A week after the birthday, the house had settled into a much quieter, more rhythmic existence. Morning broke cold and grey, with a watery, pale light filtering through the manor's tall, leaded windows. Celestine found Morwenna in the library before the rest of the household had even begun to stir from their beds.
The vast room smelled of old parchment, dry cedarwood, and the beeswax polish's faint, lingering sweetness. Morwenna sat on the dark, polished floorboards with Cinder curled across her legs. The fennec fox's russet fur was a bright, startling contrast against the deep forest green of her dress.
They were both staring intently at the lower shelves. Three thick, leather-bound volumes had been pulled free from their places and arranged in a careful, straight line on the rug. Morwenna pointed at each spine in turn, her small finger tracing the gold-embossed letters with rhythmic precision as she spoke to Cinder. She used the soft, sibilant sounds of Parseltongue—the secret, hissing language.
Cinder's ears turned towards her with every spoken syllable, his amber eyes fixed on the child's small, moving hand.
Celestine paused in the doorway, keeping her step light so as not to disturb the private moment.
The child's white hair hung loose today, falling past her narrow shoulders in soft, silken waves that caught the morning's watery light. Her back was perfectly straight. Each gesture was measured and deliberate as she explained something to the fox. It was a quiet exchange that clearly belonged only to the two of them.
The Evans family's composure had many layers, much like an onion's skin. Celestine had spent a lifetime learning how to keep the inner ones hidden, folded neatly behind duty and tradition's requirements. Yet as she watched her granddaughter hold court with a fox in a language older than most human speech, something tightened in her chest. Her control's edges thinned, just enough for her to feel the crack beneath the surface.
She crossed the room slowly. She allowed her slippers' soft sound to brush against the floorboards so Morwenna would hear her approach.
Morwenna looked up. Her green eyes found Celestine's at once and lingered there, steady and searching.
"Gran-ma," she said, her voice clear in the hush. She pointed a finger at Cinder. "Telling."
"Telling him what?" Celestine asked softly.
Morwenna glanced at the books, then at Cinder, then back to her grandmother.
"Stories," she said.
"Ah." Celestine lowered herself to the floor beside them, her joints protesting faintly with the movement. The stone's cold pressed through her heavy robes, but she didn't shift.
"What kind of stories?"
Morwenna picked up the nearest book and held it out with both hands. It was the French illustrated volume Celestine herself had given her, filled with the folklore of their ancestors. The spine was already softened by the frequent grip of small fingers.
"Cette (this one)," Morwenna said.
"Would you like me to read it to you?"
Morwenna nodded. She adjusted Cinder's weight to make space, then leaned into Celestine's side the moment she was close enough. Her warmth was immediate, and her trust was entirely unquestioning.
Celestine opened the book to the first page.
She read slowly, her voice carrying a natural French cadence. Each word flowed with a rhythm shaped over many centuries. She spoke of river spirits dwelling beneath ancient bridges and forest wives weaving delicate garments from spider silk. There were stories of bargains struck with creatures who never forgot a face. There were children stepping into hollow hills and returning seventy years later, entirely unchanged by the passage of time.
Morwenna listened without moving. One of her hands rested in Cinder's soft fur. Her gaze stayed fixed on the delicate, hand-painted illustrations, tracing the dark forests and the shadows within the artwork.
When the story ended, the library fell into a deep, peaceful stillness.
"Encore (again)," she said.
Celestine didn't hesitate. She turned back to the beginning and read it again.
. . .
Lucien found them in the greenhouse an hour later, the air inside thick and humid.
Morwenna had already left the library behind. She stood at the low wooden potting table where Lucien had arranged several small terracotta pots and a tray of delicate seedlings the day before. Her small hands were thoroughly coated in dark, damp soil, and a faint streak of earth marked her cheek where she had pushed her white hair back from her face. Cinder sat on a clear patch of stone nearby, his amber eyes watching her every move, his tail curled neatly around his paws.
Lucien rested against the wooden doorframe, drawing in the warm, heavy air scented with moss, damp ferns, and growing things. Sunlight beat down through the glass panes, creating a hazy, golden atmosphere.
Morwenna worked with careful, intense focus as she transferred the seedlings from one pot to another. She lifted each one gently, her brow drawn tight in a line of concentration as she studied the fine, pale roots before settling them into fresh soil. Her hands moved in small, steady motions as she pressed the earth down with soft, rhythmic pats of her fingers.
