April came in quietly, without the sharp break winter had hinted at in the weeks before. The air softened first, losing its bite and carrying the scent of damp soil and something faintly alive beneath the surface. It was a heavy, sweet smell of waking earth and thawing roots.
Snow clung only where the sun refused to reach, tucked deep under the hedges and along the coldest edges of the garden. The paths shifted with the season, thick mud at first that pulled at the soles of shoes, then drying into cracked lines, and finally giving way to thin blades of green pushing through at the borders.
Morwenna visited the snowdrops every morning.
Her small boots left shallow impressions in the soft earth as she crossed the garden, her white hair catching the pale spring light. The flowers had multiplied since the day before. Seven. Nine. Twelve. They were scattered milk across the dark soil, small white stars that had fallen and simply decided not to leave. Her green eyes scanned the patch, bright and searching.
She counted them on her fingers, brow furrowed in deep concentration. Her lips moved around numbers that slipped and tangled halfway through. One flower became four, another six, but the exact count mattered less than the certainty that there were more than yesterday.
"Growing," she told Lucien.
He was crouched near the herb bed, his long fingers brushing gently over rosemary and thyme that had survived the winter by sheer stubbornness. A thin, vibrant green showed at their base now. He glanced up at her voice, his expression soft and his features glowing with a subtle, melodic grace.
"Yes," he said, his voice carrying a light, singing lilt that seemed to vibrate in the quiet air.
"Like me."
He rose and crossed the damp grass, then crouched beside her. Warmth spread from him, steady and comforting, taking the edge off the morning chill.
"Like you."
She looked at the flowers again, then down at her hands. She turned them over, studying the faint lines across her palms with a curious tilt of her head.
"More me," she said. "Tomorrow."
Lucien paused, watching her. The wind moved through the bare branches above them, a quiet whisper that ruffled his hair. He took her hands in his, his skin warm against the cool morning air.
"Oui. More you tomorrow."
She accepted that easily, as if it had always been a fundamental truth of the world.
. . .
The manor shifted as the days passed.
Tilly moved through the halls, a whirlwind of energy appearing in doorways with long lists clutched in his small hands. His ears trembled constantly, his eyes darting from one detail to the next as he checked the inventory. He muttered under his breath, counting, correcting, and starting again.
Morwenna found him one morning in the kitchen, standing over a flour-dusted counter covered in sketches of fox-shaped cakes. The room was warm, smelling of yeast and sweet butter.
She climbed onto her stool, the wooden legs scraping softly against the stone floor.
"Little miss!" Tilly straightened at once, his large eyes wide. "Tilly needs help."
She studied the drawings with serious focus. One fox was round and soft. Another had sharp angles and a stern expression. The last one had too many legs and an uncertain shape.
"This." She tapped the round one.
"Excellent choice." Tilly nodded vigorously, already writing it down with a quill that seemed too large for him. "Tilly thought so as well."
"What colour?"
"Purple, violet, and white. Like the little miss said."
"Yes."
She stayed to watch.
Flour drifted into the air as he measured, settling across the counter and dusting his nose. He added ingredients she didn't recognise; silver-specked herbs that shimmered in the light and golden liquid from narrow glass vials. The spoon he used was old, its handle worn smooth from years of use.
"Can I?"
Tilly hesitated. His eyes flicked between her and the bowl, his ears twitching with indecision. Then he handed her the heavy spoon.
She stirred with both hands. The mixture resisted, thick and heavy, and her arm began to ache. Still, she kept going, her jaw set and small muscles trembling with the effort.
"Very good," Tilly said, his voice bright. "Very good indeed."
When her movements slowed, he gently took the spoon back. His hand patted her head, light and careful.
"Tilly will remember. The little miss helped."
Morwenna nodded once, satisfied, and slid down from the stool. She went to find Cinder.
. . .
The Floo flared to life midweek.
Morwenna stood in the entrance hall when the fire burst into emerald flame. She stepped back at once, one hand resting on Cinder's head. The fox's ears flattened as they both watched the green fire twist and rise toward the mantle.
