The bookshop sat on a quiet side street, tucked between a small bakery and a dusty charity shop. The bakery smelled of toasted yeast and caramelized sugar, the warm scent wafting out whenever the heavy door swung open. Beside it, the charity shop had a rack of second-hand clothes outside that flapped gently in the cool breeze, smelling faintly of stale perfume and old, moth-balled wool.
The bookshop's sign read "Little Readers" in bright primary colours—red, blue, and yellow. They were the exact same shades as the blocks Morwenna had been stacking on the marble floor the day before.
Jane pushed the door open. A small brass bell jingled above her head, the sound sharp and merry. The shop was small and warm, smelling pleasantly of aged paper, fresh ink, and a hint of vanilla bean. Books were stuffed into shelves that reached from the floorboards to the high, ornate ceiling. Picture books lined the lower shelves, their glossy covers bright and inviting. Older books filled the higher reaches, their spines worn and their titles faded by years of London sunlight.
A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. She was in her sixties, perhaps, with short grey hair and glasses hanging from a silver chain around her neck.
"Can I help you?"
Jane smiled back. It's strange and tight on her face, that ordinary social expression, but she managed to make it work. "We are looking for books. For our daughter. She is three."
The woman came out from behind the counter. Her movements were unhurried and comfortable, her sensible shoes clicking softly on the wooden floor. "Is this the first time you are buying books for her?"
"It's the first time we are buying anything for her, really." Jane let her voice soften, looking a little embarrassed. "She has been unwell. For a long time. She hasn't been able to go out, meet people, or do normal things. Her health is finally improving, and we want to start preparing her for what is next."
The woman's face softened into a look of genuine empathy. Her eyes went warm with the particular kindness of someone who had seen many worried mothers before. "Oh, you poor thing. Of course. Let me show you what we have."
She led them through the narrow aisles, pulling books from the shelves with a practised hand. There were board books with bright pictures and thick, sturdy pages that small hands could turn without tearing. There were picture books with simple stories and rhythmic, repeating phrases. She pointed out books about colours, numbers, and exotic animals.
Then she moved to books about feelings: a little bear learning to name his emotions, or a small child dealing with the heavy weight of separation anxiety. There were books about making friends, about visiting the doctor, and about all the ordinary milestones Morwenna hadn't experienced within the manor walls.
Jane listened and nodded, her mind racing to map these stories onto her daughter's life. She hadn't ever considered questions before.
How do you know when a child is ready for longer stories? What do you do if they lose interest halfway through a page? Are there books that help with anxiety, with the fear of new situations, or with the kind of overwhelming sensory input that comes from encountering the world for the first time at age four?
The woman answered every question with patience. She pulled more books from the shelves and recommended specific authors and series. She didn't ask the questions Jane didn't want to answer, respecting the unspoken boundaries of their conversation.
When they finally left, the paper bag was heavy with the weight of the books. The woman pressed a small appointment card into Jane's hand. It belonged to a paediatrician she recommended, someone she described as being particularly good with children who had complex needs.
"Call them," she said. "They will help you."
Jane tucked the card deep into her pocket.
The children's clothing store was a ten-minute walk away. The street's character changed as they moved through it, becoming quieter and more residential. Plane trees lined the pavement, their new leaves just beginning to fill in with a vibrant spring green. The store was much louder than the bookshop. Pop music played from speakers hidden somewhere in the ceiling, a bright, repetitive song Jane vaguely recognised from years ago.
Children ran between the circular racks of clothes, shrieking with excitement, while their parents called after them in varying states of exasperation. A toddler sat on the floor and screamed, his face a bright, mottled red, while his mother tried to wrestle him into a pair of stiff denim trousers. A baby cried in a pram. A girl of about five spun in dizzying circles until she fell down, laughing.
Jane moved through the chaos, her senses heightened. She picked up small pairs of jeans, soft cotton t-shirts, and pyjamas with cartoon animals printed on them. She found socks with rubber grips on the bottom; those seemed useful for the marble floors of the manor. She selected a little coat with a hood, a bright, cheerful blue that felt warm and sturdy. She held things up to the light, examined the seams, and set them in the basket Jack carried.
She held up a pair of tiny trainers. They were blue with white stripes and small, white laces.
"She will hate these," Jane said.
Jack smiled. "Probably."
They bought them anyway.
