The days after the trip to the lake settled into something softer and more deliberate as the season turned.
November leaned against the manor windows with its heavy grey light and the quiet, sharp bite of frost. Each morning, Morwenna woke to that dim glow and went straight to the glass, her small feet silent on the rug. Some days, the panes were laced with thin, brittle frost that melted into slow trails of water as soon as the pale sun reached them. Other days, the window was clear and cold enough to sting her skin.
She pressed her hand to the glass anyway, flattening her small palm against the freezing surface and waiting with unblinking intensity.
Nothing happened.
One morning, a full week after the visit to the island, she lingered longer than usual. Her breath spread across the glass in a thick, cloudy bloom that obscured the garden. When she pulled her hand away, it left only a damp, fleeting imprint that faded almost at once into the transparency of the pane.
Behind her, the quiet, rhythmic clicking of Seraphina's needles filled the room with a steady cadence.
Morwenna turned, her expression faintly troubled. "Gran-ma. It's not coming back."
Seraphina looked up, the orange firelight catching in the silver strands of her hair. The scarf in her lap had grown long, its dark green and silver pattern clear and steady beneath her practiced hands.
"What isn't, little one?"
"The frost. My frost." Morwenna touched her own palm, searching the skin as if for a hidden mark. "The one I made."
Seraphina set the knitting aside on the chair and crossed the room. She knelt beside the child, the deep cold of the stone floor seeping through her heavy robes.
"It stayed that morning because your magic wanted to be seen," she said gently. "That doesn't happen every time. It comes forward when it has a reason."
Morwenna looked back at the window, then at her hand, and then again at the clear, silent pane.
"When will it have a reason?"
Seraphina glanced briefly at the leaden grey sky outside before answering. "I don't know. That's something between you and your magic. But it will return when there is something important to say."
Morwenna frowned slightly, her jaw set as she thought hard. "How does it know?"
"How does what know?"
"The magic. How does it know what is important?"
Seraphina was quiet for a moment. Then she took Morwenna's hand and turned it over, studying the small, pale palm in the morning light.
"Because it's part of you," she said, her thumb brushing gently over Morwenna's knuckles. "The same way your hand knows to reach for a cup. The same way your eyes turn toward the light. Your magic feels what you feel. When something matters enough, it answers."
Morwenna watched her own hand as she slowly curled her fingers into a fist, then opened them again, watching the blood return to her skin.
"Does it feel everything?"
"Yes. But it only shows itself when it needs to. The rest of the time, it waits."
"Waiting for what?"
"For you to truly need it."
Morwenna nodded slowly, accepting that as a fundamental fact of her existence. She gave the window one last, searching look, then turned away to dress in the soft wool clothes Tilly had left out on the chair.
. . .
The days slipped into a steady, grounding rhythm that held the manor together.
Mornings belonged to Seraphina. There was porridge first, steam rising from the bowl in thin curls scented with honey, then the careful, slow work of getting dressed. Morwenna could pour her own juice now without spilling, most of the time. She helped set the long table, placing the heavy linen napkins one by one and counting softly as she went.
"One for Mama. One for Dada. One for Gran-ma. One for Gran-da. One for Saoirse. One for Mimi."
The numbers wavered and tangled in the middle, but every seat was eventually set with precision.
The knitting needles rested in a basket by the hearth. She picked them up almost every day, her small face scrunched in concentration. The yarn slipped from the bone tips. The needles clicked together with a dull sound. Nothing held.
She would set them down with a sigh.
And she would try again the next morning.
Seraphina never rushed her or offered to do it for her.
One morning, Morwenna held the needles up to the light, examining the smooth surfaces with careful suspicion. "Why won't it work?"
Seraphina set aside her own work for a moment. "Your hands are still growing, darling. The movements are difficult for small fingers. Keep trying. The trying matters more than the result."
Morwenna looked down at her hands, turning them over thoughtfully as she inspected her fingers. "When will they be big enough?"
"Soon. Everything comes with time."
She nodded, taking that in, and returned the needles to the wicker basket without a word of complaint.
Afternoons were spent with Saoirse. The garden had fallen quiet under November's heavy weight, the branches of the oaks bare and the grass dulled to a brownish-grey, waiting for the first snow. They walked to the creature meadow, where Saoirse would gesture toward the empty, wind-swept space and speak about the horses that lived there.
Morwenna still couldn't see them, but she didn't question their presence.
She stood at the edge of the meadow, her head tilted slightly as though she were listening for a sound just out of her reach.
"Can you feel them?" Saoirse asked one afternoon, the biting wind pulling at their heavy coats.
Morwenna paused, considering the sensation. "Warm. Over there." She pointed a finger, her direction precise and unwavering.
Saoirse's eyes widened just a little. "That's exactly where they are standing."
