Morwenna woke to the familiar, heavy weight of Cinder curled at her feet and the lingering, hollow absence on her left wrist. She lay still for a moment, her green eyes tracking the slow dance of dust motes in the morning light. She touched her bare skin, pressing her thumb against the pale circle where the silver band usually rested, and then climbed out of bed. The floorboards felt biting and cold against her feet, a sharp shock that travelled up her legs, but she didn't notice the chill.
She dressed herself, mostly. The indigo silk went on the right way around, though one sleeve was twisted at the shoulder and the small, cloth-covered buttons were done up in a crooked, uneven line. She looked at herself in the tall mirror, considering the messy result for a long moment, and decided it was fine.
Cinder sat behind her on the rug, watching her reflection with a steady, amber gaze, his enormous ears swivelling forward when she finally turned toward the door.
"Three," she told him, her voice sounding loud and certain in the quiet nursery.
His ears stayed locked forward. She left the nursery with the fox following close behind, his claws clicking rhythmically on the polished wood of the hallway.
The morning room was full when she pushed the heavy door open. Everyone was gathered there, a sea of faces that had become her entire world.
Jack and Jane sat at the head of the long table, the steam from their tea rising in thin, curling ribbons. Aldric and Seraphina were by the window, where the light was still pale and grey. Celestine and Lucien sat close together, their heads inclined as they spoke in low, melodic French.
Raphael was already deep into a book he had brought from the library, the pages yellowed and smelling of old vanillin. Luelle was attempting to balance a silver spoon on her nose's tip again, her eyes crossed in fierce concentration.
Saoirse was draped over a high-backed chair, cradling her tea with both hands. Viviane sat beside Jane, her posture impeccable and her dark robes perfectly aligned. Elara remained slightly apart, watching the room with her usual stillness, while Sylvaine sat in the corner, observing everything through her spectacles.
The talk stopped the moment she appeared. Twelve pairs of eyes turned to look at her.
Morwenna climbed onto her stool, the wood smooth under her small hands. Tilly appeared at her elbow with a bowl of porridge before she couldn't even ask. The ceramic felt warm in her palms, and the honey was drizzled in a perfect, golden spiral. She ate methodically, finishing the honey first and then the rest of the porridge, spoon by spoon, while Cinder waited patiently at her feet.
Around her, the adults resumed their conversations. They talked about the vegetable garden, a letter from a distant contact in France, and whether the heavy clouds would clear by noon. These were normal things, morning things—the comfortable, grounding background noise of the manor.
Morwenna finished her porridge and set down her spoon with a deliberate clatter. Then she spoke, her voice loud enough to carry to every corner of the room.
"I'm brave. I can."
The talking stopped again. Twelve pairs of eyes turned back to her, and the atmosphere in the room went suddenly, profoundly still. She sat perfectly motionless under the heavy weight of their collective gaze, her small hands flat on the table and her green eyes steady.
Jane's hand found Jack's beneath the table, her fingers tightening around his knuckles. Aldric was the first to speak, his voice grounding the moment.
"Yes. You are."
Celestine nodded her approval, her gaze softening. "Très brave."
Lucien's voice was warm, carrying that unmistakable, melodic Veela lilt. "We know you can, Morwenna. You have a strength that's all your own, I think."
Saoirse grinned at her from across the table, the white streak in her hair catching the light. "Obviously you can."
Raphael set his book down on the cloth. "We will all be there with you."
Luelle reached across the table and patted her hand, her green eyes bright. "Every single one of us, ma petite."
Viviane's eyes held a sudden, shimmering sheen. "Mon trésor."
Elara said nothing, but her steady gaze held the child's for a long moment, a silent acknowledgment. Sylvaine adjusted her spectacles, her voice crisp and clear.
"Bravery isn't the absence of fear. It's feeling the fear and doing it anyway."
Morwenna looked at her, processing the weight of the words. Then she nodded once and picked up her spoon again to scrape the last bit of honey from the bowl.
The talking resumed, but the feeling in the room was different now. It was warmer, edged with something that wasn't quite sadness and not quite pride, but lived in the quiet space between them.
After breakfast, Morwenna slid off her stool and walked toward the music room. She didn't have to think about the path; her feet simply took her there through the familiar corridors.
Jane was already at the piano, her fingers moving over the yellowed keys without actually playing, tracing invisible shapes in the air above them. She looked up when Morwenna appeared in the doorway, and her face softened at once.
"Ma chérie."
