The days blurred.
Morning arrived with the grey, filtered light of a persistent winter, followed by the long, stagnant stretch of the afternoon and the quiet, velvet descent of evening. The cycle repeated until time lost its sharp edges and became a single, continuous hum of exhaustion and waiting.
Jane slept in the velvet chair sometimes, her head tilted uncomfortably against the wingback while her hand still reached out to touch the bed's edge. Elara appeared at intervals, bringing cups of tea that went cold and sitting with her in a dense silence that needed no words. Cinder never moved from his post, except to eat the small bowls of meat Tilly brought with a bowed head. The fox would eat quickly and then return immediately to his vigil, his amber eyes never truly closing.
In the library, the work continued without pause. Books were read, noted, and set aside in towers of leather and parchment. New stacks replaced old ones. Letters went out to every corner of Britain and beyond. Answers came back; they were thin and offered little, but they were answers nonetheless.
On the third night, Morwenna whimpered. The sound was louder and more strained than it had been before. Jane was on her feet before the noise had even finished. She leaned over the bed, her hand pressing gently against her daughter's cheek to gauge her heat.
"Baby. Baby, I'm here."
Morwenna's eyes moved rapidly under their lids. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Then, as quickly as the distress had begun, she settled. Her breathing steadied and the tension in her small face eased into a deep, heavy slumber. Jane stayed bent over her for a long time, her own heart racing in the quiet nursery.
On the fourth day, Morwenna finally opened her eyes.
Jane was dozing in the chair, her head tilted to the side and her hand still resting on the wool blanket. Cinder's ears snapped forward, his entire body tensing with sudden focus. He made a small, high-pitched whine, and Jane woke instantly. Green eyes met hers. They were hazy and unfocused, but they were open.
"Mama."
The word was a whisper, scraped raw and barely audible, but it was there. Jane leaned over the bed, her hands cupping her daughter's face. The skin was still too pale, but it felt warmer than it had the day before.
"I'm here, baby. I'm here."
Morwenna blinked slowly. Her eyes moved across the room, taking in the vaulted ceiling, the window, and the low fire in the hearth. They finally found Cinder. Her hand lifted, trembling with the effort, and touched his russet fur.
"Cinder."
The fox pressed into her palm, his whole body shaking with the effort of staying still while his tail gave a single, frantic wag against the sheets. Morwenna looked back at Jane.
"Hurt."
"I know, baby. I know."
"Stayed awake."
Jane's throat closed, a hard knot of emotion making it difficult to speak. "You did. You stayed awake. You were so brave."
Morwenna's eyes drifted closed again, her strength spent. Her hand stayed resting on Cinder's fur. Jane sat there, her hand on her daughter's cheek, and let the tears fall silently.
. . .
The Floo roared green just past noon.
Celestine was in the entrance hall when the flames flared. She had been passing through, on her way back to the library with a fresh cup of tea, when the fire surged and a figure stepped out from the emerald light. The tea sloshed in its cup, a few drops spilling over the rim onto her fingers, but she didn't notice the sting.
Roxane Evans wasn't tall. She stood perhaps 165 centimetres, with dark brown hair pinned in an elegant twist and green eyes that held the weight of centuries. Her face stayed smooth and unlined—the face of a woman in her early forties that belied her true years. She wore simple travelling robes of deep indigo. She wore no jewellery, and nothing marked her as the former Evans Matriarch. She brushed a fleck of ash from her sleeve and looked up.
Celestine's cup stopped halfway to her lips.
"Mother."
Roxane's eyes moved past her daughter, scanning the hall with practiced efficiency. "I came as soon as I got your owl." Her gaze stopped on Celestine's face, taking in the shadows under her eyes, the tightness at the corners of her mouth, and the way she held herself. "Where is she?"
. . .
Jane looked up when the nursery door opened.
The woman who entered was a stranger. No, she wasn't a stranger. The green eyes were unmistakable. They were the same green that stared back at Jane from every mirror, that shone from Morwenna's face, and that marked the LeFay line across generations.
"Grand-mère."
The word came out small and younger than she had meant it to be. Jane heard herself say it and felt six years old again; she felt small and scared and certain that everything would be all right because this woman was here.
Roxane crossed the room in quick, purposeful strides. She looked at Morwenna, taking in the pale face, the white hair, and the small hand clutching Cinder's fur. Then she looked at Jane. She saw the hollows under her eyes and the way she gripped the chair's arm. She saw the hands lying loose in her lap, fingers curled as if she had forgotten how to close them.