At the counter, a teenager with vibrant purple hair and a small nose ring rang up their purchases. She asked if they were shopping for a gift, and Jane said yes. She asked if they were shopping for their daughter, and Jane explained they were. The girl smiled and said the trainers were cute. Jane smiled back. It's getting easier now to move through the motions of an ordinary life.
They found a small café at half past eleven. It was a cluttered place with mismatched wooden tables and the rich, roasted smell of fresh coffee. Jane ordered tea, and Jack ordered the same. They sat by the window and watched the people of London pass by on the pavement. Jane pulled out the appointment card. She turned it over in her fingers, feeling the texture of the cheap paper. It was slightly bent at the corner from being in her pocket.
"I should call now," she said.
"Finish your tea first."
She drank her tea. It was still far too hot. She burned her tongue on the first sip and didn't even feel the sting.
Around noon, she rose from her seat and crossed the café, weaving past tables and the low murmur of conversation. Near the counter, a small telephone sat against the wall. She asked to use it; the staff nodded without fuss.
The line clicked as she dialed. The receptionist who answered was polite and efficient. There was an opening at three that very afternoon.
Jane took it without hesitation.
. . .
The paediatrician's office sat in a converted Victorian house on a quiet, leafy street. A brass sign beside the door listed three names. A small, well-tended garden had been planted in front, with spring flowers that were just beginning to bloom in shades of purple and white. Jane sat in the waiting room with a glossy magazine she's not reading. The pages were open in her lap, but her eyes weren't on the photographs. They moved around the room instead, cataloguing the details.
Other parents waited with children of various ages. A baby slept in a plastic carrier, its tiny face peaceful and its fingers curled tightly around the strap. A boy of about four built a wobbly tower out of wooden blocks while his mother watched, her hand resting supportively on his back. A girl with pigtails coloured in a book, her tongue poking out from her mouth's corner in the exact same way Morwenna's did when she concentrated.
Jane watched them all. She saw the way the mother smiled at the boy when the tower held. She saw the girl's intense focus. She saw the baby's tiny fingers curled around its mother's thumb. Her chest ached with a dull, persistent weight. Jack's hand found hers, his palm warm and steady. He didn't speak. He just held on, grounding her in the moment.
A nurse called their names. The doctor was a woman in her fifties with grey-streaked hair pulled back into a sensible bun. She had kind eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. She shook their hands firmly and gestured to the upholstered chairs across from her desk.
"Now," she said, settling into her own chair and picking up a pen. "Tell me about your daughter."
Jane did. She told the simple version of the story first. Morwenna was three. She had been unwell since her birth. It was a rare and complicated condition that required specialist care. She hadn't ever been able to leave the home. She hadn't ever met other children or experienced the world. Her health was finally improving, and they wanted to start preparing her for the outside world next year.
The doctor listened intently. She nodded at the appropriate moments, making notes on a white pad.
Jane told her about the books they had bought, the clothes they had selected, and their plans for the coming year. She asked about early education, about the process of socialisation, and about what to expect when introducing a child to the world for the first time at the age of four.
The doctor answered every question. She recommended books and talked about the local playgroups and the realities of separation anxiety. She asked questions about Morwenna's development. Was she talking? Was she walking? Was she feeding herself? Jane answered them all.
Then, her hands began to shake.
The doctor noticed immediately. She set down her pen, the soft click of it against the desk sounding loud in the quiet room. "Mrs. Keith. Is there something else?"
Jane looked at Jack. He gave her a small, encouraging nod. She told her about the treatment.
She kept her voice steady, forcing it to remain flat. She described it factually, as if she were reading from a medical report. She spoke of the first treatment and the gentle expectations they had held. She spoke of the reaction. The distress. The half hour of agony.
Her voice stayed steady, but her body wasn't listening to her will. The tremor spread from her hands to her arms. Her shoulders shook now, fine vibrations running through her frame. Her chest tightened until each breath came harder and more shallow than the last. She gripped her thighs until her nails pressed painfully through the denim of her jeans.
She explained she couldn't reach her daughter. She explained that her husband had been forced to hold her back. She spoke about the way Morwenna's small body had shaken, the sounds she had made, and the total helplessness of watching and being unable to help.
Jane told her about the future treatments that awaited her: at five, at seven, at eleven, and at seventeen. She said that most children with Morwenna's condition, in the past, hadn't survived the second treatment.
