"Exactly," Peter's mother nods, smiling at her effort.

Nearby, Eira bounces on her heels, holding another bunch of daffodil stems and humming something tuneless and happy—making her own music. She's watching the crown take shape, ready for the moment. When it's finally finished—a little lopsided, a little asymmetrical, absolutely wonderful—Eira sets it gently on Tima's head with ceremony and care.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" she shouts with full dramatic flair, making her voice official and grand like the criers she's read about in picture books. "I present to you, the Queen of the Valley! So everyone has to listen to her because she's the queen and that's how it works! Queens are in charge and everyone has to do what they say!"

Everyone cheers, raising glasses of red wine, mugs of tea, or marshmallow sticks held high like torches.

Tima grinned so big her cheeks nearly disappeared. She had sticky stuff on her face from the lamb and a bit of soot from the fire on her chin. She stood up very tall in the grass, the crown slightly askew but perfect.

"This is... ours," she said, her voice small but carrying everywhere because the whole garden had gone quiet to listen. "Our day. Our valley. Our peoples!" Her crown sat slightly crooked, catching the last of the golden light, and she looked like exactly what she was—someone who had learned that home is not a place you arrive at, but a choice you make, again and again, with the people who matter.

There's a brief, hushed pause. The kind that comes when a child says something true. When something real has been spoken.

Then Peter claps his hands, breaking the spell gently. "Right, Your Majesty! Lead your loyal subjects in a march around the garden!"

With Stick-Stick raised like a scepter—like the staff of a true ruler, Tima leads Eira and the others around the lawn in a parade. They loop past the fairy door at the base of the tree, past the planter boxes full of herbs releasing their evening scent, past Papa who watches it all with a tilted smile and quiet eyes that are bright with something like tears, though he's not crying.

Peter fumbles with his phone, the old camera-magic that connects moments to forever. "Oi, hold still, all of you! Family photo time. Quick, before the Queen abdicates."

They gather near the old apple tree, cramming together—some sitting, some standing, a mug held high, Tima front and centre with her daffodil crown slightly slipping sideways. The light is golden. The moment is perfect because it's real. It's not perfect because everything lines up; it's perfect because all the people who matter are in the same frame, in the same moment.

The photo is snapped. Laughter bubbles up. Someone jokes, "That's next year's St. David's invite sorted, then. We've got proof we all showed up."