Morwenna crossed the room and climbed onto the bench beside her. The polished wood felt smooth and cool. She looked at the keys, then at Jane's hands, and then back at the ivory. She pressed one key down. The note rang out, clear and bright in the glass-walled room, echoing against the misted panes.
"Again," Jane prompted.
She pressed another. This was a different note, lower and more resonant. Then she found another, higher than the first but not quite the same. Jane began to play something soft and low underneath, weaving her own notes around Morwenna's random ones. Her left hand moved in slow, grounding chords while her right hand followed Morwenna's lead, catching her scattered notes and holding them, making them part of a larger, more beautiful whole.
For a long while, they sat like that, mother and daughter, making a kind of music that no one else would understand. Morwenna would press a key, and Jane would answer it. It was a conversation without words, played out on ivory and felt. When Morwenna finally stopped, the last note hung in the air for a long moment before fading into the silence.
"Mama."
"Yes?"
"Will you play after? When it's done?"
Jane's hands stilled on the keys. "After the ritual?"
Morwenna nodded, her white hair swaying with the movement.
Jane pulled her daughter close, wrapping one arm around her shoulders in a firm, protective embrace. "I will play anything you want. For as long as you want to listen."
Morwenna leaned into her mother's side. "Good."
They sat together for a while, not speaking, just breathing in the quiet of the glass room. The grey light filled the space, and somewhere outside, a lone bird called from the hedges.
Morwenna left the music room and walked toward the greenhouse. The corridors were quiet, the portraits watching her pass with their painted eyes. Edmund nodded from his frame, his hand raised in a stiff greeting. Isolde smiled, her sharp features looking unusually soft. The old woman with white hair simply watched, her gaze following the child's every step. Morwenna stopped in front of her.
"Hello," she said.
The old woman leaned forward slightly in her painted chair. "Little one."
"I am going to the greenhouse now."
"I know."
"You watch everything?"
"Most things."
Morwenna considered this for a moment. "Will you watch me there?"
"I can't. Different rooms have different frames." The old woman paused, her expression turning thoughtful. "But I will be here when you come back."
Morwenna nodded, satisfied, and continued her journey down the hall.
The greenhouse was warm and damp, the air thick with the heavy smell of wet earth and growing things. Water dripped somewhere in the background with a steady, hollow rhythm. Lucien was crouched by the rose bush, his fingers moving gently against the leaves. He looked up when she entered, his voice melodic and unhurried.
"Little one."
She crossed the wet stone floor and crouched beside him. The new bud was there, tight and green, isn't yet showing its colour. It had grown since yesterday, just a small amount, but she could see the change in the curve of the stem.
"When will it open?"
"Soon. A few days, maybe, I think."
She touched the bud gently with one finger. It felt firm and full of potential. It was waiting, just like her.
"It isn't scared."
"No. It's just waiting for the right time to bloom, Morwenna."
She looked at him. His face was calm and the warmth in his eyes was soft in the humid air. "Like me."
"Like you."
They stayed there for a while in a comfortable silence. She watched him check the other plants, his hands moving with grace among the leaves. He showed her a seedling that had pushed through the soil overnight—a tiny green shoot, barely visible and curved like a question mark. She touched it with the tip of her finger, and the plant seemed to lean toward her warmth.
"Can plants feel?"
Lucien considered the question. "Not the way we do, perhaps. But they know things. They know warmth, light, and water. They know when they are safe."
She looked at the tiny seedling. "Does it know it's safe here?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He showed her how to water the small pots near the door, handing her a watering can that was heavy but manageable. She carried it to each pot, tipping it carefully as he had shown her. Water splashed on her dress and her shoes, puddling on the stone floor, but she kept going until every pot was finished.
"Good job," Lucien said.
She set the can down with a thud. "I helped."
"You did."
She left the greenhouse and walked back through the hall. The portraits watched her pass, but she didn't stop this time. She went straight to the library. Aldric was in his chair by the fire, a book open on his lap. He looked up the moment she appeared.
"Little one."
She crossed the room and climbed onto the rug where her bestiary lived. She pulled it out; it was still heavy, but she felt stronger today. She carried it to the floor near his chair. She opened it to the serpent page. The gold-scaled serpent was still sleeping, coiled around its branch with its eyes closed. She touched the illustration with one finger, finding the gold leaf smooth and cool.
"I told it," she said.
"Told it what?"
"I'm three. I'm brave. I can."
Aldric set his book aside. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What did it say?"