She told her that Morwenna was unique. That her case was complicated. That the risk was significantly higher for her. She admitted there was a very real chance their daughter would die.
When she finished, the room was heavy with silence. Jane's hands were still shaking. She could feel the pulse thrumming in her throat, in her temples, and behind her eyes. Her skin was cold and damp with sweat despite the warmth of the office.
The doctor's eyes were wet. She didn't wipe them away. She just looked at Jane with an expression that was hard to name. It wasn't pity or simple sympathy. It was the look of someone who had sat across from other parents, on other days, and heard other versions of this same story.
"Mrs. Keith," she said, her voice soft. "Mr. Keith. I'm so sorry."
Jane nodded. She couldn't speak. Her throat had closed as if a hand were tightening around it.
The doctor leaned forward, her hands clasped together. "I want to refer you to a colleague. She is a psychologist who specialises in parents facing this kind of situation. Parents who have been through this kind of trauma."
Jack spoke. His voice was steady, but there was a roughness to it, a scrape of exhaustion. "We thought you might."
The doctor nodded. She wrote something on a small white card and pushed it across the desk. "Her name is Dr. Ellis. She is very good. She works with families who have children with complex medical needs. She will understand."
Jane took the card, her fingers feeling cold against the paper. "Thank you."
. . .
They sat on a green wooden bench in a small neighbourhood park. The sun was warm on their faces. It was that particular quality of late spring light: golden, soft, and not yet harsh with the coming summer. Children ran on the grass, chasing each other and shrieking with laughter. A dog chased a bright yellow ball. Parents sat on benches like theirs, watching, chatting, and drinking coffee from paper cups.
Jane watched a little girl climb a plastic slide. She was maybe three, with dark curls and a bright pink coat. She reached the top slowly and carefully, her small hands gripping the sides. At the top, she paused, looked back at her mother, and waved. Her mother waved back with a smile. Then the girl slid down with a shriek of joy.
"She isn't screaming," Jane said quietly.
Jack looked at her.
"That little girl. She is screaming, but it's happy. It's joy." Jane's voice was soft and distant. "Morwenna screamed like that once. At her party. When she was laughing."
Jack put his arm around her. His hand rested on her shoulder, warm and solid. "She will do it again," he said. "She will have years of it."
Jane leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and slow. "I know."
They sat there for a long time, watching the children play in the golden light.
. . .
Dr. Ellis's office was in a modest building near the park. It was four storeys high, with a lift that creaked as it rose and a quiet waiting room on the third floor. The waiting room was silent. Soft piano music played from somewhere, simple and soothing. A fish tank bubbled in the corner, with goldfish drifting through green silk plants. Toys sat in a wicker basket, but no children were there today. Jane sat on a couch that was too soft. It swallowed her and made her feel small. Jack sat beside her, and they held hands.
Dr. Ellis came out to meet them herself. She was a small woman with grey hair cut short and glasses on a silver chain around her neck. Her handshake was warm and her smile was genuine. "Come in," she said. "Please, sit."
Her office was comfortable and smelled of old books. Shelves were lined with psychology texts, parenting guides, and novels. A box of tissues sat on the low wooden table between the chairs. A large window looked out onto the busy street below. Dr. Ellis settled into an armchair across from them. She didn't sit behind a desk; she sat close, at the same level as them.
"Dr. Meadows sent me your file," she said, her gaze kind. "I'm honoured you came to see me. What you have been through..." She shook her head slowly. "Most people wouldn't be sitting here. Most people would be trying to forget."
Jane's throat tightened. "We can't forget."
"No," Dr. Ellis agreed. "You can't. But you can learn to carry it."
They talked for an hour.
Jane told the story again.
This time, she didn't force her voice to stay steady. This time, she let it crack. She let the tears come. They ran down her cheeks and dripped off her chin, and she didn't wipe them away. She talked about the moment she realised she couldn't reach Morwenna. She spoke of fighting Jack. She spoke of the way his arms had felt around her, holding her back and keeping her from her child. She spoke of the screams that went on and on.
Jack watched her. His hand stayed on her knee, grounding them both. When she stopped to gather herself, he picked up the thread.