"You look terrible," Roxane said.
Jane almost laughed. The sound got caught somewhere between her chest and her throat and came out as something wet and broken. "Thank you."
Roxane knelt beside the bed with a grace that seemed timeless. She placed two fingers against Morwenna's throat, feeling the steady rhythm of her pulse. Her eyes half-closed, and for a long moment, she was perfectly still while her magic reached out to probe the child's core. Then she pressed her palm flat against Morwenna's chest, over her heart.
The child stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Green met green. Morwenna blinked, looking at the face above her. It was older than Mama's and Gran-ma's, with the same eyes and the same sharp bone structure. Her brow furrowed in thought.
"Mama?"
"No, little one." Roxane's voice was soft, her French accent lingering in the vowels. "I'm your great-grandmother. Your mama's grandmother."
Morwenna processed this, her eyes moving over Roxane's face, cataloguing and comparing. Then she reached up and touched Roxane's cheek with a delicate finger.
"Same eyes."
Roxane smiled, a small thing that changed her whole face and softened the sharpness of her features. "Yes. The same eyes."
She checked Morwenna's pulse again, her breathing, and the flow of magic through her core. She asked quiet questions: did this hurt, did that hurt, could she feel this? Morwenna answered in her quiet, precise way, her voice growing stronger with each word. When she finished, Roxane sat back on her heels and looked at Jane.
"No physical trauma. The core is stable. She needs rest, food, and time. Nothing more."
Jane's shoulders sagged. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes stinging. Roxane stood and crossed to her. She took Jane's face in both hands, the way she must have done a hundred times when Jane was small. Her palms were warm and smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment. It was the same smell Jane remembered from childhood—from the times she had fallen and scraped her knees, and from every moment she had ever needed someone to hold her together.
"You did well," Roxane said. "You kept her alive. That's what matters."
The tears spilled over, running down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. Jane made no sound; she just sat there, shaking, while her grandmother held her face and let her fall apart.
. . .
That evening, after Morwenna had eaten and slept again, the Evans family gathered in a small sitting room off the library. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and old books.
Celestine sat by the fire. Lucien stood near the window, his silhouette dark against the glass. Raphael and Luelle shared a settee, their exhaustion clear. Jane sat between her god-mother and her mother, too tired to hold herself up. Roxane took the chair across from them. For a long moment, she simply looked at her family, at the lines of strain on their faces.
"The Keith library is extensive," she said. "But it isn't the only place with answers."
Luelle straightened, her green eyes brightening with interest. "The Evans archives?"
"Of course. The main collection is substantial, but the deeper archives hold more." Roxane's voice was quiet, but the words carried an immense weight. She looked at Raphael and Luelle. "You two need to go back. Guard the house. Read those books. I will give you permission as librarian."
Everyone in the room understood what that meant. When an Evans Matriarch stepped down, she became the keeper of the family's deepest knowledge, becoming the librarian. Roxane had held that role for decades now, watching over texts that predated the Evans name itself.
"The Hive."
"Yes. There are records there of phoenix manifestations from every corner of the magical world, including cold manifestations. I have catalogued them myself."
Raphael leaned forward. "Grand-mère, you have seen them?"
"I have cataloged them. That was my job, before—" She gestured vaguely. "Before I decided I would rather sleep than work."
Luelle's mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile.
Celestine nodded. "The library knows its keeper. The Hive won't open fully for anyone else."
Raphael looked at Luelle, and she looked back at him. "We can do that," Raphael said.
"When you get home," Roxane continued, "contact the Flamels. Nicholas and Perenelle. They are clan—the brother's line from the split. Tell them about this case. Ask if they have seen anything like it in their records."
Lucien spoke from the window, his voice melodic and unhurried. "Ah, Nicholas is close with Dumbledore."
The room went quiet. Roxane's expression didn't change.
"I know. That's why you tell them twice. Once for the records, and once because they should know what is happening in the world." She paused, her gaze turning sharp. "And tell them about the Potter boy too. Lily's son. They might not have heard, or they might have heard only what Dumbledore wants them to hear."
Jane's hand tightened on her chair's arm. Roxane looked at her.
"We don't know what Nicholas knows. We don't know what he will do with information. But he is clan. He has a right to know. And he has archives that might help both children."
Jane nodded slowly. Roxane stood. "That's enough for tonight. Rest. Tomorrow we work."