Raphael Evans stepped through first.
He was tall and dark-haired, possessing the Evans green eyes and a quiet, thoughtful air. He brushed soot from his sleeve before noticing her standing there.
"Bonjour, petite (hello, little one)."
She looked at him, recognition settling easily in her mind.
"Raph."
His expression warmed. "You remembered."
"Yes."
He crossed the hall and crouched, studying her face with careful attention. She stayed still, meeting his gaze with her own steady green eyes.
"You have grown."
"Yes."
From within his cloak, he drew out a small book and offered it to her. The cover was soft blue leather, a silver serpent pressed into the surface. Tiny garnet eyes caught the light, gleaming red.
"For you. From the château."
She took it with both hands, feeling the cool smoothness of the leather. The pages inside were blank, thick and pale, carrying a faint scent of parchment and something older.
"For writing," he said. "When you learn."
She closed it and held it to her chest. "Thank you."
He touched her hair briefly, then stepped aside as the flames surged again.
Luelle Evans came through laughing, the green fire reflected in her eyes.
She moved quickly, her cloak crooked and hair slightly tangled from the travel. The moment she saw Morwenna, her face lit up.
"There you are!"
She crossed the hall in a few quick steps and lifted Morwenna straight into her arms. Cinder startled and hopped aside, his tail brushing against a suit of armour. Morwenna found herself pressed against her aunt's shoulder, held tightly.
"I missed you," Luelle said, her voice thick. "So much."
Morwenna patted her back. "Here."
"Yes, you are here." Luelle pulled back, studying her face. "You look exactly the same and completely different. How does that work?"
Morwenna thought about it for a moment. "Growing."
Luelle laughed. "That makes sense."
She set her down, though her hand stayed on Morwenna's shoulder for a moment longer as if to ensure she was real.
. . .
Later, Morwenna led Raphael through the portrait gallery.
Her steps echoed faintly on the stone floor. Cinder followed close behind, his claws clicking in a steady, rhythmic pattern. The portraits watched in silence as they passed, their painted eyes tracking the pair.
She stopped in front of one.
"This is Edmund."
The painted man adjusted his cravat, his chin lifting.
Raphael inclined his head slightly. "I have heard of you."
"All good things, I trust."
"I haven't decided yet."
Edmund's mouth curved in a faint, knowing line. "Fair."
Morwenna tugged Raphael's sleeve. "More."
She led him onward, past familiar faces and strangers alike, until she stopped before an old woman with white hair and dark eyes.
"My uncle," Morwenna said.
The woman studied Raphael in silence, her gaze sharp.
"Evans," she said at last.
"Yes."
"Your grandmother stood here once. Looked at me the same way."
Raphael didn't reply.
"She had good bones," the portrait added, her voice crackling like dry paper. "You do as well."
Morwenna tugged his sleeve again. "Come."
And he followed, letting her guide him through a history he only partly knew.
. . .
In the greenhouse, Lucien showed Luelle and Morwenna the mimosa that folded when touched.
The glass room held warmth and moisture, thick with the scent of damp moss and jasmine. Water dripped somewhere in the corner, a steady, soft sound against the glass.
Luelle reached out and brushed the leaves.
They folded inward at once, hiding their green faces.
She laughed, her eyes widening. "Did you see that?"
"Again," Morwenna said.
Luelle tried again. The same slow folding ripple moved along the stem.
"Again."
"It needs a moment," Luelle said, her lips quirks.
Morwenna leaned closer and whispered to the leaves in Parseltongue, the sibilant sounds slipping through the air. Nothing happened.
"It doesn't like me."
"It's tired," Luelle said gently. "Plants need rest too."
Morwenna tested another leaf. This one stayed open. She looked at Lucien, questioning.
"Different plants," he said, his melodic voice echoing slightly in the glass enclosure. "Different ways of being."
She nodded and moved on, testing each leaf carefully and noting the responses one by one.
. . .
