield belongs to my Charles now. His daughter's are its princesses. It is not the Annesfield I remember, but I would not have a time capsule of my childhood. Time moves on and people must move with it. My memories of it are as clear as though they were yesterday, the happy and the sad. In my mind there is my Annesfield, as it should be. I am not the Theresa I remember from those days, no matter what Henry Thorne might say. I am sure I am changed. But what would time be if we did not evolve and grow?

My prince has joined me. He is sitting beside me at the fire reading a thick volume. Though he has aged, when I look at him I still see the strong, handsome man of my youth. The muscles in his jaw will still tense when he is angry, his eyes will still sparkle when he is laughing, and his hands still hold mine most protectively. I do not say Henry Thorne is perfect; no one is perfect. He is a prince afflicted with great jealousy; he is a guardian who can be too vigilant, and he can posses great pride. No, he is not perfect, but I would have him no other way.

The remaining chapters of Blackwood are not mine to tell. This has been my story, Henry's and mine. But Blackwood has seen many fairytales, not all happy, many princes, not all strong, and many princesses, not all beautiful in character. As time has passed I have realised that Blackwood could not be the setting of a usual fairytale. It's forbidding nature makes it a final test. And it is not just this house, but its surroundings, Blackwood village and the people. It is its mystery, its secrets – they hide in the large stone walls and embellish anyone's story. They make us much of what we are. It has taken me a long time to appreciate Blackwood for its beauty – because it is a beautiful house, in its way.