Morwenna nodded once, entirely unsurprised by her own accuracy.
Afterward, they walked along the low garden wall. Her balance had grown steady and sure. That day, she crossed the entire length of the stone without a single stumble, her arms held out like a bird's wings. At the end, she jumped down with a soft thud, looked back at the distance she had covered, and gave a small, satisfied nod.
Evenings gathered everyone together as the dark settled early over the manor.
Dinner was taken in the morning room, followed by stories in the library. Sometimes Aldric read aloud in Parseltongue, the soft, hissing cadence filling the warm, book-lined space. Morwenna listened closely, storing the sounds even if their full meaning slipped past her for now.
Other nights, Seraphina told stories in English, tracing the long, intricate line of the family's past. Names settled into her mind like markers on a map. Edmund Keith. Isolde. Others who watched silently from their painted frames in the corridors.
And each night, before her bedtime, she stood at the nursery window.
Sometimes the moon was there, a thin silver sliver. Sometimes there was only the lake, a darker, brooding shape against the dark of the woods. She no longer pressed her hand to the glass. She simply watched.
. . .
On a cold evening near the end of November, after Morwenna had gone to bed, the adults gathered in the morning room.
The fire burned high in the grate, casting shifting orange light across the stone walls. Glasses of dark wine rested within easy reach, and the quiet felt settled and familiar.
Jane set her cup down on the saucer with a soft click. "We need to talk about April."
Aldric looked up from his heavy book. "Her birthday."
"Her first maturity." Jane's voice stayed steady, though something tighter and more anxious moved beneath it. "It's five months away. We need to decide what kind of ritual she will undergo."
Saoirse stretched her legs toward the fire's heat. "I thought that was settled ages ago. The family performs the standard attunement."
"For most children, yes," Jack said, leaning forward slightly so the light caught his features. "But Morwenna isn't most children."
The fire cracked, a pocket of sap popping and sending sparks lifting briefly before they faded into the soot.
Seraphina's bone needles paused mid-motion. "You are thinking about her potential."
"The Alberich marker," Aldric said, his voice deep.
Jane nodded slowly. "We can't be certain yet. Not until her second maturity at five. But there are signs. The frost on the glass. The control in her accidental magic. The way she looks at things." Her gaze drifted toward the dark staircase. "The way she seems to notice more than she should at her age."
"She is two," Saoirse said. "All toddlers notice strange things."
"No," Aldric replied quietly. "This is different."
Saoirse fell silent, her expression shifting into something more contemplative.
Jack spoke again, his tone serious.
"If she is Alberich, the standard attunement won't be enough. It may even hinder her development. We need to think carefully about what she will need."
Seraphina set her knitting aside on the cushion. "What are our options?"
Jane lifted her hand, counting them out on her fingers. "Attunement. Aligning magic with the physical body. Low pain, stable development, fewer accidental outbursts. Most children receive this."
"Physical enhancement," Jack continued. "Strengthening the body to handle more raw power. Higher pain during the ritual, but greater stamina and resilience later in life."
"Elemental attunement," Aldric added. "Shaping the core toward our lineage traits. Basilisk, phoenix, dragon. Moderate pain, and a much stronger connection to inherited abilities."
Jane glanced at him, her green eyes searching. "And the balanced path. A tailored combination. Moderate to high pain, highly versatile, but it requires absolute precision from the casters."
The fire shifted again, a log settling into the white ash. Outside, the winter wind moved through the bare trees with a low, restless sound.
Saoirse looked toward Jack. "What did you receive?"
"Standard attunement," he said. "It was what suited me best."
"And me?" Saoirse gave a faint, nostalgic grin. "Physical enhancement. I was always going to leave the manor. I needed the strength for it."
Seraphina inclined her head. "We chose based on who you were. Jack needed stability for the Lordship. You needed endurance for the world."
Aldric looked at Jane. "What did the Evans family do for you?"
"Attunement," she said. "The French side of the family is very traditional. They considered elemental attunement—I showed early signs of dragon traits. Temper. Territorial instinct. But they chose the safer path."
Aldric's gaze remained steady and unblinking. "Safer isn't always better."
"No," Jane said quietly. "It isn't."
They sat with that thought for a while, the flickering firelight shifting across their faces, as the weight of the choice began to settle in.
Saoirse was the first to break the heavy silence. Her voice was low and thoughtful as she watched the embers shift in the grate. "So what do we do for Morwenna? We don't even know what she will need yet."
"We observe," Seraphina said, her needles continuing their steady, rhythmic clicking. "We watch her closely between now and April. Her play, her reactions, the very nature of her accidental magic. Every detail matters."
"And we consult," Jane added. She adjusted her position on the settee, her hand resting on the smooth velvet. "The Evans family keeps extensive records. Maman will know what to look for. I will write to her tomorrow."
