The second round of cake disappeared with the slow, comfortable ease that follows the presence of loved ones and a long, hearty meal. The great hall smelled sweetly of lingering vanilla and sugar, while the floating orbs' golden light cast a warm glow over the white linen and the feast's remnants.
Morwenna had a second slice, then a third.
Jane allowed it on the grounds that it was her birthday. She watched with a faint, indulgent smile as her daughter navigated the thick green frosting with a small silver fork. Tilly allowed it because refusing the child anything had already proven impossible today. Jack allowed it after a glance at Jane confirmed she hadn't said no; his own expression was quietly amused as he watched his daughter's focused efforts.
Morwenna ate with Cinder nestled securely in her lap. The small fox's weight was a warm, steady anchor against her legs. She occasionally offered him crumbs of sponge, which he accepted with grave dignity. His large, velvet ears twitched as he chewed. At the same time, she carried on a quiet conversation in Parseltongue with the carved serpent Sylvaine had given her. The soft, sibilant hisses blended seamlessly with the low hum of the room, sounding entirely satisfactory to both participants.
Around her, the adults spoke with the easy rhythm of people who had eaten well and were comfortably warm. For the first time in months, nothing urgent demanded their attention.
Viviane, who had been quiet for some time, finally guided the conversation back to more serious matters. She had been sitting back in her chair, her hands resting on either side of her tea saucer. Her stillness was that of someone thinking carefully rather than merely resting. When she spoke, her dark eyes reflected the flickering candlelight.
"Je voudrais poser une question (I want to ask something)," she said, her voice steady. "And before I do, I want to say I'm not trying to bring darkness into today. I truly am not."
Jack met her eyes across the table. "Ask."
Viviane placed her fork on her plate with a soft, final clink.
"You have said an Alberich hasn't appeared in several centuries; that it's almost mythological, recognized only by those with long memories and old knowledge." She paused, her gaze sweeping across the gathered family. "Earlier, you also told us Harry Potter is being kept behind Fidelius-class wards, that Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban without trial, and that Dumbledore has taken considerable steps to sever him from every magical connection."
She let the silence hang for a moment, her brow furrowed with visible worry.
"Morwenna is technically Harry's cousin through the Evans line. She was born in the middle of a war. The second Dark Lord of this century is presumably dead, though that sentence carries much weight." Her gaze returned to Jack. "If Dumbledore knows what an Alberich is—or even hears a rumor—doesn't she become a concern? Not only to him, but to anyone who understands what it means for someone like that to exist now. She is connected by blood to the boy everyone is already watching."
The table fell quiet. Even the enchanted figures on the mantelpiece seemed to pause, the streamers' drift slowing in the air. Elara watched Viviane with an attentive, unmoving silence. Sylvaine set her cup down without a sound. Raphael fixed his gaze on Jack, his mouth set in a thin line.
"It isn't a small question," Viviane said. "I know that. But I don't think it's the wrong one either."
"No," Jack said, his voice resonant in the high-ceilinged room. "It isn't the wrong one."
Jane studied him briefly, her fingers tracing the lace edge of her napkin.
"We have thought about it," she said. "Since she was born. We knew what she was likely to carry and what that might mean." She glanced at Morwenna. "You are right that Dumbledore is the first concern. He isn't the only one, but he is the most organised. He is the one most capable of acting quickly on information."
She drew a quiet breath, her posture straightening.
"That's why Morwenna won't enter the wizarding world under her full name."
Viviane's interest sharpened at the statement.
"Publicly, she will be Nimue," Jack said. "Nimue Keith. That is the name she will use at Hogwarts, in the wider wizarding world, and with anyone outside this room. It will be the name people know."
"And Morwenna?" Celestine asked, her green eyes searching Jane's face.
"Morwenna is for family," Jane said. "For this circle. Her full formal name doesn't leave this room. Publicly, there will be no Alberich marker and no LeFay surname." She looked around the table, ensuring they understood the gravity of the secret. "Anyone who recognises her will have to do so through observation, not through a registry. And we will make sure there is very little to observe."
"Nimue Keith," Sylvaine said thoughtfully. "A Keith. Old enough to command respect. Prominent enough to carry weight. Not so prominent that it invites the wrong attention."
"Yes," Jack agreed.
"And if someone looks deeper?" Raphael asked quietly.
"They will find a Keith," Jack said. "Emrys blood on the father's side, which isn't a secret. The Keith line hasn't hidden its descent. The LeFay connection through Jane's Evans line exists for anyone who knows the family history, but it isn't obvious. What they won't find easily is Alberich. Not unless they are looking deliberately and know exactly what to look for."
"And if they are?" Elara asked.