Morwenna looked at the serpent. It didn't move. It was only a drawing and she knew it would never move, but she had been talking to it for months. She never expected it to answer.
"It said good," she said.
Aldric nodded. "I think so too."
She closed the book and pushed it back toward the shelf. It was too heavy for her to lift properly, so she left it on the floor and stood to look at him.
"Grand-da."
"Yes?"
"Will it hurt much? The first time?"
Aldric was quiet. The fire crackled behind him, a sharp sound in the quiet room. He was silent for a long moment, then he reached out and pulled her onto his lap. She settled against his chest, finding him warm and smelling of old parchment and tea. His heart beat steady and strong under her ear.
"Yes," he said. "It will hurt. Not much the first time. A little more each year after. But I knew why I was doing it. I knew my family was there with me."
Morwenna looked at his face, tracing the silver in his hair and the deep lines around his eyes. She touched one of those lines, the one that ran from the corner of his eye toward his jaw.
"Are these from hurt?"
Aldric caught her hand gently. "No. Those are from laughing. And from watching my children grow. And from long winters." He pressed her palm to his cheek. "Hurt leaves different marks."
"What marks?"
He was silent. Then he pulled up his sleeve, revealing his forearm. The skin was pale, and there, faint and almost invisible, were lines. They weren't scars, exactly; they looked like patterns etched deep under the skin, like a message that had been written and then half-erased.
"These," he said. "The runes. They are still there. They will always be there."
Morwenna touched them. The skin felt perfectly smooth to her touch. She couldn't feel anything beneath her fingertips.
"I can't feel them."
"No. You aren't supposed to. They are part of you now. You don't feel your own bones, do you?"
She shook her head.
"It's like that."
She looked down at her own arm. It was pale and unmarked. Not yet.
"When will mine look like that?"
"Soon. A little at a time. By the time you are eleven, they will be there, right under your skin, keeping you safe."
She nodded, absorbing the information, then slid off his lap to go find Saoirse.
Saoirse was in the kitchen, standing at the counter with Tilly. They were both looking at a large sheet of parchment covered in sketches: a lopsided fox, a coiled serpent, and a round cake with three candles. Tilly's ears trembled as he pointed at the drawing.
"No, no, Tilly thinks the ears should be bigger."
"The ears are fine. You are obsessing, Tilly."
"The ears are very important!"
Morwenna appeared at Saoirse's elbow. "What?"
Saoirse looked down. "Cake plans. For next year. Tilly is already planning."
"Next year is far."
"Tell him that."
Morwenna looked at the elf. "Next year is far."
Tilly's ears drooped. "Tilly knows. But Tilly likes to be prepared."
She patted his small hand. "Good."
Then she took Saoirse's hand and pulled her toward the door. "Come. Walk."
Saoirse went with her, laughing. "Walk where?"
"The meadow. I want to see them."
They walked through the garden together, past the sleeping flower beds and the stone fountain. The grass was wet, soaking through Morwenna's shoes, but she didn't care. Cinder followed, keeping to the dry patches when he could, his ears swivelling at every noise.
The meadow was grey and still, the grass flattened by the long winter. Morwenna stood at the edge and looked out at the empty space.
"They are there," Saoirse said quietly.
Morwenna looked harder. She couldn't see them, but she couldn't feel them—a warmth, a presence, like standing near a fire that was invisible to the eye.
"Three," she said.
Saoirse looked at her. "Yes. Three."
"They are watching."
"Yes."
Morwenna raised her hand and waved at the empty air. Nothing moved, but the warmth seemed to shift, just slightly, like something acknowledging her presence. She lowered her hand. "Good."
They stood there for a while, aunt and niece, looking at the stillness. Cinder sat at Morwenna's feet, his ears rotating slowly. Then Morwenna spoke.
"Saoirse."
"Yeah?"
"When I'm big, will you take me places? Like you go?"
Saoirse looked down at her. She saw the white hair, the green eyes, and the small face turned up toward her.
"Anywhere you want to go."
"Promise."
"I promise."
Morwenna nodded and turned back toward the meadow for one last look.
She left the meadow and walked back through the quiet halls. The portraits watched her pass, but she didn't stop this time. Edmund nodded. Isolde smiled. The old woman with white hair simply watched, her gaze heavy with something Morwenna couldn't yet name.
She climbed the stairs. Her legs felt heavy. Three was stronger, but three was also tired. She gripped the railing with both hands, pulling herself up step by step. Cinder stayed close behind her, his claws clicking on the stone.