Aldric inclined his head in a slow, dignified movement. "I will go through the Keith library. There are texts on Alberich cases. They are rare, but they exist. I will begin tonight."
Jack glanced toward his father, the shadows of the room playing across his features. "I will help. The library isn't small."
"We have five months," Aldric said, his voice carrying a resonant certainty. "That's enough time to prepare."
The fire eventually settled into a steady, warm glow. Glasses were refilled with dark wine, and the conversation shifted and lightened. Saoirse spoke of her travels through the rugged mountains of the north, Jane mentioned the progress of the rare blooms in the greenhouses, and a letter from France was passed between them for shared reading.
But beneath the domestic comfort, something had already taken root. Morwenna's first maturity was coming. They would be ready.
The next morning, Morwenna found Jane in the morning room.
Parchment lay spread across the polished table, alongside bottles of dark ink and several intricate wax seals. Jane looked up as the child appeared in the archway, Cinder trotting faithfully at her heels.
"Bbonjour, darling."
Morwenna crossed the room with her usual steady gait and climbed onto the velvet settee beside her mother. Cinder followed, circling once before settling across her lap with a soft, contented huff.
"What is that?"
"A letter," Jane said, her quill resting for a moment. "To Gran-ma Celestine."
Morwenna's eyes widened at the mention. "Gran-ma?"
"In France, yes. I'm telling her about you. About how you are growing."
Morwenna leaned closer, her white curls brushing Jane's arm as she peered at the page. It was filled with the neat, elegant writing she couldn't yet read. "What does it say?"
Jane paused, considering how much to simplify the complex family news. "It says you can pour your own juice now. That you walk along the garden wall without falling. And that you speak to Cinder in Parseltongue."
Morwenna nodded once, looking satisfied with the report. "Good."
"Can I help?"
Jane studied her for a moment. She looked at the shock of white hair, the clear green eyes, and the small hand resting gently against Cinder's russet fur.
"You can add something at the end," Jane said, her voice softening. "Un dessin (a drawing)."
She slid the heavy parchment closer and offered the quill. Morwenna took the tool carefully, holding it exactly as she had seen Jane do. She leaned forward with absolute focus and began to draw. There were lines, circles, and uneven shapes that occupied the bottom corner of the page. It didn't form anything recognizable, but her concentration remained absolute.
When she finished, she set the quill back down on the blotter.
"There."
Jane looked at the abstract scratches. It was impossible to interpret the intent, but Morwenna's expression of pride said enough.
"C'est parfait (it's perfect)," Jane said. "Gran-ma will love it."
Morwenna leaned against her mother's side, looking content. Jane folded the letter with precise movements and sealed it with deep indigo wax. She would send it later, by the fastest owl available in the owlery. For now, she stayed where she was, sitting with her daughter as the morning light slowly spread across the stone floor.
. . .
That afternoon, Jack found Aldric in the library.
The older man sat in his usual leather chair, a thick book open in his lap. He wasn't reading. Instead, his gaze rested on the leaden grey sky beyond the window, where a light mist had begun to settle over the trees.
Jack took the seat opposite his father. "You are thinking about her as well."
Aldric didn't look away from the window. "I'm always thinking about her."
"The ritual."
"What she will need," Aldric said, his voice deep. "And what we will have to give her." He paused, then continued, his voice growing quieter in the hushed library. "There are two written accounts of Alberich cases in the Keith library. Two, in over a thousand years. But there's also a third case. It was never written down. It was passed through the family memory instead."
Jack waited, his hands resting still against the mahogany arms of the chair.
"The first was a girl. Born in 1247. They didn't recognise what she was until her second maturity. They chose the standard attunement for her first."
"And?"
"She survived the ritual. But her magic never settled properly. There was too much power and no proper channel to guide it. She lived like a storm held inside glass." Aldric's voice remained even, though the weight of the history was clear. "She died at twenty-three."
The room felt significantly quieter after that.
"The second was a boy. 1522. They recognised the signs earlier, much as we have. They chose physical enhancement, hoping to strengthen his body enough to hold the power."
"Did it help?"
"It helped more than the first," Aldric said. "He lived to sixty. He had control of his gifts. But it came at a high cost. The different strands of magic pulled against each other constantly. He was in constant pain. Always watchful. He never married. He refused to pass that burden on to anyone else."
Jack looked down at his hands, the orange firelight shifting across his knuckles.
"And the third?"
"1608. A girl." Aldric finally turned to face his son. "Her family chose differently. They used a continental ritual. It was something adapted specifically for her needs. Not pure attunement, and not pure enhancement. It was a balance between the two."
Jack held his gaze, his expression unreadable. "And?"
