Two months passed.
The manor settled into its own steady rhythm; it was a constant cadence that arrived when no guests filled the stone halls and no heavy expectations lingered in the air. Morwenna learned the shape of the house quickly. Mornings belonged to Jack's study, where the air smelled of old ink and beeswax. She sat on the rug with a heavy book open across her lap while his quill moved in a constant, rhythmic scratching over the thick parchment at the desk.
Afternoons were given to the gardens or the humid warmth of the greenhouse, depending on the unpredictable shifts of the English weather. Evenings belonged to Jane, involving long stories or quiet companionship while the fire burned low and shadows stretched long across the patterned rugs.
Morwenna still checked the Floo some mornings. She didn't do it every day now, but sometimes she would stop before the empty hearth. She stood there, looking at the cold, grey grate for a long moment before turning away to find her boots.
Saoirse stayed.
No one asked her to remain, yet she simply did. Each morning she appeared at the breakfast table with her dark hair in various states of windblown disarray, a steaming cup of tea already in her hand. She claimed she was merely "between travels," which could mean anything from a week to a season. Jack said nothing to challenge it. Jane said nothing either. They both understood the unspoken truth: Morwenna needed someone loud enough to cut through the manor's deep, ancient quiet.
On a warm morning in early June, when the scent of blooming roses drifted through the open windows, Morwenna stood at the kitchen counter on her small wooden stool. Both of her hands were buried deep in a ceramic bowl of dough. Flour dusted her white hair like early snow and coated her face, her clothes, the counter, and much of the stone floor.
Tilly hovered nearby, his large ears twitching. He wore the resigned expression of someone who had accepted that flour in every crevice was simply the price of letting the child continue her work.
Saoirse leaned against the doorway, watching the scene with quiet amusement.
"You are getting better at that," she said.
Morwenna looked up, her expression as serious as if she were performing a ritual. She considered the statement for a heartbeat.
"Yes," she said, then returned to her kneading.
The dough had long since been worked more than strictly necessary. It was smooth, elastic, and likely perfect for the oven. She had started making bread for her French grandfather while he was here, and even though he was far away in France, she continued the habit. Now she made it for everyone else instead.
Saoirse crossed the kitchen and peered into the bowl.
"That's a lot of bread, isn't it?"
"For everyone," Morwenna said.
"For everyone," Saoirse repeated, a note of warmth in her voice. "Very efficient, that."
Morwenna nodded once and kept kneading, her small hands pressing into the mass with quiet, surprising strength.
. . .
The morning passed in its usual rhythm of breakfast, the garden, and then the library. After lunch came the period of rest, part of the pattern of days when no visitors were expected to arrive.
Morwenna slept less than she once had. Sometimes she lay still in her bed with Cinder curled at her feet, staring at the ceiling while her thoughts remained her own. Sometimes she rose after only a short while and went to find Tilly, who always managed to find some small task for her to do.
That afternoon, she found Jane in the morning room. Her mother was surrounded by a growing stack of letters.
Jane looked up as her daughter appeared in the archway. "Can't sleep, darling?"
Morwenna shook her head. She crossed the room, climbed onto the velvet settee, and settled comfortably beside her. Cinder followed her, arranging his russet body across both their laps with a quiet, contented huff.
Jane set the letters aside on a small table. "What shall we do instead, then?"
Morwenna thought about it, her brow furrowing with effort. She pointed a finger at the window, where the June sunlight lay heavy and golden across the lawn.
"Garden?"
"Too hot just now."
"Lake?"
"Too far for now, I think."
Morwenna thought harder, her concentration visible in the firm set of her jaw.
"Stories?"
"Stories will do nicely."
Jane reached for a book, selecting one of the French illustrated volumes Celestine had left behind. She opened the heavy cover to a page marked with a green silk ribbon.
Morwenna leaned against her mother's side and listened, her eyes fixed on the moving, magical pictures.