. . .
The next morning, Roxane sat with Morwenna while Jane slept.
It was the first time Jane had truly slept since the ritual. Roxane had insisted. She had taken Jane by the shoulders, marched her to the master bedroom, and told her in no uncertain terms that she would be useless if she collapsed. Jane had fought for all of thirty seconds before exhaustion won. Now Roxane sat in the chair by the bed, watching her great-granddaughter sleep.
Morwenna's eyes opened. She stared at Roxane for a long moment, her gaze clear and assessing. Then she spoke.
"You are still here."
"I'm still here."
"Why?"
Roxane considered the question with the same gravity the child had used. "Because your mama needed someone to sit with you while she rested. And because I wanted to."
Morwenna processed this, her small hand finding Cinder's thick fur. "You are old."
Roxane laughed. It was a quiet sound. "I suppose I am. Older than anyone else in this house."
"How old?"
"Very."
Morwenna thought about this. "You don't look old."
"No. All Evans age well."
Morwenna touched her own cheek, her fingers tracing the line of her jaw. "Me too?"
"You too."
Morwenna nodded, satisfied, and closed her eyes again.
. . .
That evening, Viviane came to say goodbye. She knelt beside the bed and took Morwenna's small hand.
"I have to go, mon trésor. But I will be back. I will be looking for answers for you."
Morwenna looked at her with those green eyes. "Try hard."
Viviane's composure cracked. She laughed, a sound that was wet and broken. "I will try very hard. I promise." She kissed Morwenna's forehead and left the room.
Elara was next. She stood beside the bed, looking down at the child with a mixture of love and concern. Then she knelt and touched the silver bracelet on Morwenna's wrist. "It knows you now. It will always know you."
Morwenna touched the cool silver. "Thank you."
Elara's hand lingered for a moment. Then she stood, touched Jane's shoulder once in support, and walked out.
Sylvaine came last. She stood at the foot of the bed, small and upright. She looked at Morwenna for a long moment, then she looked at Jack, who had appeared in the doorway. "For you, for her," she said quietly. "I will find what I can."
Jack nodded once. He didn't speak. Sylvaine left, her footsteps quiet on the stone.
. . .
The next morning, Raphael and Luelle packed.
Their trunks lay open on the bed in Luelle's room. Clothes were folded and set inside while books were stacked on the nightstand, waiting to be added. The morning light was grey and weak, filtering through the curtains.
Luelle folded a jumper with precise, careful movements. Her hands shook slightly as she smoothed the wool. Her green eyes were red-rimmed; she had not slept.
Raphael watched her from the doorway. He was already packed, his trunk sitting in the hall.
"We could stay longer," he said.
Luelle shook her head. "No. We need to go. The family needs both of us." She folded another jumper and reached for the next. "She will be okay."
"She is three, Luelle."
"I know how old she is!" Luelle's voice broke. She stopped folding and stood there with her hands on a stack of wool, her shoulders shaking. "I know."
Raphael crossed the room and put his arms around her from behind. She leaned back against him, her head resting against his chest.
"I don't want to leave her."
"I know."
"What if she gets worse? What if—"
"She won't." He held her tighter. "Grand-mère is here. She is the strongest witch and the best healer any of us know. She will keep Morwenna safe."
Luelle turned in his arms and pressed her face against his shoulder. He felt the wetness of her tears soak through his shirt. "Twenty minutes," she whispered. "That's all I'm allowing myself. Then I will be fine."
"Take as long as you need."
They stood there in the grey morning light, brother and sister, holding each other. When Luelle finally pulled back, her eyes were dry. They were red, but dry. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and went back to folding.
"I will write every week," she said. "Every single week. She has to write back."
"She will."
"And if anything changes, if she so much as sneezes wrong, Jane must tell me immediately."
"Of course."
Luelle closed her trunk. The clasps clicked into place with a sound that felt far too final. "Okay," she said. "I'm ready."
She wasn't. They both knew it. But she went anyway.
An hour later, Luelle knelt beside Morwenna's bed and hugged her. "I will write every week, Morwenna. Every single week. You have to write back."
Morwenna nodded, her small hand patting Luelle's arm. "Promise."
"Promise." Luelle kissed her cheek and stood. Her jaw was tight. She didn't look back as she walked out.
Raphael crouched beside the bed. He looked at his niece for a long moment, taking in the white hair and the serious eyes. Then he reached out and touched her hair.
