The entrance hall felt warm with afternoon light. Dust motes drifted through the golden shafts that fell from the high windows, spinning slowly as they caught the glow and remained suspended in the still air. Somewhere deep in the manor's stone bones, a clock ticked with rhythmic, heavy precision, each beat vibrating through the floorboards.
Morwenna's laughter echoed off the smooth stone walls.
She sat cross-legged on the cool marble floor with Cinder, a pile of wooden blocks scattered in a chaotic circle around them. These blocks were painted in bright colours: primary red, deep blue, and sunny yellow. They were things Tilly had found somewhere in the manor's deepest storage chests, dug out from a heavy trunk that hadn't been opened in decades.
Morwenna was building a tower, her small fingers stacking each piece with a focused, quiet intensity. Cinder kept knocking it over with a casual sweep of his russet tail.
"No," Morwenna said, but she was laughing. The sound bounced off the hall's centre fountain and the lining portraits that watched from the walls. She rebuilt the structure, placing each block with careful precision while her small tongue poked from her mouth's corner. Cinder watched with patient, amber eyes, and then his tail swept through it again.
Tilly hovered nearby, his large ears twitching with each clatter of wood against marble. He held a silver dustpan and a small brush, though no one hadn't asked him to. The house-elf was simply ready, his small body vibrating with the constant need to be useful. His eyes tracked every block that scattered across the polished floor.
"Little miss," he said, his voice high and worried. "The fox isn't helping."
"Cinder is helping." Morwenna picked up a blue block and held it out to the fox. "See? He holds."
Cinder looked at the block, then at Morwenna, and then back at the block. Then, with the gravity of a creature accepting a sacred duty, he took it gently in his mouth and set it on top of the precarious tower. The tower held. Morwenna clapped, her small hands coming together with a sharp, happy sound. Cinder's tail wagged once, twice, three times, and the tower fell in a heap of primary colours.
Tilly made a small sound of distress. The dustpan trembled in his grip. Morwenna laughed again, reaching for the blocks as she began the work of rebuilding.
. . .
The study door clicked shut.
Inside, the fire had burned low, the embers pulsing orange behind the iron grate. The flames no longer leaped; they just lay there, radiating a dry, heavy heat that smelled of old cedar and parchment. The mantel clock ticked. Each click marked the silence between words.
Aldric sat in the leather armchair by the window, the last of the afternoon's light falling across his hands. They rested on the chair's arms, still and heavy. His reading glasses sat on the small table beside him, next to a stack of notes he had been reviewing: research on phoenix manifestations, notes from the library, and letters from France. He hadn't touched them in an hour.
Seraphina was beside him on the settee, her knitting needles clicking in a slow, steady rhythm. The yarn was dark green, the Keith family's colour, winding through her fingers in a pattern she had knit a hundred times before. The needles moved without her needing to watch them; her eyes remained on her husband.
Jack and Jane shared the sofa across from them, their shoulders touching. Jack's hand rested on Jane's knee, and his thumb moved in small, repetitive circles. It was a habit he had developed over the past month; it was a way of grounding himself and reminding himself she was there. Jane's hand lay over his, her fingers cool against his skin.
Saoirse sat on the floor, her back against the stone wall and her legs stretched toward the hearth's warmth. She had a cup of tea balanced on the floor beside her, untouched for the past twenty minutes. Her eyes moved between her parents and her brother, watching the way they all avoided looking at the empty centre of the room.
Aldric set his teacup down. The porcelain clicked against the wood. The sound was small, but it was cut through the room's quiet.
"We need to talk about what comes next."
Jane looked at him. Her colour was good now. The grey undertone was gone and the hollows under her eyes had filled. Four weeks of rest and Roxane's care had done their work. She still tired easily and still found her hands shaking at unexpected moments, but she was herself again. The life had returned to her eyes.
Jack's hand stayed on her knee. His thumb kept moving.
"Morwenna is three," Aldric continued. "Her first maturity is behind her. Her recovery is complete." He paused. "But she has not left this manor since she was born."
Seraphina's needles slowed. The clicking became more deliberate. "The rule says she can enter the mundane world at four. That gives us a year to prepare."
Jane frowned. "Prepare for what?"
"Everything." Seraphina set her knitting in her lap. The yarn pooled in a dark green pile against her indigo robes. "The mundane world is different. The sounds, the lights, the people. She hasn't seen a car. She hasn't been in a crowd. She hasn't met another child."
"She had met children," Saoirse said. "Raphael and Luelle were here. Viviane was here. And I'm here too."
"Those are adults," Seraphina said. "Or near enough. She has not been in a room with someone her own age who doesn't share her blood."
Jane's hand tightened on Jack's knee. Her nails pressed into the fabric of his trousers. He felt the pressure through the cloth and didn't move.
Aldric leaned forward. The chair's leather creaked under his weight. "Jack. Jane. I want you to go into the mundane world."
Jack looked up. "Now?"
"Tomorrow. This week. Soon." Aldric's voice remained steady. "Buy books. Toddler books, picture books, the kind mundane people use to teach their children. Buy toys. Buy clothes. Simple clothes, the kind she would wear outside."
Jane nodded. She had ordinary clothes already: dresses and jeans and jumpers from her trips into the world over the past three years. They were things she had bought for herself, for the times she had needed to move through that world unnoticed.
But Morwenna had nothing. The child had only ever worn silk and velvet, the manor's fine fabrics, the dresses Seraphina sewed and the robes Tilly pressed. She had not felt denim against her legs. She has not worn shoes that tied.
"And while you are there," Seraphina added, her gaze sharpening, "I want you to see specialists."
The room wasn't quiet. Jack's hand stilled on Jane's knee. The circling stopped. "Specialists?"