It was a story about a girl who followed a white bird into the deep woods and found a house made entirely of bread. It was not a trap or a place of hunger, but a house of genuine warmth; it was a place where she was fed and kept safe.
Morwenna listened without moving a muscle, her breathing falling into the rhythmic cadence of Jane's voice.
When the story ended, she asked, "Like my bread?"
"Like your bread," Jane said. She reached out to smooth a stray strand of white hair back into place. "Perhaps you will build a house of your own one day."
Morwenna looked down at her hands, where faint traces of flour were still visible in the creases of her skin.
"Too small."
"You will grow, Morwenna."
"Yes."
They sat together as the afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, turning the drifting dust motes into flecks of gold. Somewhere in the vast house, Saoirse was likely causing some form of mild disruption.
Morwenna spoke again, her voice quiet. "Gran-ma and Gran-da coming back?"
"Soon."
"When?"
"Soon, I promise."
Morwenna considered that answer carefully. She had heard it many times before. She remembered.
"That's what you said last time."
Jane smiled, the expression soft and knowing. "You remember that, do you?"
"Yes."
"Then you must remember that they came back before."
Morwenna thought about it. She remembered Aldric's deep voice and Seraphina's gentle hands; she held onto small, clear fragments that stayed bright in her mind.
"Yes," she said.
"So they will come back again."
Morwenna nodded, looking satisfied. She leaned more fully against her mother and closed her eyes. She did not sleep, but she rested in the warmth.
. . .
The carriage arrived on a Thursday.
Morwenna heard it first. She caught the distant crunch of heavy wheels on gravel and the steady, rhythmic trot of horses. She was in the library with Saoirse, who was attempting to teach her a card trick that was not working at all. Morwenna's attention was far too precise to be easily fooled.
Her head lifted sharply toward the window.
"What is it?" Saoirse asked.
"Carriage," Morwenna said. She was already sliding from her chair, her feet hitting the floor as she began to run for the door.
Saoirse watched her go, looking surprised. Then she glanced down at Cinder, who had also bolted after the girl.
"Well," she muttered to the empty library, "I suppose that's that, then."
Morwenna reached the entrance hall just as the heavy front door opened.
Aldric stepped inside first. He was tall and broad, and there was more silver at his temples than there had been before. He saw her standing there, and something in his expression shifted instantly.
She did not run to him. She stood perfectly still, watching and taking him in.
He crossed the distance between them quickly and crouched before her on the stone floor.
"Hello, little one."
"Gran-da," she said.
Then she stepped forward and wrapped her small arms tightly around his neck.
He held her; one large hand covered most of her back, steady and certain. He said nothing. He simply held her as she pressed her face against his wool-clad shoulder.
Seraphina entered the hall behind him and stopped dead when she saw them. Her hand lifted briefly to her mouth.
"Oh," she said, her voice soft and full of emotion.
Jane appeared in the archway, with Jack just behind her. Saoirse leaned over the banister from the floor above. No one spoke. The moment held its own weight.
After a time, Morwenna pulled back. She looked at Aldric, then looked past him.
"Gran-ma."
She went to Seraphina and lifted her arms in a silent request.
Seraphina gathered her close at once, pressing a lingering kiss to her hair. "My little girl," she murmured against her curls. "We missed you too."
That evening, the house felt full again.
It was not loud as it had been during the birthday, nor was it crowded. It was simply warm. The silence of the manor softened, edged with the comfort of their presence.
Dinner was served in the morning room. There were six of them: Jack and Jane, Aldric and Seraphina, Saoirse and Morwenna. Cinder waited beneath the table with patient, watchful attention.
Morwenna sat between her grandparents, eating her meal with careful focus and occasionally offering food to no one in particular. She watched the adults speak, following something deeper than the literal meaning of their words.
Aldric spoke of their travels, mentioning places and names that were unfamiliar to her. She listened anyway, storing every detail away.
After dinner, Seraphina brought out her knitting. The wool was dark green and silver, and the pattern was becoming intricate.
Morwenna watched the bone needles move, their quiet click steady and soothing in the room.
