Early February arrived with a brittle kind of frost that clung stubbornly to the windowpanes well past midday, turning the glass into opaque sheets of silver.
Morwenna woke to a world edged in white.
The nursery windows were laced with delicate, fern-like patterns, fine as embroidery and crystalline under the pale morning light. This frost wasn't hers. It came from the earth itself; a quiet, steady cold rather than the sharp, reactive kind her magic produced when she was startled or upset.
She slipped out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the thick, soft pile of the rug, and padded quietly over to the window. Cinder followed close behind, his dark fur a stark contrast to the pale floorboards. He leaped onto the sill in one fluid motion, pressing his small, pink nose against the cold glass.
She placed her palm flat against the pane.
Cold bit into her skin at once, sharp enough to make her breath catch in her throat. The chill crept up her arm, numbing and steady as it worked its way toward her elbow. She held her hand there and began to count, just as Seraphina had shown her during their quiet lessons.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
She pulled her hand away, the skin of her palm tingly and flushed a dull red.
Nothing changed.
No new frost spread beneath her touch. Only the faint, damp print of her palm remained for a fleeting second before the ambient cold reclaimed the glass, erasing the mark of her heat. She turned her hand over, studying the small lines of her palm carefully, then looked back at the intricate frozen ferns on the window.
Behind her, the heavy wooden door creaked open on its hinges.
"You are awake early, little one," Seraphina said.
Morwenna turned to face her. "The frost is real today."
"Yes. Winter is still here. It's not ready to leave just yet."
"My frost isn't here."
Seraphina crossed the room, her long robes whispering softly against the floor. She knelt on the rug and took Morwenna's hand, warming the chilled fingers gently between her own palms.
"Your frost will come when it needs to be seen. This belongs to the world. It's a different kind of cold."
Morwenna considered that, her brow furrowing in thought. "The world's frost is pretty."
"It's," Seraphina said.
Morwenna looked at her for a moment, the quiet of the room settled around them, then asked, "Can we have breakfast now?"
Seraphina smiled faintly, her expression softening. "We can."
Breakfast was thick porridge topped with a slow drizzle of golden honey that pooled in the center.
Morwenna ate slowly, her silver spoon moving in small, careful circles as she mixed the sweetness into the oats. Jane sat across from her, a fresh letter held in one hand while her tea sat untouched, the steam rising in thin, disappearing curls. The fire burned steadily in the hearth, sending a dry warmth into the room while the grey, winter light filtered through the frosted windows.
When she finished the last bite, Morwenna picked up her empty bowl and carried it across the kitchen to the counter.
It was a new habit she had formed over the last week. No one had asked her to do it.
Tilly took the bowl with both hands, his large, bat-like ears twitching with every movement. "Thank you, little miss," he said, his voice bright and chirpy in the morning air.
Morwenna gave the elf a small, solemn nod.
She returned to the table and reached for the juice pitcher. It was made of heavy, thick glass, and she had to use both hands to steady the weight. Slowly, carefully, she tipped the spout. The orange juice filled her cup, rising to the brim without spilling a single drop onto the tablecloth.
She looked at the full cup, then at her steady hands, and gave a small, satisfied nod to herself.
Jane watched the display over the edge of her letter, a spark of pride in her eyes. "You did that perfectly, ma chérie."
Morwenna considered the cup again. "Yes."
She climbed back into her chair and drank in small, measured sips. Cinder slipped out from under the table and settled his weight against her feet, his body heat seeping through her thick wool socks.
Jane finally set the letter down on the table. "It's from Gran-ma Celestine."
Morwenna looked up, her interest piqued. "What does it say?"
"She sends her love. Elle demande comment tu vas (She asks how you are)."
"I'm good."
"I will tell her that," Jane promised.
Morwenna nodded, satisfied with the exchange, and finished the rest of her juice.
In the library, Aldric sat surrounded by books stacked high enough to form small, imposing walls around his workspace.
The polished mahogany table had entirely disappeared beneath the weight of the volumes. Open books lay sprawled across closed ones, their yellowed pages marked with various slips of parchment. Loose sheets were covered in complex diagrams; circles layered over circles, intersecting lines, and ancient symbols pulled from traditions that most modern wizards no longer studied.
He was looking for runes.
Not the sort used in common charms or the elementary lessons taught at Hogwarts. These were older and far more permanent. They were meant to be carved into skin, not stone.
His quill moved slowly across a sheet of fresh parchment, copying a diagram from a text so fragile that the paper threatened to crumble under his touch. The rune itself was deceptively simple. Three lines meeting at a single central point. Protective. Foundational. Every Keith child bore it as their first mark.
He set the quill aside and rubbed at his tired eyes, the strain of the small script taking its toll.
The fire in the hearth burned steadily, filling the room with a dry warmth and the faint, comforting scent of old leather and settled dust.