She spoke to the plants as she worked. It wasn't Parseltongue this time; instead, it was something softer and more melodic, shaped by the lilting Veela tones he had been teaching her in the gardens.
The plants seemed to respond to her voice, their tiny leaves leaning ever so slightly in her direction as if seeking the warmth of her breath.
Lucien had spent several decades learning how to listen to growing things. He had seen how his daughter, Jane, had passed that quiet gift along. Yet watching Morwenna now, he understood something else entirely. She would go further than any of his children, and she would do it without ever realising she had done anything unusual at all.
He stepped away from the doorway and moved towards her, his boots quiet on the stone floor.
Morwenna looked up as his shadow crossed the potting table. Her face lit with a bright smile that pulled at something deep in his chest.
"Gran-pere!" She held up a particularly limp seedling, its thin, white roots dangling in the air. "Fatigué (this one is tired)."
"Fatigué how?"
She tilted her head to the side, studying the plant's wilted leaves. "La terre (dirt) was wrong."
"Ah." He crouched down beside her, his knees cracking slightly. "What kind of terre does it want?"
Morwenna looked between the seedling, the empty pots, and the larger, thriving plants nearby. Her brow furrowed again as she processed the problem.
"Noir (darker)," she said firmly. "Wet."
Lucien reached for a bag of specialized soil he hadn't shown her before, one rich with nutrients and moisture. He opened it and held it out for her inspection. "Celui-ci (this one)?"
Morwenna dipped her fingers into the bag, rubbing the cool, dark soil between her thumb and forefinger. After a moment of consideration, she nodded, looking satisfied. "Celui-ci."
They worked together for the next hour in the quiet heat of the greenhouse. Lucien showed her how to read the subtle signs of the leaves, how to notice when they held too much sun or not enough water. She mirrored his movements exactly. Her small hand was held at the same precise angle as his, and her head was tilted in the same thoughtful way.
When he spoke about how some plants thrived in the company of others while some preferred a quiet solitude, she listened with the same quiet intensity she reserved for all things that mattered.
At the end of their task, she looked over the neat row of freshly potted seedlings with a critical eye.
"Bon (good)," she said.
"Très bon (very good)," Lucien replied, his voice carrying that same soft, lilting cadence.
Morwenna glanced down at her soil-stained hands, then at his relatively clean ones. She lifted her palms towards him, fingers splayed, as if presenting a complex problem that required immediate solving.
Lucien laughed softly. He gathered her up with ease, ignoring the dirt transferring to his own robes, and carried her to the large stone sink.
. . .
Raphael found them at lunch.
The morning room was comfortably warm, the fire crackling in the stone hearth against the lingering April chill that pressed against the windows. The air held the savory scent of rosemary and fresh bread. Morwenna sat in her high chair with Cinder settled securely across her lap, and both of them watched with fixed intensity as Luelle demonstrated something with a crisp linen napkin.
Luelle folded the white cloth into a bird's shape. It flapped its linen wings whenever she tapped the fabric with her finger. Morwenna's eyes widened, turning round and dark with intent.
"Do it again," she said.
Luelle did as she was asked.
"Again."
A third time the napkin bird flapped its wings.
"Encore (again)."
"That's the same napkin," Luelle said, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "It can only do it so many times before it gets tired."
Morwenna paused to consider the napkin's stamina. Then she picked up her own napkin, studied the weave of the fabric, and held it out with a demanding little reach.
"Cette (this one)."
Luelle accepted the cloth with exaggerated seriousness. She folded the linen, tapped the center, and produced a bird that flapped once before collapsing into a limp, unmoving heap of white cloth on the table.
Morwenna laughed. The sound was bright and sharp, sudden enough to make Raphael pause as he entered the doorway.
He watched them for a moment. Luelle made the napkin bird attempt increasingly ambitious feats, each ending in a spectacular failure that sent the cloth tumbling. Morwenna's laughter grew quicker and more breathless with every collapse. Cinder's ears turned constantly, following the erratic, jerky movements of the linen bird.
Raphael thought, briefly, of the Evans family records and of the centuries spent preserving knowledge against uncertain futures. He thought of the lineage they carried like a physical weight.
Then he looked at his niece, white-haired and green-eyed, laughing at a failed napkin bird while a fox rested in her lap. He stepped fully into the room.
Morwenna looked up at his approach. "Raph," she said, using the shortened name she had claimed for him without any formal ceremony.
He bent and pressed a kiss to her head. "What are you laughing at?"
"Bird." She pointed at the crumpled heap of linen. "Flew. Flew. Then non (didn't)."