"How?"
Seraphina slowed her movements, showing her the exact motion. She showed the loop, the pull, and the forming shape of the garment.
Morwenna reached out to touch the wool. "Soft."
"Yes."
"I want to."
Seraphina studied her for a moment, then reached into her bag and drew out a smaller pair of needles and a spare ball of yarn.
"These are for practice. You won't make anything just yet. You must just learn the motion."
Morwenna took the tools with solemn care. She held them exactly as she had been shown, but the yarn slipped around her fingers, not quite finding the right tension.
She tried.
The needles clicked together. The yarn slipped. Nothing formed.
She tried a second time.
The result was the same.
Her brow furrowed in frustration. She looked at Seraphina's hands, then back at her own.
"Why?"
"Your hands are still small, darling. They need time. You can practice until then."
Morwenna absorbed that logic. Then she tried again, her determination visible in the tightening of her expression.
The needles clicked. The yarn slipped. Nothing formed.
She set them down on the settee.
"Later."
"There is time," Seraphina said gently. "There is time."
. . .
The next morning, Aldric found her in the library, where the early light caught the floating dust motes and turned them into tiny, dancing sparks.
She sat on the polished floorboards with a heavy bestiary open across her lap. Cinder was stretched beside her in a patch of pale, watery light, his russet fur looking almost golden. Her small finger moved from one hand-painted image to the next as she spoke in the sibilant tones of Parseltongue. Her voice was soft and deliberate, each sibilant word shaped with immense care, as if the creatures on the vellum might actually hear her.
Aldric lowered himself into the leather armchair nearby, his joints giving a faint creak. He said nothing. He simply watched the quiet scene, his book resting unopened on his knee.
After a while, Morwenna looked up, her green eyes bright.
"Gran-da."
"Little one."
She turned the heavy book towards him with an effort. It showed a serpent coiled elegantly around a flowering branch, its scales painted in deep emerald and gold.
"Sss," she said. Then, in Parseltongue, her voice hissed softly. "This one is sleeping."
Aldric answered in the same quiet, sibilant language. "It looks peaceful."
"It's." She studied the image a moment longer before looking back at him. "You were gone a long time."
"We were. Did you miss us?"
She nodded, her expression small and serious.
"I counted."
"Counted what?"
She held up her hand, her five fingers spread wide. "This many days. Then more. Then I stopped."
Aldric was silent for a moment, his gaze softening as he looked at her small hand. "Counting only works when you know how many there will be. We didn't know."
"Next time you know?"
"Next time we will tell you before we go. So you can count properly."
She considered that logic, then nodded once. Satisfied, she returned her attention to her book.
Saoirse found them in the garden that afternoon. The air was warm and smelled of damp earth and lavender.
Morwenna walked along the low stone wall bordering the herb beds, her arms stretched out to either side for balance. Her white curls bounced with every step. Aldric walked slowly beside her, one hand ready to catch her, though he never actually needed to use it. Her focus was absolute.
She reached the end of the wall, jumped down with a soft thud onto the grass, and looked up at him.
"Good," she said.
"Very good," Aldric agreed. "You have better balance than your father had at your age."
"Really?"
"Really. He fell straight into the fish pond when he was two."
Morwenna's eyes widened. "Dada?"
"Dada. Straight into the water. The fish were most surprised."
She laughed, the sound bright and clear in the afternoon sun, echoing off the stone walls of the manor.
Saoirse leaned against the greenhouse door, watching them from a distance. She didn't interrupt the moment. She simply observed her brother's daughter laughing and her father watching the child as though nothing else in the world mattered.
That evening, after Morwenna had gone to bed and the nursery was quiet, the adults gathered in the morning room.
The fire burned low in the grate, casting flickering shadows against the wainscoting. Wine rested in their glasses, catching the light like liquid jewels. The quiet between them was easy and familiar.
"She is doing well," Seraphina said. Her bone needles moved in a steady, hypnotic rhythm as she worked the green wool.