The nursery door was open. The fire had been lit, casting a warm light across the room. Her bed waited, the covers turned down and the carved serpent resting on the pillow where she had left it. She climbed in. The sheets were cool at first, then they warmed around her. Cinder jumped up and curled at her feet, a familiar and grounding weight. She touched her bare wrist. She pressed her thumb against the skin and closed her eyes.
. . .
In the morning room, the fire had burned low. Grey light filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor. Jane stood alone, looking out at the garden. She didn't turn when Elara entered, but she knew who it was by the sound of her step.
"Godmother."
Elara crossed the room slowly. Her footsteps were soft on the stone. She stopped beside Jane, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. For a moment, they stood together, looking out at the same view of the misted garden. Then Elara spoke.
"I need something from you."
Jane turned to face her. "What?"
"A blood. Your heart blood."
Jane's eyes widened in surprise. "Blood again? Godmother, what is this for?"
Elara's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. It was amusement, rare and carefully hidden, but it was there. She reached up and ruffled Jane's hair.
Jane froze in place. Elara didn't do things like that. She hadn't done that since Jane was a child.
The first time came back to her suddenly. She had been twelve years old, furious because Celestine had said no to something, and Elara had listened with her usual stillness before reaching out and ruffling her hair exactly like this. "Your mother loves you," she had said then. "She just shows it differently."
"I know," Jane had mumbled in response. "It's still annoying."
Elara's mouth had twitched. "Yes. It's."
Now, decades later, she was repeating the same gesture. Jane stood still under the touch, caught between the past and the present.
"To enhance Morwenna's bracelet," Elara said. "Your heart blood, your life essence, will be the most powerful addition for this kind of protection."
Jane stared at her. "My—"
"Since last year, when you told us about Morwenna possibly being Alberich, I have been thinking." Elara's voice was calm and precise. "The Evans are in France. I'm in France. Viviane is in France. Jane, you are the only one here in England."
Jane opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.
"I'm not saying this to diminish the Keiths." Elara's hand dropped from Jane's hair, but her gaze held steady. "You know what I mean."
Jane did. She knew exactly what she meant.
"I can't protect her here the way I protected you there," Elara continued. "I can't be close enough, fast enough, if something happens. So I did some research. And I found something interesting."
"What?"
"Evans women." Elara's voice softened almost imperceptibly. "They never hesitate. Not once. When their children are in danger, they sacrifice. Themselves, their partners, anything. It's in your blood. Maybe Lily did it too."
Jane's throat tightened at the mention of her cousin.
"I want to borrow that feeling," Elara said. "That protective instinct. I want to make it the core of the wards in her bracelet."
Jane was quiet for a long moment. "You want my heart blood because it carries—"
"The essence of who you are. Your love for her. Your willingness to do anything for her." Elara reached out and touched Jane's cheek, a brief and light contact. "I can't be there every moment. But a piece of you, the deepest piece, will be. Wrapped around her wrist. Holding her safe."
Jane's eyes burned with unshed tears. She blinked them away. Elara pulled her close, suddenly, and hugged her. It was entirely unexpected; Elara wasn't a woman for hugs. She hadn't been since Jane was a small child, since the days when Jane would cry about her mother and Elara would hold her and say nothing, just letting her cry.
Jane pressed her face against Elara's shoulder. It smelled the same as it always had: lavender, old parchment, and something that was simply Elara.
"I can protect her through you," Elara said quietly. "Through what you give me."
Jane pulled back after a moment. Her eyes were dry, but her voice was rough with emotion. "When?"
"Now. Today. Everything is ready. I just need the core."
"Okay."
Elara studied her face. "You don't want to think about it?"
"No." Jane shook her head. "I want it done. I want her to have it back."
Elara nodded once. She reached into her robes and withdrew a glass vial no larger than her thumb.
"How do we do this?" Jane asked.
Elara knelt before her. "You focus on her. On your love for her. On what you would do to keep her safe." She held up the vial. "I will catch what you give."
Jane nodded and closed her eyes. She thought of Morwenna. The white hair and green eyes. The way she counted snowdrops on her small fingers. The way she pressed the keys on the piano and tilted her head at the sound. She thought of the way her daughter had said "I'm brave. I can." this morning, loud enough for everyone to hear.
She thought of holding her through the fever. She thought of the frost on the window, the cracked glass, and the way Morwenna's magic had pushed through when her body couldn't hold it. She thought of the ritual. Of watching from three metres away. Of not being able to touch her or comfort her.
She opened her eyes. "Ready," she said.