"She lived to three hundred and twelve," Aldric said, the number sounding like a vow. "She married. She had many children. She led the house for two centuries. Her line remained strong, and it produced more Alberich markers after her."
A heavy silence settled again, more profound this time. Jack leaned back slightly, his eyes drifting across the rows of books. The fire cast a low, flickering amber glow, the volumes standing in quiet rows as if they were listening to the disclosure of their secrets.
"Do we know what the ritual was?"
Aldric shook his head slowly. "The record describes what it achieved, not what it was called. It was clearly something from the continent, altered for her. They chose not to write down the details. They believed it was too dangerous. In the wrong hands, or if it were used on the wrong child..." His voice faded into the shadows of the room.
Jack looked back at him.
"But it worked."
"It worked. For her." Aldric met his son's gaze, his eyes unblinking and serious. "Whether it would work for another is what we must determine. The Evans archives may hold something. The Beaumont family as well. Or..." He paused briefly, his fingers tapping the arm of his chair. "There are older places. Quieter ones. We have time to search."
Jack nodded slowly. His hands rested on his knees, feeling heavier than they had only moments before. Five months stretched ahead of them; it was a span long enough to prepare, and yet it felt like not nearly long enough.
"Five months."
"Five months," Aldric repeated. His voice was as measured as the clock's faint ticking down the hall. "It's enough."
Jack inclined his head.
"We will use the time," Aldric continued. "We will study. We will watch her. And when the moment comes, we will decide."
"Five months."
"Five months." Aldric's gaze returned to the window. "It's enough."
. . .
December arrived with a sharper kind of cold; it was a cleaner, more piercing chill than the dampness of November.
White frost clung thicker to the leaded windows now, lingering well into the afternoon before the sun could thaw it. Along the lake's edges, a thin sheet of ice had formed. It was pale and fragile, cracking with a sound like shattering glass. The gardens had gone still, their vibrant colours drained into quiet, wintery browns beneath the season's heavy weight.
Morwenna noticed the change at once.
"Cold," she said one morning, her small forehead pressed against the nursery window.
"Yes," Seraphina replied from behind her. "Winter has arrived."
"What is winter?"
"The coldest part of the year. The days grow short, and the nights grow long."
Morwenna looked up at the heavy, leaden sky. "How long?"
"The longest night is coming. The solstice. It's when the dark lasts longer than any other night."
Morwenna thought about that for a moment, her brow furrowed. "Then it gets lighter?"
"After that, yes. The sun returns little by little. Each day brings a bit more light."
Morwenna nodded. She placed her hand against the glass, not expecting the magic to respond this time, only feeling the biting cold. It remained just that, cold. She pulled her hand away and went to find her woollen dress.
That evening, during dinner, Aldric spoke as the candles flickered in the draft.
"The solstice is in two weeks. We will celebrate Yule."
Morwenna looked up from her plate at once. "What is Yule?"
"An old tradition," Aldric said. A faint smile touched his mouth. "Older than Christmas. Older than the manor itself. We mark the longest night by staying awake until dawn."
"All night?"
"All night. We keep the fire burning, tell stories, and wait for the sun to return."
"No sleep?"
"No sleep." He paused, glancing briefly at Jane. "Though you may fall asleep if you must. That's allowed."
Morwenna turned to Saoirse. "You too?"
Saoirse grinned, her dark eyes flashing with mischief. "I have done it before. Once, I fell asleep halfway through one of Grandfather's stories. Father has never let me forget it."
"I don't." Aldric said, though a quiet light remained in his eyes.
"You absolutely do, Father."
Morwenna laughed, a bright sound, her white curls bouncing.
Two weeks until Yule. Four months until April.
Beneath the table, Jane reached for Jack's hand. He closed his fingers firmly.
That night, after Morwenna had gone to bed and the nursery was silent, Jane sat alone in the library.
The fire had burned low, the embers glowing like rubies in the grate. On the mahogany desk before her lay the blue journal. It was still locked and it was still waiting. She had not opened it in months; there had been no need to look back.
But tonight, her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
She thought of Harry Potter. He was a boy with her eyes, growing up somewhere far beyond her reach. She thought of Lily, whose face she had never seen in life, only imagined through fragmented stories and memory. It was that same shade of green that bound them all together.
Morwenna had those eyes. The same blood. The same quiet, waiting magic.
Jane lifted a hand, her fingers brushing her own eyelid. Green. Always green.
Four months remained until Morwenna's first maturity. Two years remained until they would have certainty. Nine years remained until Harry stepped into this world.
She closed her eyes. After a while, she stood and crossed to the window. Outside, the night lay perfectly still. The moon hung thin and pale in the velvet sky.
La même lune.
She remained there until the fire faded into grey embers. Then she went to bed.