"We will find answers," he said. "The Hive is old. It holds things no one else remembers. We will find something."
Morwenna caught his hand. Her grip was weak, but it was there. "Come back."
"Soon as we can."
He squeezed her fingers once and stood. At the door, he paused and looked back. Morwenna was watching him, her green eyes steady and unwavering. He walked out.
. . .
The manor settled into something quieter.
Not peaceful; the word didn't fit. The edges remained raw and sharp. But the frantic energy had faded. The library remained cluttered, yet the work continued at a slower, more deliberate pace. Aldric and Seraphina took shifts now. Saoirse worked in bursts. Jack was there every day, turning pages and searching for anything that could explain the mutation.
Jane stayed in the nursery. Roxane stayed, too. She appeared at odd hours, checking Morwenna's pulse and adjusting her blankets. She sat with Jane in a dense silence. She told stories sometimes, old stories about Evans women that had survived worse things. Jane listened, and Morwenna listened too, her eyes fixed on her great-grandmother's face.
Morwenna woke more often now. She ate more, and she sat up against the pillows to let Jane feed her broth and honey. She asked questions in her quiet, precise way.
"The ritual didn't go the way we planned," Jane explained one afternoon. "Your magic fought the heat. We are trying to understand why."
Morwenna considered this, her brow furrowing. Her hand moved to her chest, pressing flat against her sternum.
"Cold inside."
Jane's throat tightened. "I know, baby."
"It's mine."
Jane looked at her. "What is yours?"
"The cold." Morwenna's hand pressed harder against her chest. "It's mine. Not the bath cold. Not the frost on the window. The cold inside." She tapped her sternum with two fingers. "Here. It lives here."
Jane remembered the frost on the nursery window when Morwenna was two, spreading under her small palm. She thought of the way the glass had cracked during the fever and the cold pushing out when her body couldn't hold it.
"The heat wasn't yours," Jane said slowly.
Morwenna shook her head. "The heat was wrong. It didn't belong. It tried to push my cold away, and my cold pushed back." She looked at Jane with those green eyes. "That's why it hurt. They fought."
Jane sat very still. Her daughter was three years old.
Three.
And she had just articulated something that Aldric and Celestine had trying to understand when the accident happen.
"Baby, do you still feel the cold now?"
Morwenna considered the question. Her hand stayed on her chest. "It's quieter. Smaller. Like it's sleeping." She paused. "It will wake up when it needs to."
Jane held her daughter's hand and said nothing. The cold was hers. It had always been hers. They just hadn't understood what that meant until now.
. . .
The days found their rhythm.
Morning: Jane woke in the chair and helped Morwenna with breakfast. Aldric or Seraphina appeared with updates from the library. Roxane brought tea and sat with them. The grey light through the window grew stronger as the hours passed.
Afternoon: Morwenna slept. Jane dozed in the chair. Cinder kept watch, his amber eyes opening whenever Morwenna's breathing changed and closing again when it steadied. Roxane read in the corner, ancient texts piled beside her as she made notes in a small leather journal. The scratch of her quill was the only sound.
Evening: Jack came. He sat on the edge of the bed and read to Morwenna from her bestiary, his voice steady despite the shadows under his eyes. Roxane watched him with those ancient green eyes and said nothing. When he finished, he would sit there for a while longer, just watching his daughter breathe. Then he would kiss her forehead and go back to the library.
Night: Jane stayed. The fire crackled. Cinder breathed slow and even. Roxane appeared sometimes to check Morwenna's pulse, to lay another blanket over Jane's shoulders, or to sit in silence until the clock struck some hour Jane had stopped counting. The manor settled into its nighttime quiet, creaking and settling around them like a living thing.
It wasn't healing. Not yet. The word didn't fit. The edges were still raw, still sharp, and still too fresh to touch without bleeding. But it was something. It was a shape. A container for the days to fill.
In the library, the work continued. Books were read and set aside. New stacks replaced old ones. Letters went out. Answers came back; they were thin and useless, but they were answers nonetheless. Aldric's voice, rough with exhaustion, calling for another text. Seraphina's quiet responses, passing him whatever he needed. Saoirse's sudden bursts of energy, then long silences. Jack's steady presence, turning pages and searching for something.
In the nursery, the rhythm held. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. Night. The cycle repeated, each day folding into the next until time lost its shape and became something else. Something softer. Something that could be endured.
And slowly, day by day, the manor learned to breathe again.