"That sounds like a very dramatic bird."
"Dramatic," Morwenna repeated, testing the weight of the word. She seemed to like it.
Luelle smoothed the napkin and set it aside on the table. "She has been asking about France."
Raphael glanced across the table at Celestine. His mother watched everything at once, her attention quiet and absolute.
"What do you want to know?" Raphael asked, pulling out a chair.
Morwenna turned her full focus to him. "Gran-ma's house. La grande (the big one)."
"The château. Oui, it's big."
Raphael considered the question. The manor was wide and ancient, its stone walls layered with centuries of history. The château was something else entirely—older in some respects, yet standing tall and sharp above the river where its pale towers could be seen for many miles.
"Different," he said. "Pas plus grand (not bigger). Different."
"Can I go?"
"Pas encore (not yet)."
"Quand (when)?"
"Quand tu auras cinq ans (when you are five)."
Morwenna fell quiet, working through the number in her mind. Then she raised five fingers, splaying them wide. "This many."
"Oui."
She studied her small hand, then looked back at him. "That's a lot."
"Not so many. You will be there before you know it."
Morwenna considered whether she believed him. Whatever conclusion she reached, she set it aside and returned her attention to Cinder.
. . .
That afternoon, Celestine sat with Morwenna in the morning room and told her about the château. The fire burned with a steady, orange glow, fighting the damp April air that pressed against the windowpanes.
Celestine spoke of the hill the great house stood on, covered in ancient oak and chestnut trees that were far older than the stones of the house itself. She described the river at the base of the slope—wide, slow, and dark—where silver fish leapt from the surface at every sunset. She described the tower rooms, which were round and narrow, their windows looking out across the entire expanse of the valley like watchful eyes.
Morwenna listened without moving. Her whole body was perfectly still, her hands resting flat on her knees as if even the smallest shift might cause her to miss a single word.
"Dans la plus vieille tour (in the oldest tower)," Celestine said, her voice dropping into a rhythmic, storytelling cadence, "there's a room that once belonged to Morgana. Not the real Morgana, of course. She was gone long before the château was built. But one of her descendants, many generations later, wished to remember her.
So she built a room for that very purpose. The walls are tiled in deep, midnight blue, and there's a high window that faces the moon. There's a heavy chest filled with things she gathered: pressed flowers from the valley, old letters written in fading ink, and a lock of hair from someone no one remembers anymore."
Morwenna's eyes widened at the mention of the name. "Morgana."
"You know that name."
"Gran-ma told me." She touched her own green eye with a small, inquisitive finger. "Ça (this)."
"Oui." Celestine's voice softened into a gentle murmur. "That green comes from her. It comes from the line she began, a very long time ago."
Morwenna sat in a profound silence for a long moment, processing the weight of the legacy. Then, she looked up. "The moon room. Can I see it?"
"When you are five. I will take you there myself."
"Promise."
Celestine looked at her granddaughter. She saw the green eyes carrying something ancient and the white hair that spoke of a different power entirely. The child asked for promises as though they were the most serious things in the world.
"Je te le promets (I promise you)," Celestine said.
Morwenna nodded once, looking satisfied with the oath, and leaned her head into Celestine's side.
. . .
Lucien came to the nursery that evening as the shadows of the manor lengthened into the corners of the room.
Morwenna sat in the middle of her bed in her nightclothes. The soft white fabric made her hair seem almost the same pale shade in the dim light. Tilly had already brushed the curls and tied them back with a dark green ribbon. Cinder lay curled at her feet, his amber eyes reflecting the single candle on the bedside table. Both of them watched the door as if they had been expecting his arrival.
Lucien sat on the edge of the mattress, the wood creaking softly under his weight.
"Your grandmother tells me you want to hear about the château."
"I thought I might tell you a different story instead. A very old one. From before the château was built, before the Evans name was known, before any of that."
Her attention sharpened at once, her small body leaning forward.
"Long ago," Lucien began, "before there were people in the valley where the château now stands, there was a vast forest. And in that forest, there was a spring. The water rose from deep within the earth. It was froide. Claire (cold and clear), and it never stopped flowing, even in the hottest summers."
"Creatures came to drink there. Great deer, wild boar, and colourful birds. And sometimes, when the moon was full and the forest was silent, other things came as well. Things that lived deeper in the trees. Things that didn't wish to be seen by human eyes."
Morwenna's hand found Cinder's soft fur and held tight.
