Author's note: So this is the epilogue. I'm sorry it took so long - I've been working on it, and working more, and I still don't like it as much as I want to. I hope you do. I hope it isn't disappointing. I hope it lives up to your expectations.

Thank you so much for all the reviews, kind words, and the occasional (deserved) criticism. It's been a fun ride.

They watched the last of the guests leave, and on the horizon behind the graveyard the sun was rising. The last were intimate friends who'd stayed after the band had gone and clear up had begun. They'd put on an old record player, and drank the finest brandies and champagnes the cellar had to offer, and laughed into the morning light.

"Your father shared a brandy, and a cigar with me," he said quietly, already unknotting his bow tie, "This morning. I asked his forgiveness, for the sadness I had caused."

Her eyes trailed towards the centre of the swamp, on which they'd erected a quaintly rustic platform, and on which the ceremony had taken place. It had been the wedding she'd always wanted, but it had been the wedding he'd wanted too. The memories washed over her, the feeling that - despite the multitudinous guests - they were the only two beings there in that space and time, the most prolific of all the recollections.

"My poor father," she said genuinely, "He doesn't understand what he wanted was never going to work. I am surprised though, that he has been so forgiving."

"He got what he wanted," Gomez said, reaching for the brandy bowl he'd set aside moments before.

The words were bitter with disillusionment.

"Don't think harshly of them, he was only doing what he knew," she chided softly, turning to the stairs, "We all were."

She began to slide her fingers down the line of buttons at her spine, popping each as she went.

He followed behind her.

"My parents had an arranged marriage, so did yours," he mused, "let's vow to never make our children do that."

"I think we may have ended that tradition today," she said softly.

"And has it made you miserable cara?"

"Enviably so," she stopped at the top of the stairs and wiggled the dress down her arms and hips and body, kicking the expensive vintage lace aside, "Oh yes completely."

"Poor Lurch won't know what's hit him," he said, watching in wonder, "Having a new mistress who likes to strip before she has reached the bedroom."

She turned to him, "Isn't mistress an apt title?"

"In more ways than one," he grinned, "Morticia, do I get to take you to bed as my wife?"

She nodded, "I suppose you do. But do bear in mind I am so much more than just your wife."

He grinned fiendishly as she began climbing the stairs again, her heels making her hips wiggle in an exaggeration he wasn't sure was due solely to her footwear.

"You're edible," he growled.

"A compliment in itself," she whispered, "Though one does question your vows where the proof is lacking."

He laughed indignantly, "I feasted all night last night. Well, until you resigned in exhaustion. It was you who begged me to stop."

"You have that effect on me," she continued into the darkness of the corridor, her undergarments sliding to the floor one after the other.

She pushed the door open, and stalled as she came face to face with their marital bed for the first time ever.

It was a cavernous, sturdy, imposing four poster bed which seemed almost monstrous in size. Just under the bed there were new, shining pewter shackles attached to the very floor with iron rungs. She smiled with delight.

"Oh, so this is where you disappeared to?"

There were thousands of candles around the room, covering every surface. A fresh box of cigars, champagne dripping dew on the French polish of the bedside.

"You deserve the world," he shed his jacket, "But until then, I'll give you every drop of my blood.

"That's promising."

"It's a vow."

She slid onto the sheets, "One more in a series today."

"I meant every word of them," he said softly.

"I did too."

Later they lay in the quiet of their master bedroom, the silence only punctured by their breathing and quiet conversation.

"What time do we leave tonight?"

He leaned over her, taking a bundle of papers from the bedside table.

"The flight departs at nine-thirty," he smiled, "Just in time for the storm."

She smiled, "So what does one do on one's first full day of marriage?"

"Sleep?"

"I suppose," she nodded, "Since we haven't done that all night."

She turned suddenly, her face thoughtful in a diversion from their current conversation.

"Will my sister ever be found responsible for Balthazar? Will they ever work it out, I mean?"

He shook his head, "I got rid of the knife. No evidence, no motive, no culprit. I fully disposed of it."

"You did?"

She was shocked and it was clear in her question.

He shrugged, "It isn't that I didn't want to tell you," he paused, "It got away from me really. I guessed it a few days later, found the knife, got rid of it. Actually Thing found it, amongst the letter openers in the bottom drawer of the lobby table. He has as good a nose for blood as a hound."

She smiled then, one of genuine thankfulness ate his boundless devotion to her. She pressed herself against his warm body, trying to convey her gratitude in contact alone.

"I don't need to ask why, do I?"

"Hiding evidence of your sister's crime to save you misery? A small, chivalric detail. At any rate, he had it coming to him for a long time. I think you know," he pushed her hair back from her face, cupped her cheek in his hand, "That's I'd sell my soul to the devil for you."

"You already have," she muttered darkly.

"Then what a lovely way to burn."