Outside, the grey light filtered through the tall windows, catching the slow drifting of motes in the stagnant air.
He reached for another book.
This one was newer, only about two centuries old. It contained the meticulous notes of a Keith ancestor who had experimented with various runic combinations to better suit different temperaments. Aldric turned to a heavily marked page in the center of the book.
Three distinct sets had been circled in dark ink.
The first was the traditional array. Seven runes. Low pain. It was proven and reliable, but broad in its application. It worked for any Keith child, regardless of their specific magical lineage.
The second was experimental. Twelve runes, designed specifically for children with multiple inheritances. It promised better channeling of volatile magic, but the notes warned of a significant cost. The text mentioned a child with mixed blood who had undergone the ritual. The result had been successful.
However, the process hadn't been gentle.
The third set was a hybrid of the two.
It took the seven protective runes from the first set and added three selective channeling runes from the second. Ten runes in total. Moderate pain, at least in theory. It had never been tested on a living subject, but the notes suggested the underlying design was sound and balanced.
Aldric stared at the page, the ink stark against the cream paper.
Protection. Channeling. Balance.
He began writing his own notes in the margins, weighing each option against the others. Pain. Recovery time. Risk of rejection.
Time passed in the quiet of the library without him noticing.
At some point, Tilly appeared with a tray of fresh tea. Aldric only realised the elf was there when the porcelain cup touched the table beside his elbow. He glanced up, nodded absently to the empty air, and returned to his work.
. . .
Saoirse found Morwenna in the hallway shortly after breakfast.
The child already had her heavy cloak on and was waiting by the door.
"Creature meadow," Saoirse said, her voice low and steady. "Come along."
Morwenna was ready at once. She adjusted the clasp of her forest-green cloak and shifted her heavy boots, which thudded loudly against the stone floor as she moved. She grabbed Cinder's carrying pouch from its hook on the wall; it was empty, but she liked the familiar weight of it against her hip.
They crossed the garden together.
The snow from the previous week had begun to melt in uneven patches, leaving behind streaks of dark mud and flattened, yellowed grass. The air was cold, though it felt softer and damper than it had earlier that morning. Morwenna's breath puffed out in small, white clouds as she stepped carefully around the deeper puddles, her boots making a wet squelching sound in the damp earth.
At the edge of the meadow, Saoirse came to a halt.
Morwenna looked out across the field.
There was nothing obvious to see. Just the grey winter grass and the skeletal, bare branches of the trees at the far end.
"They are there," Saoirse said quietly, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance.
Morwenna narrowed her eyes, squinting against the flat light. "Where?"
"Right there. Three of them today."
Morwenna tilted her head, searching the empty air.
At first, she saw absolutely nothing.
Then she felt it.
It was a warmth, but not like the heat of the fire or the direct prickle of sunlight. It was something heavier. It felt alive.
She lifted a small finger and pointed toward a cluster of trees. "There."
Saoirse glanced down at her, a look of genuine impression crossing her features. "That's exactly where they are."
Morwenna kept her finger pointed, tracking a slight movement only she seemed to sense. "They feel like Cinder. But bigger."
"Warmer?"
"Yes."
Saoirse watched her carefully, noting the way the child didn't blink. "Anything else?"
Morwenna concentrated, her face tightening slightly as she reached out with her senses. The warmth stayed steady and calm, like a slow heartbeat.
"No."
"That's enough for today."
They remained there for a while in the stillness.
Morwenna kept her hand raised, feeling the unseen presence of the creatures. The wind moved softly through the bare branches, and somewhere in the distance, a lone bird called out.
At last, she lowered her hand and tucked it back into the folds of her cloak. "Can we go closer?"
"No. They would leave."
"Why?"
"They don't like people they don't know," Saoirse explained.
Morwenna looked out once more toward the warmth. It was still there, quiet and patient.
She nodded to herself. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Saoirse agreed.
. . .
Jack found Aldric in the library after lunch.
The table was even more crowded than it had been in the morning. The papers had seemingly multiplied, with diagrams layered over one another in a chaotic sprawl. Aldric sat in the middle of it all, his hair slightly disordered from running his fingers through it, a cup of cold, forgotten tea sitting at his side.
"Father, you have been here all morning," Jack said, his voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room.
"And most of the afternoon," Aldric replied, his eyes never leaving the parchment.
"Sit down. Look at this."
Jack pulled a heavy chair closer to the table. Aldric pushed three sheets of parchment toward him.
"Set A is the traditional array. Seven runes. Low pain. Reliable."
Jack studied the diagrams with a grim familiarity. He carried those same runes, etched into his own skin years ago. They had faded into thin, silver lines over time, but he could still feel the phantom hum of them if he pressed his fingers firmly to his arm.