Jane nodded, her hands wrapped around a warm cup. "She misses you. But she is doing well."
"Her speech has improved," Aldric observed. "More words. Clearer thoughts."
"She talks to Cinder constantly," Saoirse added, her voice carrying a note of wonder. "In Parseltongue. The fox listens as if he understands every sibilant word."
"Perhaps he does," Aldric said.
They let that thought sit between them for a moment.
Seraphina lowered her knitting slightly. "We should begin thinking about her education."
Jane looked up. "She is only two."
"She is two now. She will be three soon. The first maturity isn't far." Seraphina's tone remained calm and measured. "Not lessons, exactly. A foundation. Exposure. What she needs before her proper learning begins."
Jack leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "What do you suggest?"
"Routine, first. Children learn through structure. The shape of a day, repeated, gives them something steady to hold while their minds grow. Second, exposure to family magic. No instruction yet; just presence. Let her see small things. Candles lit without a flame, plants encouraged to grow, portraits that speak. She will absorb it.
Third, stories. The old ones. Myrddin, Morgana, the founding lines. She won't understand everything yet, but she will recognise the names later. And fourth, physical development. Balance, coordination, fine control. It all feeds into her magic."
Aldric inclined his head in agreement. "Agreed."
Jane listened, then glanced at Jack. He gave a small, affirming nod.
"That sounds reasonable," she said.
"I will take the stories," Seraphina said. "And the knitting. It helps with fine control."
"I will handle the physical side," Saoirse added. "Walks and balance. She likes the wall."
"She does," Aldric said. "I saw her on it today."
Jack looked at his father. "And you?"
Aldric smiled faintly. "I will read to her. In English and Parseltongue. Let her hear the languages used properly."
They sat in the warm firelight, planning for a child who was still small enough to struggle with the buttons on her coat. It felt right.
. . .
The next morning, Morwenna woke to find Seraphina already sitting in the nursery.
She was by the window, her knitting needles clicking in the early grey light, looking as though she had always been there.
Morwenna pushed herself upright, her white hair in soft disarray around her face. Cinder stirred at her feet, stretching his small limbs.
"Gran-ma?"
"Good morning, little one." Seraphina set her work aside on the chair. "Today we begin something new."
Morwenna's eyes widened with curiosity. "What?"
"A routine. A shape for the day. So you always know what comes next."
Morwenna considered that for a moment, then looked towards the window where the sun had just begun to rise over the hills.
"First?"
"First, you dress yourself. As much as you can. Then we have breakfast. After that, we continue."
Morwenna climbed out of bed and stood before the small pile of clothes Jane had laid out for her. She picked up the green dress and studied the fabric. Then she looked at Seraphina.
"Help?"
"A little. Try first."
Morwenna tried.
The dress went over her head, but her arm found the wrong opening in the fabric. She pulled. It didn't move. She pulled harder, her little face tightening with the effort.
Seraphina watched with patient attention without stepping in.
Morwenna stopped. She examined the problem, looking at the fabric, at her arm, and at the shape of the garment.
"Stuck."
"Yes. What happened?"
Morwenna thought about it, then shifted her arm free of the tangle. She realized she had used the wrong opening.
"Oh."
She tried a second time. This time, she found the correct sleeve. The dress slipped into place, slightly crooked but mostly correct. Seraphina crossed the room, straightened the dark green fabric, and fastened the small, intricate buttons.
"Good job," she said.
"I did it."
"You did."
They went down to breakfast together.
. . .
The days gradually took on a new, more deliberate shape.
Mornings belonged entirely to Seraphina. She taught Morwenna small, careful things that required focus and steady hands: how to pour cool water from a heavy ceramic pitcher without letting a single drop spill, how to fold thick linen napkins so the crisp corners aligned perfectly, and how to hold the bone knitting needles so the soft yarn might eventually begin to obey. It rarely did. The wool often tangled or slipped from the smooth tips, yet Morwenna tried anyway, her little face scrunched in a mask of determination.