"Then we deal with it when it happens," Jane replied. "We can't make her invisible. What we can do is make her legible as something ordinary. Nimue Keith. A child from an old family with ancient blood and nothing particularly unusual. For most purposes, that will be enough."
Elara's gaze drifted to the silver bracelet around Morwenna's wrist. From this distance, the Valcourt warding script was too fine to read, but its protective intent was clear.
Oblivious to the weight of the discussion, Morwenna lifted the carved serpent toward Lucien. She spoke softly in Parseltongue, her hisses careful and inquisitive as she tilted her head.
Lucien watched her patiently but said nothing. He simply smiled, having understood nothing of the sibilant sounds.
Morwenna tried again, slower this time. She focused on her pronunciation, her little face scrunched in effort. Lucien's expression remained warm but entirely lost.
From across the room, Aldric said in Parseltongue, "He doesn't speak it, little one."
Morwenna looked between them, considering this fact for a moment. Then she hummed three clear notes—the Veela melody she had been practising in the garden earlier.
Lucien's face shifted instantly. He responded in the Veela tongue with one short phrase and pointed at the carved serpent.
Morwenna looked satisfied. She nodded once and returned to her cake.
"What did she say?" Seraphina asked, leaning forward with a curious look.
"Que le serpent est heureux d'être ici (she said the serpent is happy to be here)," Lucien said. "I told her that was reasonable. It's a good house."
Saoirse raised her cup, the silver catching the light of the orbs.
"To Nimue Keith," she said. "Who is also Morwenna. Who is two years old today. Who has already told a carved serpent more secrets than any of us."
"To Morwenna," the table echoed.
Some voices spoke in English, some in French. Aldric and Celestine added a brief toast in Parseltongue, their sibilant voices blending into the chorus of well-wishes.
Morwenna looked up, her white curls bouncing as she saw eleven sets of eyes on her and cups raised. She lifted her cake fork high.
"Two," she said firmly.
The afternoon drifted on at its own pace, slow and warm, as the early autumn light slanted through the hall's tall windows. Honey-coloured rectangles of sun stretched across the stone floor, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily in the still, heavy air.
Morwenna discovered a new power. Standing in the very centre of the hall, she spoke Parseltongue loudly, her small chest puffed out. Every adult in the room immediately halted their conversations to look at her, drawn by the sudden, alien sound of the hissing.
She tested this phenomenon four more times over the next hour. Each attempt produced the same result: a brief, unanimous silence as eleven pairs of eyes focused entirely on her. She seemed to relish the weight of their attention, her green eyes bright with a toddler's budding mischief.
On the fifth try, her sibilant voice echoed sharply against the stone walls, but the reaction changed. Aldric answered her from across the room without even breaking his conversation with Raphael. A short string of intricate, hissing syllables made Morwenna freeze. Her eyes went wide in pure astonishment. Luelle had to set her cup down on the table before laughter overtook her at her niece's shocked expression.
Cinder proved a cooperative companion for nearly everything she attempted. The fennec followed her with light-footed grace, his large amber eyes never leaving her as she moved through the patches of sunlight.
At one point, she carried him over to the carved dancing figures on the mantelpiece. Holding him up at their level, she conducted what sounded like a formal introduction. She spoke in a curious mix of English and Parseltongue, her voice steady and serious. Cinder's enormous ears tilted forward, rotating in tiny arcs of interest as he observed the tiny wooden people.
Among the figures was a small carved fox caught mid-leap. It seemed to rotate slightly toward him as they approached, the enchanted wood responding to his proximity. Morwenna noticed the movement immediately and made a low, satisfied sound, her fingers tightening slightly on Cinder's fur.
Later, she brought Raphael to the library window to show him the frost patterns she had coaxed from the glass earlier. She pressed a small finger against the cold surface and concentrated. Under her touch, the crystals began to shift and rearrange into serpentine shapes, white lines spreading elegantly across the pane like delicate lace.
Raphael observed the display with his arms folded, his green eyes following every minute movement of the frost. He murmured something to Celestine in French, his voice low enough that the others couldn't hear him over the crackling of the fire. Celestine nodded once. It was a brief, decisive movement that suggested she had already reached the same conclusion.
By mid-afternoon, the warmth and weight of the day finally caught up with Morwenna. She fell asleep on Sylvaine's lap while the adults talked.
It happened as it always did. One moment she was awake and observing the room with keen interest; the next, she was gone. Her small body went slack with the sudden certainty of sleep, her head lolling against Sylvaine's arm.
Sylvaine remained perfectly still for twenty minutes, continuing her quiet conversation with Aldric in a slightly lower register so as not to disturb the child. One of her hands rested lightly against Morwenna's back, her fingers splayed over the soft green fabric of the girl's dress.