"One night, a woman came to the spring. She was tired, very tired, for she had been walking for a long time. She knelt to drink the clear water, and when she looked up, there was someone standing on the other side of the pool. Tall. Pale. With eyes that reflected the moon."
"Une Veela (Was it a Veela)?" Morwenna asked, her voice a hushed whisper.
Lucien smiled, a soft curve touched with that signature melodic lilt. "You guessed correctly."
"Les oreilles (The ears)."
"Oui. Les oreilles." He brushed his own ear lightly with a fingertip. "The Veela asked why she walked alone at night. The woman said she was searching for a place to rest. A place to stay. The Veela watched her for a long time in silence. Then she said, 'There's a hill not far from here. No one lives there. You could build your home.'"
Morwenna didn't move, her breath held in anticipation.
"The woman thanked her and turned to go. But the Veela spoke again. 'Je veillerai sur cet endroit (I will watch this place),' she said. 'I will watch it for you, and for your children, and for their children after them. As long as the spring flows, I will remain.'"
"Et après (and then)?"
"And then the woman built on the hill. Her children built more, and their children after them. And the Veela kept her word. She watched. Some say she still watches from the shadows of the trees. If you go to the spring on a full moon night, when the water is very still, you might see her reflection looking back at you from the depths."
Morwenna was quiet for a long moment, her brow furrowed.
"Is she nice?"
Lucien considered the question. "I think she is old. Very old. And old things don't always think of 'nice' the way we do. But she kept her word. That matters more than being nice, sometimes."
Morwenna nodded slowly, accepting the logic. She looked at Cinder, then back at her grandfather.
"Gran-ma promised to take me to the moon room. Will you take me to the spring?"
"On a full moon night?"
"Oui."
Lucien studied her face. He saw the green eyes, one marked by something none of them fully understood yet. He saw the small hands resting in her lap, one curled tightly around the grey memory stone Elara had given her.
"When you are older," he said gently. "When you are ready. I will take you."
"Promise."
"Je te le promets."
Morwenna leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. It was the quiet, intimate gesture she used when words were no longer needed.
Lucien remained still, his hand resting lightly against her back, and he didn't move until her breathing slowed and softened into sleep.
. . .
Viviane found Morwenna in the kitchen the next morning. The room was already warm from the heat of the ovens, the air smelling of fresh yeast, cold stone, and the sharp, clean scent of flour.
Tilly had set a small, sturdy wooden stool at the counter so Morwenna could reach the workspace. She stood on it with fierce, unyielding concentration, both of her hands buried deep in a large ceramic bowl of dough. Fine white flour dusted her hair, her face, and her pale nightclothes. It covered the dark wood of the counter and had spread generously across the stone floor in a thin, powdery film.
Tilly hovered nearby, her large eyes wide as she watched the mess. She looked like someone bracing for a spectacular disaster but remained entirely unwilling to interfere with the child's work.
Viviane leaned against the cool doorframe and watched in silence.
Morwenna worked the dough with a solemn, rhythmic purpose. She folded the mass, pressed it down with her palms, turned the bowl, then folded it again. Every so often she paused to inspect the texture, her brow drawn tight in a line of focus, before she continued with renewed determination.
"What are you making?" Viviane asked, her voice soft in the quiet kitchen.
Morwenna looked up, a smudge of flour on her forehead. "Bread."
"Bread (du pain)."
"Pour (for) Gran-pere."
Viviane stepped closer to the counter and looked into the bowl. The dough had been kneaded far beyond what was strictly necessary for a loaf. It was smooth, elastic, and very nearly perfect under the pressure of those small fingers.
"Il va adorer (he will like that)," Viviane said.
Morwenna gave a decisive nod and returned to her kneading.
Viviane pulled out a tall stool and sat beside her. She said nothing for a long while. she only watched the small, tireless hands at work.
After a few minutes, Morwenna spoke without looking up. "Tu pars (you are going away)."
It wasn't a question, but a quiet observation of an impending fact.
"Oui," Viviane said. "Soon. I have work that needs me."
Morwenna kept kneading the dough, the rhythmic slapping of the flour against the wood the only other sound. "When will you come back?"
"I don't know exactly. But I will come back."
Morwenna looked at her then. Her green eyes were steady and searching for a long moment, before she lowered her gaze to the dough again.
"Gran-ma told me about France. Le château."
"She did."
"Gran-pere told me about the spring. La dame qui veille (the lady who watches)."
Viviane didn't answer at once, her gaze fixed on the dusting of flour on the counter.