Afternoons were given over to Saoirse. They spent most of their time outside when the English weather allowed, the air smelling of cut grass and damp earth. They walked down to the edge of the lake, balanced along the low, moss-covered garden walls, and sometimes visited the creature meadow. There, Saoirse often pointed at things Morwenna couldn't yet see.
"Horses," Saoirse said one afternoon, gesturing towards a stretch of empty, swaying green grass.
Morwenna followed her gaze, squinting against the bright sun. There was nothing there but the wind moving through the clover.
"Where?"
"Right there, darling. Standing by the elder tree."
Morwenna looked again, her green eyes searching the empty space. Still nothing.
"No."
Saoirse blinked, then laughed, a bright sound in the open field. "Right. You can't see them yet. That's all right. They are shy."
Morwenna accepted this explanation without any difficulty. Shy, invisible horses fit quite neatly into the manor's internal logic.
Evenings belonged to everyone. They gathered for dinner in the morning room, the candlelight flickering against the dark wood, followed by stories. Sometimes Aldric read from the heavy volumes in English, and sometimes he used the sibilant, rhythmic tones of Parseltongue. Morwenna listened to both languages with her head tilted slightly, absorbing the sounds even when the complex meanings slipped past her.
And each night, before her blankets were tucked in, she stood at the window and looked at the silver moon hanging over the trees.
Jane found her there one evening, the glass cool against the child's forehead.
"Still looking, darling?"
Morwenna nodded once. "Gran-ma sees it too."
"Yes. She does."
"Gran-pere too."
"Yes."
"Elara and Vivi too. Maybe."
"Maybe."
Morwenna was quiet for a long moment, watching a thin cloud drift past the crescent. Then she spoke, her voice steady. "I'm not sad."
Jane knelt on the rug beside her. "No?"
"No. They come back. Gran-da and Gran-ma came back. So the others will too."
Jane studied her daughter's profile—the shock of white hair and those steady, ancient green eyes—and wondered at the quiet certainty that held her world together.
"Yes," Jane said. "They will."
Morwenna nodded, looking satisfied, and went to her bed with Cinder trotting at her heels.
June turned steadily towards July.
The days remained warm, and the gardens bloomed in a riot of colour and scent. Morwenna learned to pour her own juice from the jug, though a small puddle still occasionally missed the cup. She learned to set the long table, placing the napkins one by one with a focused count.
"One for Mama. One for Dada. One for Gran-ma. One for Gran-da. One for Saoirse. One for Mimi."
She counted on her fingers, sometimes skipping a number or repeating one in her haste, but she always finished the task with a proud pat on the last napkin.
She learned to feed Cinder every morning, offering him a choice piece of meat from her own plate. The fennec fox began to wait for her by her chair, his large ears turning with every movement she made as he anticipated his share.
She also learned that if she said "Gran-da" in a certain, firm tone, Aldric would stop whatever he was doing and listen. She used this power carefully.
One afternoon, Aldric found her in the library with the heavy bestiary again.
She sat on the floor with the book open to the gold-scaled serpent, speaking softly in Parseltongue.
He took the armchair nearby and simply listened.
She told the painted serpent about her day. She spoke of the bread she had kneaded that morning and the long walk down to the lake. She mentioned the shy horses she couldn't see and the story Gran-ma had told her over lunch.
When she finally finished her report, she looked up at him.
"Gran-da talk to pictures?"
Aldric considered the question for a moment. "Sometimes. When I was young, I often spoke to the portraits. Some of those pictures—the ones in the hall—are our ancestors. They watch us."
Morwenna glanced towards the open door, looking towards the long corridor beyond.
"They watch me?"
"All the time, little one."
She thought about that, her expression turning thoughtful as she processed the idea of a permanent audience.
"That's a lot of watching."
Aldric laughed, the sound low and warm in the quiet, book-filled room.
"Yes," he said. "It is."
. . .
On the last day of June, Morwenna stood at the kitchen counter with Saoirse. The morning air was thick with the scent of yeast and the fine, floating dust of white flour that seemed to coat every available surface.