"I turned away," he said. "I couldn't watch anymore. I walked to the wall and pressed my forehead against it. The stone was cold. I remember that. It was so cold, and she was screaming, and I couldn't..." He stopped, his jaw working. "I couldn't do anything. I couldn't help her. I couldn't help my wife. I just stood there with my face against the wall."
Dr. Ellis waited. The silence was comfortable and patient.
"She fought me," Jack continued. "Jane. When I held her back. She fought me like she didn't know who I was. Her nails..." He looked down at his arm. The scratches were gone now, healed over, but he still saw them in his mind. "She drew blood. I didn't feel it at the time. I felt it later, when we were upstairs and Morwenna was sleeping. It stung. I remember thinking, good. It should sting."
"Why good?"
He considered the question. "Because I needed to feel something. I needed to know I'm there. That I had done something, even if that something was hurting her. Because for that half hour, I didn't exist. I was just... nothing. A wall. A pair of arms. Something holding my wife back from her child."
Jane took his hand, and he held on.
"I didn't heal the scratches," he said. "I could have. But I didn't. I let them heal on their own. It took weeks. Every time I looked at them, I remembered. I remembered her fighting me. I remembered her screaming. I remembered the sound Nimue made when it was worst."
Dr. Ellis nodded. "You held onto the pain because you were afraid of letting go."
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then, he said, "Yes."
Jane took his hand, and he held on. Her thumb moved over his knuckles in small circles, the same way his moved over her knee.
"It feels like I'm allowed to breathe," he said. "Like I don't have to carry it every second. But then I feel guilty for not carrying it." He looked at Dr. Ellis. "Is that normal?"
She smiled. It's a small thing, gentle and knowing. "It's very normal. Guilt is a strange thing. It tells us we should keep hurting, because if we stop, it means we didn't love enough."
She leaned forward slightly. "But you did love enough. You loved so much that you held your wife back from something that would have destroyed her. You loved so much that you stood with your face against a wall and let your daughter's screams go through you. You loved so much that you are here, in this room, trying to carry it better."
Jack's throat tightened. He didn't speak. He couldn't. Jane squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.
After a moment, Dr. Ellis asked, "What do you need right now? In this moment?"
Jack looked at his wife. He looked at her red eyes, her swollen face, and the way she leaned into him. "I need her to be okay," he said. "I need us to be okay. I need to go home and hold my daughter and know that she is real and warm and alive."
Dr. Ellis nodded. "That's a good answer."
They talked about the future. They spoke of the treatments to come and the possibility that Morwenna might not survive. Jane's voice was steady now, but quiet. She held Jack's hand in both of hers.
"The next treatment is in two years," she said. "She will be five. They told us each one gets harder. The doctors explained it; her body has to adapt, the treatments get stronger, and the pain increases." She paused, her thumb tracing the edge of his palm. "Two years. That's what we have. Two years to prepare, to research, and to try to understand why her body reacted the way it did."
Dr. Ellis waited while the clock ticked.
"I think about it all the time." Jane's voice dropped lower. "Not in a panicked way. Not anymore. It's just there. In the background. I will be reading to her, and she will lean against me, and I will think..."
She stopped and swallowed. "I will think, will I still be doing this when she is six? When she is ten?" She looked up at Dr. Ellis. "Nimue is three. She is just three. And I have to think about whether she will see six. Whether she will see seven. Whether she will ever go to school, ever make friends, ever fall in love, or ever have a life."
Jane's voice cracked. She pressed her lips together and then continued. "I have to think about it because if I don't, if I pretend it isn't possible, then when it happens, if it happens, I won't survive it."
The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute.
Dr. Ellis leaned forward slightly. "What do you feel when you think about that?"
Jane was quiet for a long moment. Her eyes moved to the window. "I feel angry," she said. "Not at anyone. Not at the doctors, not at the condition, and not at Nimue.
Just feel angry.
That she has to carry this. That we have to carry this. That there aren't no guarantees. That I could do everything right and still lose her." Her voice shook, but she steadied it. "And I'm already grieving her. I'm already mourning a loss that hasn't happened. What kind of mother does that?"
Dr. Ellis's voice was gentle. "A mother who loves her daughter. A mother who has been through something terrifying. A mother who is trying to prepare herself for the worst while hoping for the best. You aren't grieving her now. You are grieving the possibility. There's a difference."
Jane's breath caught. She held it, then let it out slowly.