"Set B is experimental," Aldric continued, his voice dropping an octave. "Twelve runes. Designed for multiple lineages. High pain. Complex."
Jack leaned in slightly, reading the annotations in the margin. "The notes say it worked, but the child…"
He paused, his finger tapping the base of the page.
"The child screamed through every session."
Jack's jaw tightened, a hard line forming in his face. "No. We aren't doing that."
"We aren't considering it. It's merely context for the third option."
Aldric pushed the final sheet forward. "Set C. The hybrid."
Jack studied the new configuration.
"Seven protective runes from Set A. Three channeling runes from Set B. Ten in total. Moderate pain, at least in theory. It was never tested, but the design is sound."
Jack traced one of the unfamiliar symbols with his eyes. The protective runes were a part of him, but these others were different. They were made of curved lines mixed with sharp, aggressive angles that seemed to shift slightly the longer he looked at them.
"Which channeling runes?"
Aldric pointed to the symbols one by one. "This one for Veela traits. This for Lethifold. And this one…" He tapped the final rune. "General. It helps the body accept multiple magical sources without rejection."
Jack leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "Ten runes."
"And moderate pain."
Jack was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the diagram of his daughter's future. "She is only two."
"She will be three in April."
"She just had a fever that frightened all of us, Father."
Aldric met his son's gaze. "I know. That's why we are doing this now. So we have the time to be certain."
Jack said nothing for a while. The fire shifted softly in the hearth, a log settling with a muffled thud and sending a brief flare of orange sparks dancing upward into the chimney. "What do you recommend?"
Aldric looked down at the three sheets of parchment again.
Set A: steady, proven, and familiar.
Set B: too harsh to even consider.
His eyes rested on Set C, the ink lines sharp and deliberate.
"We keep watching her. We keep researching. We don't need to decide today." He paused, then added more quietly, "But if I had to choose now, I would choose Set C. It gives her stability without crushing her spirit."
They sat together in the library for a long time, surrounded by the heavy weight of centuries and the scent of old paper, trying to choose the right path for one small child.
. . .
Seraphina found Morwenna in the morning room, seated on the floor near the knitting basket.
The smaller wooden needles had been pulled free, along with a messy ball of practice yarn that was slightly scratchy to the touch. Morwenna sat with them, Cinder curled into a ball of dark fur at her side, trying very carefully to make the needles behave.
Seraphina paused in the doorway, watching the scene.
Morwenna's brow was drawn tight with a toddler's fierce concentration. The tip of her tongue rested at the corner of her mouth, peeking out as she worked. She held the needles just as she had been shown, one in each small hand, the yarn looped clumsily over her index finger. She tried to slide one needle beneath the other, her movements jerky and unsure.
The yarn slipped free, the loop disappearing.
She tried again, her breath coming in a small huff of frustration.
It slipped again.
She set the needles in her lap and stared at them for a long moment, her eyes narrowed as if considering whether they had betrayed her on purpose. Then she picked them up with renewed determination and tried once more.
This time, something caught.
The yarn held steady against the wood.
One loop stayed in place. Another formed beside it, pulled tight by her small fingers. Two stitches rested on the needle, uneven and a bit lumpy, but unmistakably real.
Morwenna froze, staring at her work with wide eyes.
Seraphina crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside her. "You did it."
Morwenna looked up, her face lighting up. "I did?"
"Two stitches. Look closely at them."
Morwenna looked again. Two loops. They were slightly messy, one looser than the other, but they were there.
"I did it," she said, a quiet sense of wonder in her voice.
"You did."
She looked between the needles and Seraphina, her small hands still gripping the wood tightly. "More practice?"
"Tomorrow," Seraphina said gently, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind the girl's ear. "That's enough for today."
Morwenna nodded. She set the needles down with great care on the rug, making sure the stitches stayed in place, then reached over to pat Cinder's head. "Tomorrow," she told him.
Cinder's ears twitched at the sound of her voice.
. . .
That evening, Morwenna told the family about the meadow during dinner.
"I felt them," she said, her voice clear. She sat between Jane and Jack, her chair pulled close to the table so she could reach her plate. "In the meadow. Saoirse said they were there, and I felt them."
Jack set his fork down against the porcelain with a soft clink. "Felt them how?"
"Warm. Like Cinder. But bigger." She glanced at Saoirse for confirmation. "There were three."
Saoirse nodded, her expression serious. "Three. She pointed exactly where they were standing in the grass."
Aldric and Seraphina exchanged a brief, meaningful look across the table.
Jane noticed the silence that followed, her gaze moving between them.
Morwenna returned to her food, unaware of the tension. She ate her potatoes one piece at a time, dipping each into the pool of gravy with careful attention.
After dinner, she went to the library with Aldric.
