The morning of April 30th arrived grey and heavy, the clouds pressing low over the manor, a silent, suffocating weight. The sky offered no light, only a flat, leaden expanse that made the manor's stone walls seem even colder than usual.
Morwenna woke to Cinder's familiar weight at her feet and the lingering, hollow absence on her left wrist. She touched the bare skin, her thumb tracing the spot where the silver had sat for so long—it felt strange—and then she climbed out of bed. The floorboards felt biting and cold against her soles, a sharp sensation that travelled up her legs, but she didn't seem to notice the chill.
She dressed herself in the clothes her mother had laid out on the chair: soft cotton shorts and a simple t-shirt, a stark departure from the fine silk she usually wore. The cotton felt thin and foreign, lighter and less restrictive than her usual gowns. The collar sat soft against her neck, and the shorts let the cool air touch her skin in a way her dresses never did.
She looked at herself in the tall mahogany mirror. The shirt hung past her hips, its hem slightly crooked where she had pulled it down. The shorts ended just at her knees, and her bare feet looked pale and small against the dark, polished wood of the floor. Cinder watched her from the blankets, his russet ears swivelling forward with sudden interest.
"Different," she told him, her voice a soft murmur.
His ears swivelled back, then snapped forward again. His tail thumped once, a muffled sound against the heavy blankets.
She crossed the room and pressed her palm flat against the nursery window. The glass felt freezing, a sharp contrast to her warm skin. The garden below was a study in grey and stillness, the snowdrop patch visible even through the thick morning mist.
She counted them quickly, her breath fogging the glass in a white cloud. Fifteen now. The new one from yesterday had opened fully, its white head nodding among its sisters in the damp soil. She pulled her hand back. There was no frost and no magic. There was only the ordinary, biting cold of the glass.
She left the nursery with the fox following close behind, his claws clicking on the wood.
The corridors were quieter than they had been all week. The portraits watched her pass, their painted eyes tracking her progress through the dim light, but none of them spoke a word. Edmund gave a single, solemn nod, his painted face set in a grim mask. Isolde pressed her hand to her heart as the child passed. The old woman with white hair simply watched, her gaze heavy with a weight Morwenna couldn't yet name. Morwenna paused in front of her for a moment, meeting that ancient, painted gaze.
"Later," she said quietly.
The old woman inclined her head just slightly. It was a promise. Morwenna continued down the hall.
The Great Hall buzzed with a sharp, nervous energy when she pushed the door open. It was nothing like the comfortable morning rhythm she knew. Tilly moved through the room with quick, silent steps, his large ears pressed flat against his head in a sign of distress. The other elves followed in his wake, carrying trays, linens, and small, covered bowls that steamed faintly in the cool air. No one spoke above a low whisper.
The table was set and the food was laid out. There were scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit—real food, not her usual porridge. Jane had explained the change while helping her dress; her body needed different fuel today. Nothing too heavy, she had said, but something that would last.
No one ate with their usual appetite. Saoirse, who was never quiet, sat with her toast untouched and her gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. Her hands were flat on the table, perfectly still.
It felt wrong; Saoirse was never still. Luelle had abandoned her usual spoon-balancing tricks. She sat with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her green eyes moving constantly around the room as if searching for a hidden threat. Raphael's book lay closed beside his plate, his thumb no longer holding his place among the yellowed pages.
Jane sat with her tea, though she hadn't drunk any of it. Her face was still too pale, the grey undertone from the heart blood donation barely faded under the morning light. Her hands wrapped around the porcelain cup, but she didn't lift it to her lips.
Jack's hand rested on her knee under the table, a steady, grounding weight. Every few seconds, his thumb moved in a steady rhythm: press, release, press, release. He was creating a beat she could use to anchor herself.
Celestine and Aldric had already finished, rising early to make their final checks of the ritual preparations. They had been gone for an hour before the others even sat at the table.
Morwenna climbed onto her stool between her parents. Cinder settled under her feet, a warm weight against her ankles that kept the drafts away.
She picked up her fork. The eggs were soft and yellow, flecked with salt. She ate them methodically, one bite at a time, focused entirely on the task. The toast was warm, the butter melted deep into the crumb. She ate that too. The fruit felt cold and sweet against her tongue. She finished everything on her plate without a word. She drank the small cup of milk beside her plate and set it down with a soft click.
Around her, the adults picked at their food. Forks scraped against plates with a jarring sound in the heavy silence. Cups were lifted and set back down. No one spoke. The silence was thick, filled with the things no one wanted to say.
Morwenna looked at her mother's untouched tea. The steam had stopped rising minutes ago, leaving the liquid dark and still.
"You should drink," she said.
Jane blinked, startled out of her thoughts. She looked at her daughter and then down at the cold tea in her hands.
"Yes," she said, her French accent surfacing in her fatigue. "You are right, ma petite."