That evening, Jane sat at the piano.
The glass room held the last light of day, the orange horizon fading slowly into a deep, bruised grey. The piano waited in the corner, its dark wood polished and familiar.
The door opened.
"Mama."
Jane turned slightly, her green eyes reflecting the dim light. "Ma chérie."
Morwenna climbed up beside her, her eyes moving from the ivory keys to Jane's slender hands.
"What is it?"
"A piano."
"What does it do?"
Jane pressed a key. A single note rang out, soft and clear, vibrating through the quiet room.
Morwenna's eyes widened. "Again."
Jane played a simple scale. The sound filled the room, caught and held by the glass walls.
When she stopped, Morwenna reached out and pressed a key. The note came out loud and jarring. She flinched at the sudden noise.
"That was you," Jane said gently.
Morwenna tried again, softer this time. The sound lingered in the air before fading.
"Mine."
"Yes."
She pressed more keys, slowly forming something that wasn't quite music but was entirely hers. She listened closely, tilting her head when notes overlapped, searching for something hidden beneath the sounds.
When she stopped, she looked at Jane.
"Mama play."
Jane did.
The melody was simple and old, something her own mother had once played for her. It settled into the room easily, wrapping around them.
Morwenna leaned against her as she listened. Cinder curled at their feet, a small ball of fur. Outside, the garden darkened, their reflections appearing faint and ghostly in the glass.
When the last note faded into the shadows, Morwenna spoke softly.
"More tomorrow."
"More tomorrow."
. . .
In the morning room, Celestine Evans sat with her tea.
She watched Jane move through the hall beyond the open door. The cup remained untouched in her hands, the warmth slowly fading into the porcelain.
Jane paused at windows now. She lingered longer in rooms. She reached out more often, touching Morwenna's white hair in passing, watching her with quiet focus.
Celestine noticed all of it.
She said nothing. She simply watched.
. . .
Two days before her birthday, Jane found Morwenna in the portrait gallery.
She had been searching for nearly twenty minutes. The nursery was empty, the lavender-scented blankets rumpled and still holding the faint, warm shape of a small body. The library held only Aldric, his black hair with its stark white streak bent low over a heavy tome in the dusty air. The garden was quiet, the snowdrops swaying gently in the cool breeze, but no white-haired child moved among them.
Jane moved faster as she went from room to room, her heartbeat picking up a frantic rhythm. Her palms felt damp against the corridor walls.
Then she saw her.
Morwenna stood before the old woman's portrait. Her back was straight, her small hands folded neatly in front of her. She stood with a patient, certain air, her white hair stark against the dim, shadowed gallery.
Jane stopped just outside the entrance and stayed there, half-hidden by a heavy velvet curtain.
The old woman spoke first, her voice soft and crackling, worn thin by time.
"You have her look."
Morwenna didn't answer. She simply watched the painted eyes.
"The green, that is Evans. The white, that was here long before. It returns to this house now and then."
Morwenna reached up and touched a lock of her hair, her expression thoughtful.
"Yes," the portrait said quietly. "Yours."
A heavy silence settled between them. The portrait waited, the painted brushstrokes motionless. Morwenna waited too, grounded and still.
Then, in a small, clear voice, she asked, "Does it hurt?"
The old woman's expression shifted, something gentler moving behind the layers of oil and varnish.
"Growing? Sometimes."
Morwenna shook her head slightly, her green eyes wide. "No. After. When I am three."
Jane pressed her hand against the stone wall beside her. The rough, cold surface bit into her skin as her breath caught in her throat. The gallery felt suddenly much colder.
The portrait studied the child for a long moment.
"I cannot see what happens when you turn three," she said at last. "That lies beyond the frame." Her gaze softened. "But I see who stands before me. And she isn't easily afraid."
Morwenna considered that for a time. Then she gave a small, decisive nod and turned.
She spotted Jane immediately but showed no surprise.
"Mama."