"When I can go there," Morwenna said, her voice small but firm, "I will go. See the moon room. See the spring."
"Oui."
Morwenna worked the dough a little longer, her movements slowing. Then she stopped entirely and looked up at her godmother again.
"Tu seras là (will you be there)?"
Something shifted in Viviane's chest. Years of careful, practiced composure, built piece by piece like a stone wall, felt suddenly and dangerously fragile.
"I will try," she said, her voice steady despite the feeling.
"I can't promise for certain. But I will try very hard (je ferai de mon mieux)."
Morwenna considered that answer with the gravity it deserved. Then she lifted one small hand, still heavily coated in flour, and held it out towards Viviane.
"Essayer (try)," she said.
Viviane took the small hand in hers. White flour dusted her own fingers as she closed her grip gently around the girl's palm.
"Je vais essayer (I will)."
. . .
The third departure came mid-morning, the hall filled with the cold, sharp light of an early spring sun.
Celestine, Lucien, Raphael, Luelle, and Elara gathered in the entrance hall's center, their heavy travelling cloaks fastened at the throat. The Floo stood ready, the wide stone fireplace empty of logs but waiting for the spark of travel. The air held the bitter, metallic scent of Floo powder and the faint, earthy smell of damp wool.
Morwenna stood in the middle of the hall's vast expanse, Cinder held tightly against her chest. Her small face was very still, her expression unreadable as she watched the preparations.
Celestine crouched before her, the silk lining of her cloak rustling against the stone floor. Her composure held with the practiced grace of the Evans line, but her eyes shone with a shimmering brightness that spoke of unshed tears.
"You will come to France when you are five," she said, her voice a steady murmur. "I promised."
Morwenna gave a single, sharp nod.
"Until then, you will be good for your parents."
Another nod followed, her chin set in a firm line.
"And you will remember what I told you. About the château. About the line. About who you are."
Morwenna lifted her chin slightly, her green eyes flashing with a sudden, ancient light. "Je me souviens (I remember)."
Celestine leaned forward to kiss her forehead, her lips cool against the child's skin. Then she rose and stepped into the Floo.
Lucien knelt next. He brushed Morwenna's cheek with a gentle thumb, then touched his own ear in a silent reference to their shared blood. She mirrored the motion perfectly.
"La source (the spring)," he said softly, the melodic lilt of his voice filling the quiet hall. "Pleine lune. Quand tu seras prête (full moon. When you are ready)."
"Oui."
He kissed her forehead, his touch lingering for a heartbeat, and followed Celestine into the waiting hearth.
Raphael crouched before her. He studied her for a long moment in silence, as though he were committing every detail of her face to memory.
"You will be extraordinary," he said, his voice resonant. "I already know that. But be kind too. Ça compte (it matters)."
Morwenna met his gaze, those ancient green eyes steady and unwavering. "D'accord (okay)."
Raphael smiled, a brief and warm expression that reached his eyes, then stepped into the fireplace.
Luelle came next. She didn't crouch. Instead, she swept Morwenna into her arms with a sudden, exuberant motion, lifting her clean off the ground. Cinder was caught in the middle, making a small sound of soft protest, but he stayed where he was.
"I will miss you every single day," Luelle murmured into her hair, her voice thick with emotion. "Every single day. You have to write to me. Tilly will help. Tell me everything. Tell me about the bread. Tell me about Cinder. Tell me everything."
Morwenna's small arms tightened around Luelle's neck. "D'accord."
Luelle held her a moment longer, breathing in the scent of vanilla and baby powder. Then she set her down, kissed both of her cheeks, and walked to the Floo without looking back.
Elara was last.
She stepped forward slowly, her expression composed and distant as always, though something beneath the surface showed in the way her gaze remained fixed on Morwenna. She crouched with a deliberate, considered motion.
Morwenna held her gaze, her posture mirroring the older woman's stillness.
"Le bracelet," Elara said. She reached out to touch the silver band on Morwenna's wrist, her touch light and precise. "It knows you now. It will keep knowing you. Même loin (even far away)."
Morwenna glanced down at the silver, then back at Elara.
"La pierre (the stone)," she said, her small hand reaching for the grey memory stone hanging at her neck.
Elara inclined her head in a slow nod. "La pierre aussi. You put things in it. They stay."
Morwenna considered that logic for a moment. Then she stepped forward and placed her small, dimpled hand on Elara's knee—the same direct, seeking gesture she had used before.
