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The king immediately requests an audience with Howl, of course, to thank him for finding his brother. Sophie will come along, and she dresses in the same beautiful tailored clothes that Howl had purchased for her some weeks ago.
She marvels at the mirror. When she had been stooped and skinny, the dress and petticoats had fit her perfectly. Now she is tall and able and—magically—the clothes fit her just as well.
“Howl?” she calls, watching herself in the mirror, because she would love to know if this is an incantation or mere coincidence, and if it’s the former, how does it work? Is this his work or another’s, and how similar are their magical gifts, really?
The questions dissipate as soon as Howl appears behind her in the mirror. His right hand catches around her waist, and she starts at the sudden touch. His green eyes meet hers in the reflection. When Sophie smiles, he dips his chin to kiss the crown of Sophie’s head.
“Yes?” he says.
Sophie hums, now marveling at the mirror for an entirely different reason.
Howl’s left hand goes to the other side of her waist. He gently spins her around. Now she stares directly up at him, her smile somewhere between bashful and beaming.
“Look who’s refusing to answer questions,” he says. “And you say I slither out, hmmm!”
“I was just wondering how many spells were darned into this dress.” Sophie settles her hands overtop of Howl’s. It delights her that she can do this, too.
“You’ll always have your nose in my business, won’t you?” he says. “I can see that won’t change any time soon.”
Howl never does let anything slip about magic in her clothes. Sophie figures things out on her own.
The bickering also stays, but its form alters like spring frost melting into summer dew. Howl slithers out of arguments while settling a daisy wreath atop Sophie’s head. She is mid-sentence when he catches locks in his fingers and begins deftly plaiting her hair.
“What are you doing?” Sophie is caught off-guard—because sometimes Howl is so Howl that it still bewilders her.
“You don’t like it?” Howl asks—morosely, even though Sophie never implied anything of the sort.
“It’s lovely, thank you. In any case, we can’t close the flower shop willy-nilly just to go on holiday. Customers will say we’re fickle.”
“But we are fickle.”
“You’re fickle,” Sophie corrects him. She reaches back to brush her fingers against the braid that Howl has created. When she was a little girl, Lettie had practiced braiding on Sophie’s hair, but it hadn’t felt like this at all. This is something entirely new.
And just so Howl doesn’t think he’s won the battle, Sophie plucks a poppy from her flower crown and threads it behind Howl’s ear.
“You will serve as a reminder to Howl that he’s being rather silly right now,” she tells it. He looks at the ceiling but keeps the flower in for the rest of the day.
After much animated discussion, they take a holiday in Wales. They dabble along cobbled streets and lounge in lush gardens. Howl introduces her to a dozen different cafes, half of which were “my favorite study hole during my university years.” When half a dozen baristas glower at Howl and refuse to serve him, Sophie rolls her eyes. The pastries and teas are delicious, and she refrains from commenting.
She never learns to enjoy Howl’s roaring, growling carriage, not until towards the end of the holiday. They spend the final drive recounting the events leading up to Midsummer, and they’re still talking even when Howl parks the carriage and shuts down the humming engine.
“You should have told me you knew I was bespelled!” Sophie says. “I can’t see why you kept it to yourself.”
“I wanted to surprise you when I undid it,” Howl says grandly. He twists in his seat to face her directly. “Often I think surprises make everything better.”
“You overestimate surprises, then. You surprised me with my sisters and with Fannie,” Sophie points out, “and I meddled about in the Witch’s business anyway.”
“You made a whole mess of everything,” Howl agrees, “but I think it all worked out for the best, didn’t it?”
“Yes, it certainly did.”
Howl leans across the seats, cups his hand against her cheek, and kisses her. Sophie can kiss him back now, weed killer and witches as far from her mind as the Waste.
They sit in front of the fire, Sophie on Howl’s lap and both her arms thrown around his neck. It still feels unusual, alone in the castle sitting room without Calcifer there as a third presence—an unusual Sophie hopes to get used to.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Sophie is telling Howl, her thumbs twiddling beneath Howl’s hair in a Martha-like way, “how it felt to look at you all during May.”
“Tell me,” he says.
“If I do, I’m sure it will go to your head immediately.”
“If you don’t, I’ll draw my own conclusions, and that will certainly be even worse for my head.”
He’s right. Still, Sophie considers her words carefully, casting her gaze at the silent fire before finally looking back to Howl.
“I felt ninety and nineteen at the same time. I saw you as a young upstart, making terrible decisions and breaking girls’ hearts—including an attempt at my sister’s heart, I might add.”
“And I might add that this was a first for me,” Howl says. “I’d never courted sisters before.”
“But I also noticed noble qualities,” Sophie continues, “qualities for which I could admire you, ways I could learn from you.” Her two visions had blurred together like two currents of water. Fickle young man? Dashing, heroic gentleman? Who was to say?
Howl traces circles on her back. “No wonder you were so cross all the time. And you kept it all to yourself, too. That never does any good. Try oozing green slime next time.”
“I’m telling you now,” Sophie says, “and don’t let me regret it.”
“I would never,” Howl says. “How do you think I felt?”
If it was anything at all like Sophie had felt—stupid, embarrassed, flustered, affectionate, endeared, amused, despondent—then she trusted she wouldn’t regret it.
As an old woman, there had been many things Sophie feared she might never have an opportunity to do. Now, she gently tugs Howl’s face closer and dusts his cheeks with kisses.
The fireplace crackles with approval.