When Morwenna awoke, she appeared briefly offended by the situation. Sleep always left her feeling mildly irritated, as if she had missed something vital. She sat up with a deep scowl, looking as though her body had acted entirely without her permission.
Her gaze swept the hall, examining the furniture and the floor as if she expected some grand development to have occurred in her absence. Finding none, she slid down from Sylvaine's lap and went in search of Saoirse.
Saoirse was in the corner, attempting to teach Luelle a card trick. A deck with intricate silver-backed cards was spread across a small table, though the lesson was progressing poorly.
"Not that one," Saoirse said for the third time, her tone a mix of patience and prodding. "That one. The one with the border."
"They all have borders," Luelle said, her voice tight with growing frustration.
"Different borders. Look closely."
"You aren't looking properly."
"Je regarde (I'm looking)," Luelle insisted.
"You aren't looking properly."
"Saoirse, they look identical."
Morwenna stepped between them, her feet silent on the thick rug. Still clutching her wooden serpent, she studied the spread of cards with a critical eye. After a moment of silence, she tapped one specific card with the serpent's head.
"That one," she said firmly.
Saoirse picked it up and turned it over to reveal the face. It was correct. She looked at Morwenna slowly, her brow raised in genuine surprise.
Morwenna returned her gaze calmly. She seemed unconcerned by the significance of her choice.
"Right," Luelle said finally, throwing her hands up slightly. "She is two years old. I have just been defeated by a two-year-old. That's what has happened here."
"Happened," Morwenna confirmed with a nod of satisfaction.
She wandered off afterward, intent on finding Cinder.
Evening settled slowly over the manor, the light shifting from deep gold to a rich, syrupy amber as the sun dipped behind the jagged, distant hills. Long, cool shadows stretched across the stone floor, reaching toward the hall's center as the vibrant day gave way to the quiet of the night.
Tilly set out dinner without needing to be asked. The meal unfolded with a leisurely grace, the air filled with roasted meat's savoury aromas, cracked pepper, and winter herbs. No one hurried, and no one wished to leave the table. Silver clinked against porcelain in a steady, comforting rhythm beneath the conversational hum, while the wine caught the flickering candlelight in each glass like liquid rubies. Discussions drifted and returned naturally, weaving in and out like comfortable music.
Raphael and Jack had discovered a shared interest and settled into a focused discussion regarding druidic rune sequences' practical applications in modern ward construction. Their language was precise and compact, two people navigating the same complex ground. Raphael traced invisible symbols in the air with his fork while Jack leaned in, his head tilted in thought as they explored ancient magic's subtle interplay.
Across from them, Celestine and Seraphina spoke quietly. Their conversation had its own unhurried cadence, each pause carrying mutual respect's calm familiarity; it was a long lives' shared understanding borne of being lived with similar grace.
Viviane told a story about a Beaumont contract negotiation gone spectacularly wrong. Her narration was careful and precise as she described a professional matter's details that became absurd: a misdirected owl, a baffled Ministry of Finance official. Elara listened with her usual composed expression, her hands folded neatly beside her plate.
At the end, Elara said only two words. Whatever they were, they made Viviane cover her mouth in surprise, for it was the closest Elara ever came to open laughter, her eye corners crinkling with mirth. Viviane laughed aloud, her voice bright and clear in the high-ceilinged hall.
Morwenna ate with a quiet, serious focus—genuine hunger's quiet, serious focus. After a day full of activity, gifts, and cake, she concentrated entirely on her plate. Seated between Jane and Lucien, her chair brought right to the table's edge, she tugged at Jane's sleeve from time to time, demanding commentary on a carrot slice or a piece of bread. At other moments, she hummed soft, melodic Veela melody fragments Lucien had taught her. Sometimes she simply looked around the table, her green eyes sweeping across family and friends' faces, complete contentment's small expression.
Somewhere between the main course and whatever followed, she climbed into Jane's lap without warning. Leaning back against her mother's chest, she let Cinder settle comfortably across her own lap. The small fox seemed entirely satisfied, his ears rotating lazily as he watched the hearth fire. From this secure, elevated position, Morwenna observed the room. She wasn't asleep, but she was at the evening's point where being fully independent required more effort than she cared to expend. Proximity was enough.
Jane continued speaking, her daughter's presence included seamlessly in the conversation. One arm rested loosely around Morwenna, her hand steady on the child's shoulder.
Gradually, Morwenna's eyes grew heavy. She resisted stubbornly, forcing them open each time they threatened to close, her face wearing a faintly offended expression as though she were scolding herself for drifting. When they closed again, the pause lingered slightly longer; when they reopened, her focus was slower and less certain.