Elara's breath caught, just for a fleeting moment. Then she covered the child's hand with her own palm.
"Je ne t'oublierai pas (I won't forget you)," she said, her voice very quiet.
Morwenna nodded once, as if she had expected nothing less than a total commitment.
Elara rose, looked at her one final time, then turned and stepped into the hearth.
The flames flared a brilliant, dancing green.
Then they were gone.
Morwenna remained in the centre of the hall, her arms still wrapped around Cinder. She didn't move from her spot. She didn't cry. She simply watched the empty fireplace, her face unchanged as the green light faded from the stone.
Jack and Jane stood at the edge of the hall, watching their daughter with a quiet intensity.
Jane took a step forward, her hand reaching out.
Morwenna turned before her mother could reach her. She walked to the stairs, climbing them one by one with Cinder still tucked in her arms. She disappeared around the corner without a backward glance.
Tilly appeared at the base of the stairs, her large eyes looking up after the child. She made a soft, mournful sound, the noise echoing in the now-quiet manor.
Jane reached for Jack's hand and held it tightly, her fingers interlocking with his.
They found her in the library an hour later.
She had taken one of the French books Celestine had given her—the one with the gold-leaf serpent—and sat with it open in her lap on the rug. Cinder was curled beside her, his chin resting on her knee. She wasn't reading. She simply looked at the heavy pages, her hand resting lightly on the intricate illustrations of the château.
Jane lowered herself to the floor at her daughter's side. Jack sat on the other, his presence a steady weight in the room.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the distant wind and the soft breathing of the fox.
Then Morwenna leaned into Jane's shoulder and said, very quietly, "Cinq ans. C'est long (five is a long time)."
Jane's arm came around her, pulling her close. "It feels long now. It won't always."
"How do you know?"
"Because I have waited for things too. And they always come, eventually."
Morwenna fell silent. Then, she spoke again. "Gran-ma promis."
"She did."
"Gran-pere promis."
"He did."
Morwenna looked down at the book's pages. She traced the painted château on the hill, the silver river beneath it, and the dark forest that stretched beyond the towers.
"J'irai (I will go)," she said. Her voice was firm, a declaration. "When I'm five. I will see it all."
"Yes," Jack said, his voice steady. "You will."
Morwenna nodded once, a decisive movement. Then she turned the thick page and began to read, sounding out the French words slowly and carefully, her small finger tracing each line of text.
Cinder's ears turned towards her voice and stayed there, locked on the sound.
Jack and Jane sat on either side of her and didn't move.
. . .
Viviane left the next morning.
She came down early, before the sun had fully cleared the horizon, and found Morwenna already in the morning room with Tilly. The early light was thin and grey, casting long, pale shadows across the stone floor. The house elf was feeding the child porridge with the careful patience of someone engaged in a delicate, high-stakes negotiation. The air in the room smelled of warm oats, honey, and the faint scent of woodsmoke from the hearth.
Morwenna accepted each bite with a complete, solemn focus, as though the act itself was a ritual that mattered.
Viviane paused in the doorway, watching the quiet scene for a moment. Then she crossed the room and crouched beside the high chair, her silk robes rustling softly.
Morwenna looked at her, her green eyes clear and knowing. "You are going now."
"Oui," Viviane replied softly.
Morwenna set her spoon down against the porcelain rim with a soft click. She studied Viviane for a long moment, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she processed the thought.
Then she reached for the grey memory stone hanging from the silver chain at her neck. She pressed the smooth, cool surface between her small palms, closed her eyes tight, and grew very still. Her brow was furrowed with the effort of her concentration.
Viviane waited in the silence, her breath held.
After a while, Morwenna opened her eyes and held the stone out as far as the chain would allow.
"Tiens (take it)," she said.
Viviane looked at the stone, then back at her goddaughter. "What did you do?"
"Put it in. So you can take it with you."
"The memory?"
Morwenna nodded. "This morning. Right now. You and me and the porridge. So you remember."
Viviane felt her throat tighten with a sudden, sharp pressure. She reached out and took the stone with immense care, holding it in her palm. It was still warm from the child's skin. It felt heavy with the weight of the moment.
"I will keep it safe," she said, her voice a bit thicker than before. "I will keep it with me always."
Morwenna nodded, looking satisfied with the arrangement, and picked up her spoon again to return to her meal.
Viviane rose to her feet. She glanced towards Jane, who had appeared quietly in the doorway, and saw the same soft, aching emotion reflected in her friend's eyes.