Jane crossed the distance quickly and dropped to her knees on the stone floor, pulling her daughter into a tight embrace. Morwenna leaned into her without hesitation, her small frame warm and solid against Jane's chest.
"What did you ask her, ma petite?" Jane asked quietly.
"If it hurts," Morwenna said, her voice muffled against Jane's shoulder.
Jane held her a little tighter, the scent of fresh air and milk clinging to the girl. "And what did she say?"
"She said I am not afraid."
Jane leaned back just enough to look at her, searching those green eyes for any hint of a lie.
"Are you?"
Morwenna frowned slightly, thinking it through with characteristic care.
"No," she said in the end. "Mama here. Dada here. Gran-ma. Gran-da. Gran-père. Raph. Luelle. Saoirse. Cinder." She counted them on her fingers, her brow furrowed as she lost track halfway through and started again. "All here."
Jane felt her chest tighten and soften at the same time. She pulled her close again and held her there as the gallery's light dimmed into the grey of late afternoon.
. . .
That night, Jane sat alone in the study.
The fire had burned down to embers, a low orange glow that pulsed with a steady, rhythmic rhythm in the grate. The baby blue journal rested open in her lap, its thick, pale pages still blank. She had not written in it for three days, the silver serpent on the cover gleaming in the low light.
Jack found her there.
He didn't speak at first. He crossed the room, his black hair and white streak catching the firelight, and sat opposite her. The leather chair gave a soft creak as he settled his weight. He waited for her to speak.
"She asked the portrait if it would hurt."
Jack's jaw tightened slightly. "Did she?"
"Not me. Not you. The portrait at the end of the hall. The one with the white hair."
"What did it say?"
"That she doesn't know. But that Morwenna isn't afraid."
Jack looked toward the fire, watching the slow, rhythmic pulse of light.
"Is she right?"
Jane followed his gaze. The embers glowed steadily, moving with a life of their own.
"Morwenna said she isn't," she said. "Because we are all here."
Jack reached across and took her hand. His grip was warm and firm, grounding her.
They sat in the silence for a long time.
"I have stopped fighting it," Jane said after a time, her voice barely a whisper.
"Fighting what?" His voice was low and steady.
"The ritual. The runes. The pain." She let out a slow, heavy breath. "I cannot stop any of it. I can only be there. That is all this has been leading to."
Jack didn't interrupt. His thumb moved lightly against her hand, a quiet, soothing rhythm.
"I will be there," she continued. "Three metres away. Watching. She will see me. That is what matters."
The fire shifted softly, a log settling deeper into the ash. Somewhere in the hall, the clock ticked on, marking the seconds.
Jane looked down at their joined hands.
"She asked the portrait," she said again. "She knew I wouldn't answer."
Jack gave her hand a small squeeze. "She is sharper than the both of us."
Jane let out a quiet breath that nearly turned into a laugh.
"She is."
. . .
The day before the birthday, the house slipped into a kind of cheerful chaos.
Tilly hurried from the kitchen to the great hall and back again, his ink-stained fingers clutching rustling parchment lists that appeared and vanished in his wake, possessing a frantic life of their own. His large ears twitched with every hurried step against the stone.
Cinder had taken refuge in the dusty shadows beneath a velvet settee in the morning room, his ears flattened and amber eyes fixed on the movement with deep suspicion. Saoirse didn't help. If anything, she made the atmosphere more erratic, quietly shifting the silver decorations Tilly had just finished placing, only to watch him notice the change and start his work over again.
Morwenna sat in the middle of it all on the great hall floor, her white hair a bright point in the centre of the storm.
Her bestiary rested open in her lap, the heavy pages smelling of old ink and leather. After a while, Cinder crept out from his hiding place and settled beside her, pressing his warm flank against her leg to anchor himself. She watched everything—the constant movement, the overlapping voices, the sudden flickers of household magic—but she didn't try to join in. She simply observed with her steady green eyes.
Luelle dropped down onto the floor beside her, her skirts blooming outward with a soft thud.
"C'est fou, (this is insane)."