Elara raised her wand. She murmured something in Old French—sounds older than the manor itself—and a faint silver glow appeared before Jane's mouth, hovering like a mist. Jane pressed her right hand flat against her chest, right over her heart. She felt it beating beneath her palm. Steady and strong.
She closed her eyes again and thought of Morwenna. Of everything they had been through. She spoke the words Elara had taught her. They were just three words, simple and old.
A focusing.
A willing.
Then she drew her hand upward, slowly, her palm still pressed to her chest. She moved it up over her collarbone, up her throat, to her mouth.
She opened her lips and spat.
The blood hovered in the air before her, suspended in the silver glow, a dark red and impossibly dense. It caught the light like a jewel, looking much heavier than water or ordinary blood. Jane watched it float there.
Her heart blood.
Her life essence.
A piece of her, now outside her body.
Elara guided it with her wand, a slow and careful movement. The drop drifted downward, away from Jane's mouth and toward the vial. It hovered over the opening, and then fell inside.
Jane exhaled a long breath, and then the world suddenly tilted.
Her skin went grey. Her hands began to shake. The room seemed to swim around her, the edges blurring and the colours bleeding into one another. She didn't stop, gripped the arms of the chair, but her fingers wouldn't hold. She couldn't feel them. She couldn't feel anything except a vast, hollow emptiness.
"Jane."
Elara's voice sounded distant, as if she were shouting from across a field. Jane tried to answer, but her mouth wouldn't move. Arms caught her before she could fall. Elara was strong despite her slight frame; she lowered her back into the chair and propped her up.
"Stay with me."
Jane blinked. The room steadied itself, just barely. She was so tired. She felt so cold. She hadn't ever been this cold in her entire life. Elara pressed a vial to her lips. This one was different from the first, a dark liquid, thick and smelling of blood and herbs.
"Drink."
Jane drank. It tasted like bitter herbs mixed with blood. She swallowed, coughed, and swallowed again. The warmth began to come back slowly. It spread from her stomach outward, through her limbs and into her fingertips. The grey faded from her skin and the shaking stopped. She leaned back in the chair, breathing hard. Elara watched her, her expression unreadable. But her hand rested on Jane's shoulder, steady and warm.
"How do you feel?"
Jane considered the question for a moment. "Empty. Weak. Like I have been running for four days."
"That's normal." Elara tucked the empty vial away. "heart blood isn't ordinary blood. It's life essence. You have given a piece of yourself."
Jane looked at the bracelet resting on the table. It seemed to glow faintly now, the silver looking warmer than it had before. "Is it enough?"
"One drop would have been enough. Three would have killed you." Elara's voice was flat, but something flickered in her eyes.
Jane stared at her. "You said—"
"I said I needed your heart blood. I didn't say how much." Elara's hand tightened on her shoulder. "You gave two drops before I could stop you."
Jane looked at the bracelet. Then she looked at her own chest, where her heart still beat, weaker now, but still beating.
"Will I recover?"
"In time." Elara sat on the arm of the chair, close enough that their shoulders touched. "four or five months before you are fully yourself again. No heavy magic until then. Rest. Good food. Sleep."
Jane closed her eyes. The warmth was still spreading, but she could feel the edges of the emptiness waiting to return.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Elara said nothing. But her hand stayed on Jane's shoulder, and after a moment, she leaned her head against Jane's, just barely, just for a second. They sat like that in the quiet room, godmother and goddaughter, while the grey light filtered through the window and the bracelet gleamed on the table.
. . .
That evening, Jane sat in the study with the baby blue journal. Her hand shook slightly as she held the quill.
April 27. I told her. she asked if she would be boiled. said she is scared, but she will be brave because we will all be there.
April 28. Godmother took my heart blood. Two drops. I didn't know two was too many until after. I'm weak now. four or five months to recover fully. But the bracelet will hold her safe.
She capped the quill and sat there, listening to the crackle of the fire. Jack found her later. He saw her face, which was paler than usual, and crossed the room in three quick strides.
"Jane. What happened?"
She told him everything. He listened without interrupting, his hand wrapped firmly around hers. When she finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"You gave two drops."
"I didn't know."
"Would it have changed anything if you did?"
Jane thought about it. She thought about Morwenna's bare wrist. She thought about the ritual. She thought about being three metres away.
"No," she said. "I would have given two anyway."
Jack pulled her close. She leaned into him, too tired to hold herself up.
"She will be okay," he said. "You will be okay."
"Hmm."