She slipped the stone into the innermost pocket of her robes, keeping it close to her heart.
Then she knelt once more, pressed a lingering kiss to Morwenna's forehead, and said softly, "Je reviendrai (I will come back). I promise."
Morwenna looked at her, her expression unyielding. "Essayer (try)," she said. "That's what you said. Try very hard."
Viviane let out a small, breathless laugh, though her eyes shone with moisture. "Oui. Essayer très fort (try very hard)."
She stood, crossed to the wide hearth, and stepped into the brilliant green flames without looking back.
Morwenna ate her porridge.
. . .
Saoirse found her in the library that afternoon. The manor felt vastly larger now that the voices had faded.
Morwenna sat on the thick rug with the French book open before her. She was tracing the intricate illustrations with one finger, her movements slow and careful as she travelled from page to page. Cinder lay across her legs, his russet fur a splash of colour against the rug, his amber eyes half-closed in a doze.
Saoirse dropped onto the floor beside her without any ceremony, her movements loose and casual.
Morwenna looked up from the painted château. "You are still here."
"Still here," Saoirse said. "Someone has to stay and cause a bit of trouble. Your parents are absolutely terrible at it."
Morwenna considered that claim, her head tilting to the side. "Dada is good at trouble."
"Your father is good at quiet trouble. The sort no one notices until it's much too late to stop him. I'm good at the sort everyone notices immediately. It's a different skill entirely."
Morwenna seemed to accept the logic and stored it away for future reference.
Saoirse leaned back against the mahogany shelves, watching her niece. She noted the white hair, the ancient green eyes, and the small hand moving across a page she couldn't quite read yet.
"Missing them already?"
Morwenna's hand stilled on the vellum. She didn't look up.
"Yes."
"That's allowed. You are allowed to miss people, you know."
Morwenna stayed quiet, her finger resting on a painted forest. Then, she spoke. "Gran-ma promised. Gran-pere promised. Vivi promised to try."
"Promises matter."
"Yes."
Saoirse watched her a moment longer. Then she said, "I travelled a lot when I was young. I still do, really. I left home for the first time when I was even younger than you."
Morwenna looked up at that, her interest piqued. "You did?"
"Mm. Not exactly by choice. My parents had business and had to take me along. I screamed for the first three days straight. I asked to go home every hour on the hour. I drove everyone absolutely mad."
Morwenna's eyes widened at the mental image. "You screamed?"
"For three days. I was very loud. And very annoying." Saoirse smiled faintly at the memory.
"The point is," she went on, her tone softening, "missing people is normal. Even when you are certain they are coming back, you still miss them. And that's fine. It means you cared about them being here in the first place."
Morwenna was quiet for a long time, the only sound the crackle of the fire. Then she leaned against Saoirse's side, a deliberate and certain movement, and stayed there.
Saoirse's arm came around her without a second thought, pulling her close. She said nothing more.
They sat like that, the fox asleep, the afternoon light shifting slowly across the library floor.
. . .
That evening, after dinner, Morwenna stood at the wide window in the morning room and watched the dark settle over the grounds.
The gardens lay grey and still beneath the encroaching twilight. The lake beyond the lawn was a deeper shade of charcoal, almost lost to sight against the treeline. The sky held only the last, bruised trace of purple where the sun had dipped below the horizon. The glass was cool against her forehead, and the air in the room held the faint, lingering scent of beeswax and the dying fire.
Jack found her there.
He said nothing as he approached. He simply came to stand beside her, his tall frame a steady shadow as he looked out at the same quiet darkness.
After a long while, Morwenna spoke, her voice small against the glass. "They are gone now."
"Yes."
"All of them."
"All of them except Saoirse."
Morwenna considered that fact, her reflection faint in the pane. "Saoirse is loud."
"She is."
"That's okay."
Jack allowed a faint, private smile to touch his face. "Yes. It is."
She was quiet again, her breath fogging the window slightly. Then she said, "I put the morning in the stone. For Vivi. So she could take it with her."
Jack turned his head slightly, looking at her profile in the dim light. Her white hair and green eyes remained fixed on the dark outside.
"That was kind," he said.
"Not kind." She shook her head, the motion small and decisive. "She wanted to remember. I helped."
"That's still kind."
Morwenna thought about it for a moment, her brow furrowing. "Maybe."
They stood together, father and daughter, watching the night fully settle over the manor's grounds. Behind them, the fire crackled softly in the grate. Somewhere else in the house, Saoirse was likely making noise, her presence a vibrant contrast to the stillness.