She drank the cold liquid in one long swallow.
After breakfast, Saoirse took her to the morning room and sat her on the cushioned bench by the window.
"You have to stay here for a bit," Saoirse said, her voice careful and measured in a way that wasn't natural to her. "Not too much moving around. They don't want you too full, but they don't want you hungry either."
Morwenna looked at her. "For how long?"
"A little while." Saoirse's hands were folded in her lap. "Tilly is going to bring you snacks. Things with sugar, for energy. You can eat as much as you want."
"Sweets?"
"Sweets." Saoirse smiled, though the expression looked tight at the edges. "Lots of sweets."
She crouched and took Morwenna's hands in hers. Her grip felt warm, but her fingers trembled slightly. Morwenna felt the vibration through her own palms.
"Saoirse."
"Yeah?"
"I'm brave."
Saoirse's face shifted into something pained. Her eyes went bright with unshed tears, and her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then leaned forward to press her forehead against Morwenna's. Just for a second, the heat of her skin transferred to the child's.
"I know you are, little bird."
She stood quickly and left the room without looking back. Morwenna watched her go until the door clicked shut. Then she settled back against the cushions and waited.
Tilly appeared with a tray before she could count to twenty. It held small bowls of honey-dusted nuts, candied ginger, dark chocolate truffles, and sliced fruit sprinkled with sugar. He placed it on the low table where Morwenna was settled with Cinder beside her.
"Tilly will bring more if the little miss needs," he said, his large ears trembling with every word. "Tilly will bring anything at all."
Morwenna looked at him. His large eyes were wet, and his small hands were shaking as he adjusted the tray. She reached out and patted his hand.
"Thank you, Tilly."
He bowed so low that his nose nearly touched his knees, and then he disappeared back toward the kitchen.
Morwenna looked at the offerings on the tray. The ginger was amber and translucent, dusted with fine sugar crystals. The truffles were dark, almost black, with a faint sheen. The nuts glistened with honey. The fruit slices were arranged in a neat, perfect spiral. She picked up a piece of ginger and bit into it.
The flavour was sharp and sweet, spreading a sudden, stinging heat through her mouth. She chewed slowly, feeling the warmth travel down her throat and settle in her chest. It was a solid thing to focus on. She ate another piece.
Cinder watched her with patient, amber eyes. His ears swivelled at every sound from the hall: a door opening somewhere, footsteps passing, or voices murmuring too low to make out the words.
She ate a chocolate truffle. It melted on her tongue, rich and dark, leaving a faint bitterness behind. She ate a slice of sugared apple. The sugar crunched between her teeth before it dissolved into sweetness.
The morning light crept across the floorboards. She watched it move, inch by inch, as the sun climbed higher behind the thick clouds. The shadows shortened and then lengthened again as the clouds shifted. She ate another piece of ginger.
She counted the shadows on the wall. There were seven. Then eight, when a cloud moved. Then six. She ate another truffle.
She didn't know how long she sat there. Time moved strangely, stretching and compressing in the silence. Sometimes the quiet felt endless. Sometimes she blinked and several minutes had passed without her noticing. Cinder's ears never stopped moving.
The tray grew emptier as she worked. The ginger was half gone. Three truffles remained. The fruit slices were all eaten.
She was reaching for another piece of ginger when Saoirse appeared in the doorway. Morwenna's hand stopped mid-reach. She looked at her aunt's face. The tightness was still there, but underneath it was a hard, flinty readiness.
"Time," Saoirse said.
Morwenna slid off the bench. Cinder made a small sound, a soft, high-pitched whine, and pressed his body against her legs. She crouched and patted his head, feeling the heat of his fur.
"Stay. I will come back."
His ears flattened against his skull. His amber eyes held hers for a long, heavy moment. Then he settled back onto the cushions, his nose resting on his paws, watching her walk away.
Saoirse looked at her as she approached. "You look very Muggle."
Morwenna considered this. "Is that bad?"
"No." Saoirse's voice was softer than usual. "It's just different."
She crouched and took Morwenna's hands. Her grip was warm and much steadier now than it had been before breakfast.
"You ready?"
Morwenna thought about it. She thought about the rose bud in the greenhouse, still waiting for its moment to open. She thought about her mother's face this morning, pale and worried. She thought about the runes on her grandfather's arm, faint and invisible but ever-present. She thought about the snowdrops, fifteen now, spreading across the dark soil.
"Ready," she said.
. . .
Deep beneath the manor, in the ancient ritual chamber carved from the bedrock, Aldric and Celestine moved through their final checks with the precision of people who had done this a hundred times.
The walls were rough, unpolished stone, worn smooth in places by centuries of touch. The air felt cool and still, heavy with the smell of damp earth and old magic. Torches flickered in iron brackets, casting long, reaching shadows that danced across the inscribed floor.