"The next treatment," Dr. Ellis said. "Tell me about it. What do you know?"
Jane described it. She spoke of the hospital setting, the specialists, and the careful monitoring. She spoke of the way the first one had gone wrong. "The next one will hurt more," she said. "That's what they told us. Each time, the body has to work harder to accept the treatment. The pain increases. She will be five. She will understand more. She will know what is coming. She will be scared."
Jack spoke, his voice rough but steady. "After the first one, when she woke up, she said, 'I'm brave.' She was three, and she said that."
Jane nodded. "She is brave. She is the bravest person I know. But bravery doesn't stop pain. It doesn't make it easier to watch."
Dr. Ellis asked, "What do you need? For yourselves, not for her. What do you need to get through this?"
Jane thought about it. "I'm looking for a reason... I need to believe it's worth it," she said. "I know her life won't be ordinary. Her health won't let it be. But I need her to live it."
Dr. Ellis nodded. "That's honest."
Jane looked at Jack. He was watching her, his eyes dark with everything he couldn't say.
"What do you need?" She asked him.
He shook his head slightly. "Right now? I need you to keep talking. I need to hear it. All of it."
She squeezed his hand and then she turned back to Dr. Ellis.
"The next treatment is in two years. We will spend that time working with specialists, trying to understand her condition better. The doctors are hopeful. They have seen cases like hers before, though not exactly like hers. We will do everything we can." She paused. "But we also have to live. We have to be parents. We have to let her be a child. We can't spend two years just waiting for the next time she might die."
"No," Dr. Ellis agreed. "You can't. And you won't. You will do both. You will work with the doctors and prepare, and you will also read her stories and play with her and let her be three years old." She smiled. "That's what parents do. They hold both things at once."
Jane nodded slowly. Her hands had finally stopped shaking. "The guilt," she said. "The grief. The fear. They aren't going away, are they?"
"No," Dr. Ellis said. "They will always be there. But they will get quieter. They will find their place. They won't be the only thing you feel."
Jane looked at Jack. He was watching her with an expression that looked like hope. She held onto that.
Dr. Ellis listened and asked questions. She didn't offer easy answers. She didn't say everything would be okay. She just listened.
At the end, she told them they were doing the right things. "Come back next week. And the week after. As often as you can."
Jane nodded. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she felt lighter. Just a little.
. . .
They Apparated back to the village as the sun began to set. The light was golden and soft, stretching long shadows across the open fields. The carriage waited where they had left it, the thestrals standing patient and still.
Jack helped Jane inside.
The carriage was cool and the seats were soft. They sat close together as the carriage began to move. Jane looked at the bags at their feet. There are books, clothes, and cards. It's all evidence of the world outside.
"We did it," she said.
"We did."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. The carriage rocked gently as it carried them home. Through the window, she could see the dark forest closing in around them, the ancient trees that protected the manor and kept the world out. Soon they will be inside. Soon she will hold her daughter again.
. . .
The entrance hall was warm. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting dancing shadows across the high stone walls. The fountain murmured in the centre. There is a shimmer and a ripple as they passed through the wards, and then they are home.
Morwenna sat on the bottom step with Cinder in her lap. Both of them faced the door. They had been waiting; Jane didn't know for how long. But they were there, patient and still, acting as two small sentinels.
When the door opened, Morwenna's face lit up. "Mama! Dada!"
She scrambled to her feet, nearly dumping the fox onto the floor. He caught himself, landing lightly, and followed as she ran. Her small legs pumped and her arms reached out.
Jane caught her and lifted her into her arms. Morwenna's weight was solid, real, and warm. Her small hands patted Jane's cheeks, her forehead, and her nose, checking and verifying.
"Where go?"
"To get you presents," Jane said.
Morwenna's eyes went wide. "Presents?"
Jack held up the bag. "Books. And clothes. And," he reached in and pulled out the tiny trainers. "Shoes."
Morwenna stared at the shoes. They were blue with white stripes and small enough to fit in her hands. She reached out and touched one of the white laces.
"For me?"
"For you."
She held them in both hands, turning them over and examining them from every angle. Cinder sniffed at them and sneezed.
Morwenna laughed. The sound filled the entrance hall. It bounced off the fountain, off the portraits, and off the stone walls. It was bright, clear, and real.
Jane held her daughter close and listened.