"Child development experts. Paediatricians. And," Seraphina paused. Her needles had stopped completely now. They rested in her lap, still and silent. "A psychologist."
Jane's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped beneath her skin. "For Morwenna?"
"No." Seraphina's voice was firm. "For you."
Jane stared at her. Seraphina met her gaze. There was no softness in it now; there was only the steel that had kept her steady through decades of watching her children grow, through the wars and the waiting.
"You watched your daughter scream for half an hour while you couldn't reach her," Seraphina said. "You gave two drops of your heart blood and nearly did die. You have spent the past month sitting in a chair, watching her breathe." She leaned forward. "Jane, you need to talk to someone. Both of you do."
Jack's hand found Jane's. She held on. Her grip wasn't tight enough to hurt, but he didn't pull away.
Aldric spoke. His voice was quieter now, weighted with a deep gravity. "Tell them a version of the truth. A simple version. Your daughter is sensitive. Fragile. For health reasons, she has not left home. She has not met strangers or other children. Her health has improved, and you want to bring her outside next year. Ask them what you should prepare. Ask about child development. About early education."
Jane nodded. Her face wasn't pale, but her voice held. "I can do that."
"There's more." Aldric's voice dropped. "Tell them about the treatment."
Jack's head came up. "Father."
"She needs to say it, Jack." Aldric's eyes weren't sad. "She needs to say the words to someone who can help her carry them."
Jane's grip on Jack's hand tightened until her knuckles went white. He didn't move.
"Tell them Morwenna had her first treatment last month," Seraphina's voice softened. "Tell them the first treatment is usually gentle and the results are usually predictable. But something happened. She had a severe adverse reaction. She was awake and in extreme distress for almost half an hour." She paused. "Tell them you could do nothing but watch. Because if the treatment stopped, her condition would worsen."
Jane blinked once, and then twice. Her eyes stayed dry. She wouldn't let the tears fall, not yet.
Aldric took over. His voice was heavier now. "Tell them she will need the same treatment again at five. And at seven. And at eleven. And at seventeen." He took a breath. It wasn't a steady breath. It was caught in his chest. "Most children with her condition, in the past, didn't survive the second treatment. Now, the probability is much higher. But Morwenna is unique. Her case is complicated. There are factors that make the risk higher."
The fire crackled. A log shifted, sending sparks up the chimney. The sound was sharp in the silence. Saoirse had stopped pretending to look at the flames. She was watching her brother. Her face was still, but her eyes moved over him, cataloguing the set of his jaw and the way his hand gripped Jane's.
"I'm know that what you went through is traumatic," Aldric continued. "For both of you. That's why we are need professionals to help. Not for Morwenna. For you."
The silence stretched. Jane opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again.
"I can do that," she whispered.
Jack looked at her. His face was pale. The scratches on his arm had healed, finally, after weeks of her watching them fade. But he still remembered the feel of them and the proof that she had fought him. "We are can do that."
Saoirse spoke from the floor. "I will stay with Morwenna. Tilly will help. She will won't even notice you are gone."
Jane almost smiled. The corner of her mouth lifted just slightly.
Aldric nodded. "Tomorrow, then."
. . .
The next morning, Jane stood in front of the mirror in denim jeans and a soft, charcoal jumper. They were simple things she had bought years ago on one of her trips into the world. The denim felt strange and coarse against her legs. She had worn robes for so long; she was used to the manor's heavy fabrics and the silks that marked her as belonging to another world. The jumper felt soft and anonymous. She pulled her red hair back in a plain clasp.
She looked ordinary.
Jack appeared behind her in the reflection. He wore dark trousers, a simple navy jumper, and shoes that looked vaguely Muggle. His hair was neatly combed. The silver streak at his temples caught the morning light.
She turned to face him. "Do I'm look like a mother?"
He looked at her. He saw the jeans and the jumper and the face he had loved for five years. "You look like you."
That's enough.
They went to the nursery. The door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, they are could hear Morwenna's voice, soft and sibilant, speaking to Cinder in Parseltongue. Jane pushed the door open.
Morwenna sat on the floor with her bestiary open in her lap. The book was heavy, but she managed it with determination. Cinder lay curled beside her, his head resting on his paws and his ears swivelling toward her with every syllable. She looked up when they entered. Her green eyes found them immediately.
"Mama. Dada."
Jane crossed the room and knelt. The floorboards felt cold through her jeans. She kissed Morwenna's forehead. The skin was warm and alive.
"We are have to go out for a while, petite. Saoirse will stay with you."
"Where?"
"To get you things. Books and toys."
Morwenna considered this. Her brow furrowed. "Bring back?"
"Of course."
Morwenna nodded, satisfied, and went back to her book. Her small finger traced the serpent illustration. Her lips moved, forming words Jane couldn't understand. Cinder's ears followed her voice.
Jane stood up and looked at her daughter for one more moment. She took in the white hair and the small hand resting on the page. Then she turned and walked out.
. . .
They are Apparated to a quiet alley in London.
The noise hit them first. There are cars, buses, and thousands of people. Jane heard an engine's rumble, the squeal of brakes, and a constant, low murmur of voices. The smell of exhaust and the scent of hot pavement mixed with something cooking from a nearby shop. The press of bodies moving in every direction felt overwhelming. None of them looked at each other; all of them were intent on their own destinations.
Jane let the sensory flood wash over her. She had done this dozens of times over the years. It was always a shock, coming from the manor's deep silence. The quiet there is so deep you can hear your own heartbeat if you listen. Here, you couldn't hear yourself think.
But it was familiar now. Manageable.
Jack took her hand. His palm was warm. "Ready?"
She nodded.