Morwenna reached out and took Jack's hand, her small fingers wrapping around his.
He held it firmly.
. . .
The days that followed grew progressively quieter.
The house felt significantly larger without so many people filling its rooms. The stone corridors carried sound differently now; every footfall seemed to echo just a bit longer in the halls. The morning room, once filled with a dozen voices and the clatter of silver, now held only four people at breakfast.
Morwenna noticed the change.
She didn't complain, nor did she ask where everyone had gone. But each morning she paused at the Floo in the entrance hall, standing before the empty, ash-strewn hearth for a long moment as if waiting for a spark of green flame before moving on.
She spent more of her time in the library. She pulled out the French books Celestine had given her and sat on the rug, sounding out each word with a serious face. Tilly helped when she faltered on a difficult syllable, and Cinder listened with his large ears forward.
In the afternoons, she went to the greenhouse with Saoirse. Her aunt had appointed herself the temporary caretaker of the plants despite knowing very little about botany. Together they overwatered several delicate seedlings, neglected a few others, and somehow managed to keep everything alive through a strange mixture of luck and stubbornness. The air there was always warm and smelled of damp earth and green life.
In the mornings, she sat with Jack in his study. Her book remained open on her lap while his quill moved steadily across the parchment with a rhythmic scratching sound. She didn't speak or interrupt his work. She simply stayed there, quiet and present in the room's hushed atmosphere.
And each night, before her bedtime, she stood at the window and looked out at the dark.
Jane found her there on the fifth night. The moon was a thin silver crescent hanging over the trees.
Jane didn't ask what Morwenna was watching. She simply lifted the girl into her arms, carried her to the nursery, and tucked her into the bed with Cinder curled at her feet.
Morwenna looked up at her mother as the blankets were smoothed.
"Gran-ma sees the same moon," she said. "De France (from France)."
Jane felt her throat tighten at the observation. "Yes. She does."
"Et (and) Gran-pere."
"Yes."
"Et Vivi."
"Probably. If she is looking."
Morwenna nodded, looking content with that connection, and closed her eyes.
Jane stayed in the nursery until the child's breathing slowed and evened into the deep rhythm of sleep. Then she kissed the white hair and went to find Jack.
He was in the study, his desk lit by a single lamp. He was staring at an unopened letter on the blotter.
Jane sat in the chair across from him.
"La même lune (the same moon)," she said softly.
He looked up, his expression unmasking his fatigue.
"Morwenna. She said they see the same moon. From France."
Jack set the letter aside, his fingers lingering on the parchment. "She is right."
Jane leaned back slightly into the shadows. "She is only two. And she has already learned how to hold onto people who aren't here."
Jack was silent for a moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "She gets that from you."
Jane let out a soft, tired laugh. "Probably."
They sat together in the quiet study while the fire burned low in the grate, both thinking of the same thing.
The moon lay somewhere above the clouds, unseen but constant in its cycle. And somewhere in France, Celestine might be looking at it too. And Lucien. And Raphael and Luelle. And Viviane, wherever she was tonight.
La même lune.
It wasn't enough. But it was something.
===
Sorry if I got it wrong. I have never studied French before ߹𖥦߹
Also, there are a couple of things I want to tell you.
First, if you are curious about how I write intimate scenes or heavier emotional atmospheres, you can check out The Extra's Guide to Stealing the Spotlight on my account. In less than forty chapters, it already includes a sex scene and some darker, heavier moments. If you are reading this on Webnovel, that chapter will be published on March 12. If you are reading this on AO3, then that chapter should already be available. I hope you will like the way I handle those kinds of emotions and scenes.
The second thing is also connected to this fic. As I mentioned before, this is a self insert kind of story, and I decided to make the lore very grand.
In short, the current main character is one of the incarnations of a higher being, whose name is basically me, Reiya. I created a background for her origin, the reason she has incarnations, her goals, and the scale of her journey. It spans a wide range of settings, including fanfiction, original fiction, alternate history, and alternate worlds. Each story contains one incarnation of Reiya.
So most of these stories will involve some kind of transmigration theme. Overall, the larger narrative will have a "quick transmigration" or "unlimited flow" vibe, where we follow different incarnations of Reiya across many worlds.
I will also provide another document about the worldbuilding for this fic as of March 10, which is today. I will share two links so you can access those documents. On Webnovel, I will place the link in the comment section. On AO3 and fanfiction, I will include it as a hyperlink.