Aldric ran his fingers along each carved line of the floor runes, feeling for any imperfection in the stone. The floor hummed faintly under his touch, old magic waiting to be woken. He had done this three times already this morning, but he did it again. He would do it until there was no more time left.
"Protective circle," he murmured, tracing the outer ring. "Foundation. The bridge. Channelling marks." He moved inward, his fingers never pausing in their work. "All intact."
Celestine stood beside the altar, reviewing the ingredients laid out on a small stone table. There were bowls of dried herbs, vials of dark oils, and small clay pots sealed with wax. She checked each one against her list, her lips moving silently as she read the ancient script.
"Chamomile. Lavender. Moonwater." She uncorked a vial, sniffed the contents, and then recorked it. "Ground bone. Mineral salts. Phoenix ash."
Lucien stood near the doorway, watching the process. His presence filled his corner of the chamber, a steady warmth that pushed back against the biting cold of the ancient stone. He held a small glass vial of his own blood, already drawn, the dark liquid looking warm against the glass.
Seraphina stood beside him, a single strand of her hair coiled in a polished silver dish. The hair was dark, almost black, but it caught the torchlight and gleamed with hidden silver threads.
Celestine continued down her list. "Sun-warmed honey. Nightshade extract." She looked up, her green eyes meeting Aldric's. "All present. All correct."
Aldric straightened, brushing the dust from his indigo robes. "The floor array is sound. I have tested the flow twice. It will hold."
They looked at each other across the chamber. The weight of what was coming pressed down on them, heavier than the massive stone ceiling above.
"It's time," Celestine said.
. . .
Mid-morning arrived slowly, each minute dragging like a physical weight.
Saoirse walked Morwenna through the corridors of the manor. The portraits watched in absolute silence. Edmund nodded once. Isolde pressed her hand to her heart. The old woman with white hair simply watched, her eyes following Morwenna until the child disappeared from view at the turn of the hall.
The stairs down to the ritual chamber were old and worn smooth by centuries of feet. Morwenna counted them as she descended into the dark. Twenty-three. Then twenty-four. Then the air changed, growing cooler and heavier with every step.
The corridors grew darker as they descended further. The walls changed from smooth stone to the rough, unyielding bedrock. The air grew cooler and denser, heavy with the smell of age. Torches flickered in iron brackets, casting long shadows that danced across the rough walls.
Morwenna held Saoirse's hand tightly. Her bare wrist felt strange and exposed. She rubbed it with her other thumb without thinking, seeking a comfort that wasn't there. They reached the bottom of the long flight. A heavy wooden door stood before them, carved with intricate serpents and phoenixes. Saoirse pushed it open with a low creak.
The ritual chamber was larger than Morwenna had expected. The ceiling arched high overhead, lost in the shadows. The walls were rough stone, and the floor was covered in intricate carvings that glowed faintly even in the torchlight. The light came from the runes themselves, a soft, blue luminescence that pulsed slowly, like the room itself was breathing.
At the centre, a low stone altar waited. It was dark and polished smooth by generations of use. A soft cloth had been laid across it, pale grey and almost white in the dim, pulsing light. Everyone was there. J
ack and Jane stood near the altar, their faces set. Aldric and Celestine were by the inscribed floor. Seraphina held a stack of soft, clean cloths. Lucien stood near the wall, his presence radiating warmth.
Raphael and Luelle were together, Luelle's hand gripping her brother's arm so hard her knuckles were white. Viviane's face was pale but composed. Elara stood apart, watching the preparations. Sylvaine observed everything from the shadows, her eyes missing nothing.
In the centre of the room, on a low table, sat a small silver bowl. Jane crossed the room to her and knelt on the cold floor. Her hands cupped Morwenna's face, her thumbs brushing Morwenna's cheeks. Her skin felt cool to the touch, but her eyes were burning with warmth.
"Ma chérie." Her voice was steady, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "The blood ritual is first. We will draw a few drops from you, and a few from me. Then we will mix them with other bloods—blood from creatures that share the meanings of the runes you will carry. It will make the paths stronger."
Morwenna looked at the silver bowl. It was small and plain, but the metal caught the torchlight and seemed to glow from within.
"Does it hurt?"
"The drawing? It's just a small pinch, petite. A tiny prick, as if a mosquito had found you." Jane's mouth twitched into a phantom smile. "Though you have never been bitten by mosquito."
"What is mosquito?"
"Never mind." Jane leaned in and kissed her forehead. Her lips were warm and lingering. "The ritual itself will feel strange. Numb. It will be like your arm falling asleep. But you have to stay awake, Morwenna. Do you understand? You can't sleep, and you can't fall unconscious. It would be dangerous."
Morwenna nodded, her expression serious. "Stay awake."
"I will."
Jane hugged her, a quick and fierce movement. Her arms were tight around Morwenna's shoulders, and for just a single moment, she trembled against her. Then she released her and stepped back.