Morwenna glanced at her aunt, noticing a smudge of purple icing on the woman's cheek. "Yes."
"They are all running about… I don't even know what they are doing anymore."
"Yes."
Luelle let out a long breath and leaned back on her hands, her green eyes tracking a floating banner. "And you are just sitting here, so calm."
Morwenna turned a page. The serpent in the illustration remained curled in a tight spiral, still deep in its painted sleep.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"Yes," Luelle replied, her French accent softening the vowels. "Tomorrow you turn three."
Morwenna tilted her head back, looking up at the high ceiling. Coloured streamers drifted slowly overhead, catching the afternoon light that filtered through the tall windows.
"And after?"
Luelle paused, watching the girl's small, serious face.
"After, you are still you," she said at last. "Just three."
Morwenna accepted that without any hesitation. She gave a small nod and turned another page of her book. Luelle studied her quietly; the small, delicate hands, the pale hair, and the green eyes that seemed to take in far more than a toddler should.
"You are a strange child," she murmured, her voice warm.
"Yes."
Luelle smiled, then leaned her shoulder lightly against the girl's. They stayed there together, aunt and child, while the rest of the house moved around them in endless, frantic loops.
. . .
That evening, Jane found Morwenna in the nursery.
She lay tucked into the bed, the covers pulled neatly to her chin. Cinder was a heavy, warm weight beneath the blankets at her feet. The carved wooden serpent was gripped in her small hand, its smooth surface pressed firmly into her palm. On the nightstand, the small silver bell caught the low glow of the hearth fire.
Jane sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. The room smelled of lavender and woodsmoke.
"Tomorrow."
Morwenna looked up at her, her gaze calm and steady.
"Tomorrow I'm three."
"Yes."
"And then more of me comes."
Jane felt her breath catch for a moment, the weight of the coming ritual pressing against her ribs, but she kept her voice even.
"Yes."
Morwenna considered that with her usual care. Then she reached out and took Jane's hand, her fingers small and strong.
"Mama will be there."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.
Jane tightened her fingers around her daughter's. "Always."
Morwenna nodded once and closed her eyes, her long lashes casting shadows against her cheeks. Jane stayed until the girl's breathing slowed and evened out into the rhythm of sleep. The fire murmured softly in the hearth, a log popping and sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Cinder's tail gave a small, contented twitch, then settled again.
Jane leaned down and pressed a long kiss to her daughter's forehead. The skin was warm, soft, and terrifyingly real.
She stood and moved to the door, then paused with her hand on the frame. For a moment, she simply looked at the scene. White hair against the pillow. Green eyes hidden behind closed lids. A small hand wrapped firmly around the carved serpent.
She stayed like that a little longer than she had intended. Then she turned and left the room, pulling the door nearly shut.
. . .
The house had quieted by then.
The earlier rush had settled into a heavy, expectant stillness. The decorations were all in place, hanging motionless in the dim light. The fox-shaped cake waited in the cold kitchen, covered and hidden away.
Celestine sat by the fire in the morning room, a book open in her lap that she wasn't reading. The firelight moved across the silver strands in her hair.
Lucien stood by the window, his presence a soft, melodic warmth at the edge of the room. He looked out at the garden where the moon was beginning to rise, silvering the edges of the trees.
Raphael sat in the corner, his thumb marking his place in a book as he read by the light of a single lamp. Luelle had fallen asleep on the settee, her breathing deep and even, still dusted faintly with flour from her time in the kitchen.
Aldric and Seraphina had already gone to bed. Saoirse was somewhere in the house, remaining unusually quiet.
Jack sat beside Jane and slipped a heavy arm around her shoulders. She leaned into the familiar strength of him without thinking, her head resting against his chest.
Three days until the ritual window opened.
One day until her daughter turned three.
The fire crackled softly in the grate. Somewhere deep in the house, the clock continued its steady, inevitable ticking.
Jane closed her eyes and listened to it all; the quiet breathing, the small shifts of movement, the familiar presence of everyone gathered under one roof.