They were making bread together. Or rather, Morwenna was making the bread, and Saoirse was assisting only when she was explicitly instructed to do so.
"More flour," Morwenna said, her voice small but commanding.
Saoirse reached for the sack and added a careful dusting of flour to the sticky mass.
"More water."
Saoirse tipped a small ceramic jug, letting a thin stream of water vanish into the well of the dough.
"Mix."
Saoirse leaned back against the counter and watched as Morwenna began to mix the ingredients with steady, rhythmic determination. Her small palms pressed into the dough, her white curls bouncing with every shove.
"You are very bossy," Saoirse said, her eyes bright with amusement.
"What is bossy?"
"Telling people what to do."
Morwenna considered that definition for a heartbeat. She looked down at the pale dough, then back up at Saoirse.
"More flour," she said firmly.
Saoirse laughed, a bright sound that echoed against the stone walls, and obliged her niece's request.
The bread turned out well. They ate it at dinner while it was still warm from the oven, the golden crust crackling as Jack sliced into it. Butter melted instantly into the soft, steaming crumb. Morwenna watched everyone as they took their first tastes, her attention fixed on their expressions with an unblinking intensity.
"Good?" she asked, her fork poised.
"Very good," Jack said, nodding his approval.
"Good," Jane agreed, smiling at her daughter.
"Delicious, darling," Seraphina said.
"Excellent," Aldric added, his voice warm.
Morwenna nodded once, looking satisfied with the consensus, and finally began to eat her own piece.
After dinner, the family moved to the morning room. Morwenna sat on the settee between her grandparents. Seraphina worked on her knitting, the soft, rhythmic click of the bone needles sounding steady and calm in the quiet room. Aldric read his book, which rested open in his large hands.
Morwenna held her bestiary across her lap. She wasn't reading the text. She traced the hand-painted pictures instead, her small finger following the curve of a serpent's spine. She whispered to the images in Parseltongue, her voice low and thoughtful as she shared her secrets.
The fire burned low in the grate, casting a warm, flickering amber light across the rugs. Cinder lay asleep at her feet, his russet fur glowing in the hearth light.
Seraphina looked up from her work and met Aldric's gaze over the child's head. No words passed between them. None were needed in that moment. This peace was the very reason they had returned.
That night, before she climbed into bed, Morwenna stood at the nursery window.
Jane found her there, her small forehead pressed against the glass.
"The moon again, darling?"
Morwenna nodded. "Big tonight."
It was indeed a grand moon. It hung full and pale over the treeline, casting a silver sheen across the dark gardens.
"Gran-ma sees it," Morwenna said softly. "Gran-pere too."
"Yes. They do."
Morwenna was quiet for a moment, watching the stars. Then she spoke, her voice steady. "I'm glad they came back."
Jane knelt on the rug beside her. "Me too."
"I missed them."
"I know you did."
"But they came back."
"Yes. They did."
Morwenna looked at the silver moon a little longer, then turned and climbed into her bed. Cinder leapt up after her, circling once before curling into a ball at her feet.
Jane tucked the heavy covers around her and kissed her forehead.
"Goodnight, Morwenna."
"Goodnight, Mama."
Jane paused at the doorway and looked back into the dim room. Morwenna was already asleep, her breathing deep and even. One small hand rested securely in Cinder's soft fur.
Jane closed the door quietly and went to find Jack.
He was in the study. He wasn't working; he was simply sitting in his chair and watching the low fire.
"Is she all right?" he asked as Jane entered.
Jane took the seat opposite him. "She is fine. More than fine."
Jack waited for her to continue.
"She stood at the window, looking at the moon. She said she was glad they came back." Jane paused, her eyes reflecting the embers. "She is only two, Jack. And she already understands that people leave and return. She understands that missing them doesn't mean they are gone forever."
Jack was silent for a moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. Then he spoke. "She gets that from you."
Jane let out a soft, tired laugh. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."