Cinder shifted, settling more firmly across her lap and tucking his dark nose into his tail. He was prepared to provide a comfortable, warm weight for as long as she needed.
The third time her eyes closed, they didn't open again. Her breathing deepened into slow, rhythmic patterns.
The room adjusted. Conversations softened instinctively, and voices lowered as they always did around a sleeping child. The hall didn't fall silent, but the day's sharp edges smoothed into the quiet of the night.
Jane glanced down, studying her daughter. White curls framed the small sleeping face, and one tiny fist still clutched the pale grey memory stone Elara had given her that afternoon; she had never once set it aside.
Carefully, Jane rose, supporting her daughter's weight. She shifted Morwenna against her shoulder and carried her from the great hall, leaving the warm evening glow and the soft conversational hum behind.
The stairs were quiet, lit by the gentle, flickering glow of the wall sconces. The manor had settled into its evening rhythm, the thick stone walls holding the cool of the spring night. The portraits' eyes along the upper corridor watched in serene silence as Jane carried Morwenna past, their muted attention following the steady rhythm of the mother and child's movements.
Morwenna didn't stir when Jane laid her down in the nursery bed. She didn't stir as her small shoes were removed with a gentle tug and the soft wool blanket was tucked snugly around her. One tiny hand remained clenched around the grey memory stone against her chest; the other rested open beside her face, her fingers curled slightly in sleep.
Tilly appeared silently in the doorway, his presence alert and attentive. His large eyes reflected the pale, silver moonlight spilling through the window and pooling on the nursery floor.
Jane lingered for a long moment, studying her daughter's peaceful face in the quiet room. Then she turned and went back downstairs, her footsteps soft on the carpeted runner.
Below, the great hall had settled into a soft, heavy stillness. The air smelled of lingering woodsmoke, sweet frosting, and the faint, acrid trace of scorched magic from the ritual bowl. It was the deep calm that follows a day of celebration, when the frantic energy of the crowd has smoothed into a shared, comfortable quiet.
The birthday decorations remained, though they had lost their morning urgency. The floating lights drifted lower toward the stone floor, glowing in a warmer, deeper amber hue. The enchanted figures on the mantelpiece continued their slow, wandering patterns, their wooden joints clicking softly in the hush of the room. The long table had been cleared of its heavier dishes, leaving only half-full glasses and the scattered remnants of the feast.
The eleven adults had arranged themselves into positions dictated by comfort rather than ceremony. Aldric and Sylvaine occupied the high-backed chairs nearest the fire, speaking in low murmurs with the ease of decades of familiarity. The pauses between their words carried no awkwardness, only the natural rhythm of a long acquaintance. The firelight traced deep lines of age and experience across their faces.
Saoirse had settled on the rug, leaning back against the velvet settee with her long legs stretched toward the hearth. Cinder lay beside her, his large ears finally relaxed after a day of constant attention. Luelle perched on a nearby ottoman, asking gentle questions about the distant places Saoirse had visited during her travels.
Saoirse answered with quiet enthusiasm, her hands moving in small gestures as she described jagged mountains and rugged coasts; she was clearly pleased to have such an engaged listener.
Raphael and Jack had drifted from technical discussion to something quieter and more reflective, their voices low and intimate. Seraphina sat close by, absorbed in a heavy, leather-bound book, her eyes scanning steadily across the yellowed pages in the dim light.
Viviane joined Jane, with Elara, Celestine, and Lucien nearby. Their conversation drifted without any sense of urgency, the meandering flow of people unwinding from the day's events. They spoke of many things, and of nothing at all.
Viviane asked Lucien about the Veela community in the Dordogne, her curiosity rooted in professional interest. Lucien's reply was soft and nostalgic as he painted a picture of the scent of the river and the way the light hit the limestone cliffs. Celestine described the progress in the LeFay library in France, mentioning how missing family logs were slowly coming to light after years of investigation. Jane listened quietly, her chin resting on her hand, her green eyes reflecting the room's warmth.
When Elara was asked about the Valcourt estates, she answered in three precise sentences before redirecting the conversation with quiet skill.
The fire burned lower, the bright flames giving way to a bed of glowing red coals.
Eventually, Saoirse fell asleep on the rug. Her head lolled back against the settee, and Cinder shifted across her legs, his weight steady and comforting as he too drifted off.
Conversations slowed, responses stretched into long pauses, and the weight of the day settled fully over the adults. The manor held the warmth, its stone walls keeping the night at bay.
Seraphina closed her book with a soft thud. Aldric refilled Sylvaine's cup without a word, and her nod of thanks was equally silent.
Outside, the April night was clear and cold. White crystals of frost were forming on the grass, the world indifferent to the warmth and history held within the manor walls.
No one moved to leave.