He sat in his usual chair and read while she sat on a cushion with her bestiary open across her lap, turned to the page with the great serpent. Her finger traced the colorful illustration as she whispered softly in Parseltongue, the sound low and sibilant, a series of rhythmic hisses.
Aldric watched her over the top of his book without interrupting.
She didn't notice him. She was entirely absorbed in the shape of the creature, following each curve of its painted body with quiet focus. Cinder sat beside her on the floor, his ears angled toward the strange, whispering sounds.
When she finished, she looked up and met Aldric's gaze.
"Gran-da."
"Little one."
"I was talking to the serpent."
"I heard you."
"It's still sleeping," she said, her voice matter-of-fact.
"Yes. You told me that before."
"It's still sleeping now."
"Some serpents sleep for a very long time, Morwenna."
"How long?"
"For years. For decades. Some for centuries," Aldric explained.
Morwenna considered that carefully, her head tilting to the side. "That's a very long nap."
"It is."
She seemed satisfied with the answer. She closed the heavy book, the cover making a soft thump as it settled, and let it rest in her lap while she stared into the dancing flames of the fire.
"Gran-da."
"Yes?"
"When I'm big, will I have a bestiary of my own?"
"You will have many books. More than you can count."
"More than this library?"
Aldric smiled faintly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Perhaps not more than this entire library. But many."
Morwenna accepted this as a fair trade. She slid down from her chair, gave Cinder a gentle pat on his flank, and walked toward the door. "Goodnight, Gran-da."
"Goodnight, little one."
She disappeared into the hall, Cinder following close behind her heels.
. . .
Later, after Morwenna had been tucked into bed, they gathered again in the morning room.
The fire burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls. Jane held a cup of tea between both hands, the liquid long since gone cold. Jack sat beside her, his expression set and hard.
Jane spoke first, her voice barely above a whisper. "She felt them. The thestrals. She pointed exactly where they were."
"She did," Saoirse said, leaning against the mantel.
"That isn't normal. Even for us."
"No," Aldric agreed. "It isn't."
Jack leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "What does it mean?"
Aldric was quiet for a moment, listening to the crackle of the dying fire. "Her perception is sharpening. The fever may have accelerated it, or this may simply be her natural development."
"Is it good or bad?" Jack asked.
"It's neither. It's information."
He looked at Jane, his gaze steady. "It means she is sensitive to what lies beyond the physical. That will matter. Especially for the blood rituals."
Jane set her cup down on the low table. "We already decided. Gentle. Slow. Few runes."
"Yes."
"Then what are we still deciding?"
Aldric reached for his papers and spread them across the table. "Which runes. Not all serve the same purpose. Some protect. Some channel. Some stabilise."
He tapped the diagrams with his finger. "I narrowed it to three sets."
Jack leaned closer. "Show her."
Aldric explained them again, his voice calm and clinical. The traditional set. The experimental one they had dismissed at once. And finally, the hybrid.
Jane studied the diagrams. The symbols meant little to her, but the numbers were clear.
Ten runes.
Moderate pain.
"Moderate," she repeated softly, the word tasting bitter. "Compared to what?"
Aldric hesitated. "Compared to the more extreme arrays. Compared to what an older child might endure. It's more than the traditional set. But the traditional set doesn't account for her lineages."
"The Veela. The Lethifold," Jane murmured.
She traced one of the shapes lightly with her fingernail. "And the pain? Truly moderate?"
"She will feel it," Aldric said, choosing his words with care. "She will know something is happening. But at her age, with ten runes in a single session, it will be bearable. More a deep numbness. A dull ache. Not sharp pain."
Jane nodded, though the tension in her shoulders didn't ease.
Then she asked, very quietly, "When it happens… where will I be?"
Aldric met her eyes. "In the same room. A few metres away. Close enough to see her clearly. Far enough that you don't interfere with the magic."
"I can't hold her."
"No. The runes will keep her still. It's for her safety."
Jane stared at the fire for a moment, her eyes reflecting the glowing embers. Then she looked down at her hands. "I have to watch," she said under her breath. "while she goes through something I can't share."
Jack reached for her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. She held on tightly.
Saoirse spoke up, her tone steady and grounded. "It isn't as bad as it sounds. Not at her age. The first one is mild. And you will be there. She will see you."
"She will see me," Jane said. "But she won't be able to reach me."
"She will know you are there. That matters."
Jane looked at her. At the silver in Saoirse's hair and the quiet certainty in her expression.
"You went through it."
"Nine times."
"Did it help?"
Saoirse paused, reflecting on years of history. "Yes. More than anything else."
Jane nodded slowly. She leaned against Jack, drawing what strength she could from his presence.
Aldric gathered the papers back into his hands, his movements efficient. "We don't have to decide tonight. We will keep watching her. We will learn more before April."
Jane nodded again, though she didn't speak.
After a while, the room fell quiet, and one by one, they went to bed.