Morwenna placed her small hands on the keys. The ivory felt cool and smooth under her fingertips, a texture that reminded her of the polished stones she sometimes found near the garden fountain.
She pressed one down, and the note rang out, bright and loud in the glass conservatory, startling in its suddenness. The vibration travelled through the wood of the bench and into her legs. She pressed another, and then another. They were random sounds, not a scale, but a chaotic noise: high and low and somewhere in between.
Jane didn't correct her. She simply watched, her hands resting in her lap and her expression patient. After a minute, Morwenna stopped. She looked at her mother with wide green eyes.
"That wasn't music."
"No. But it was sound. Music comes after, ma chérie."
Morwenna thought about this, her gaze drifting back to the long row of keys. Then she looked at her mother again.
"Teach me something. Real."
Jane's mouth curved into a soft smile. She shifted on the bench, angling her body so that the child could see her fingers more clearly. Her melodic accent was soft in the quiet room.
Alright. A simple one. The simplest."
She placed her hands on the keyboard. Her right hand moved first, picking out a melody with deliberate care. The notes were simple, rising and falling in a pattern Morwenna recognised immediately. She had heard it hummed by her mother in the nursery, by Seraphina while the knitting needles clicked, and even by Tilly when he thought no one was listening to him work.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
Jane played it through once. Then she played it again, even slower, her fingers lifting high so Morwenna could track each specific note. Then she lifted her hands away.
"Your turn."
Morwenna looked at the keys. She knew which ones her mother had used, as she had watched every movement with her usual focus. She placed her fingers, her heart thumping against her ribs.
The first note was right: C. The second was wrong. She had reached for a black key instead of a white one, creating a sharp, discordant sound. The third was wrong again. She stopped, her brow furrowed in a deep line of concentration.
"Again."
Morwenna played the first two again. They were right, and then right again this time. The third was wrong.
"Again."
She played the first three. Right, right, right. The fourth was wrong.
Again."
The tip of her tongue poked from the corner of her mouth. She played the first four notes. Right, right, right, right. The fifth was wrong. Jane said nothing; she just waited, her presence a steady warmth beside her daughter.
Morwenna tried again.
First five notes: right.
The sixth was wrong.
Again.
First six notes: right.
The seventh was wrong.
Again.
She played the whole phrase. Seven notes. All of them were right. She looked at Jane, her breath coming a bit hard from the intensity of her focus.
"That's it?"
"That's the first line. There are four more to go."
Morwenna looked at the keys, and then at her small, pale hands. Then she looked back at her mother.
"Show me the next."
Jane played the next phrase. It went up a note, followed the same pattern, and then came back down. It was simple. Morwenna watched the way Jane's fingers curved, the way they found each key without a moment of hesitation. When Jane finished, the child put her own hands back on the keys.
She played the first phrase. Seven notes, all right. Then she played the second. Three notes in, she hit a wrong one and stopped, her hands hovering above the ivory.
"Again."
She played the second phrase again. Right.
The third phrase was harder. The melody shifted and went places she didn't expect it to go. She missed notes, stopped, and started again. She missed again. She stopped once more. A small sound escaped her, a tiny huff of frustration.
"Again."
She played it four more times before it finally came out right. Then she had to go back and play the first two phrases together, because they didn't connect correctly in her head at first.
Then she added the third. Then the fourth, which was like the first but just slightly different. Finally the fifth, which felt like nothing else she had played yet.
By the time she played the whole song through, the light in the conservatory had shifted. The golden rectangles on the stone floor had stretched and thinned, reaching toward the base of the fountain. The koi fish still drifted in their slow circles, indifferent to her small triumph.
Morwenna looked at her mother.
"I did it."
Jane smiled. It was a real smile, the kind that reached her eyes and crinkled the corners.
"You did."
Morwenna looked back at the keys. She played the first phrase again, and then the second. Then she played the whole song, slow and careful, her small fingers finding each note. This time the transitions came smoother. The notes connected. They almost sounded like real music.
"Mama. Will you play with me? Together?"
Jane put her hands on the keys. Her left hand found the low notes, providing a grounding, simple pattern that anchored the melody. Morwenna picked out the tune, slow and careful, and the sound filled the conservatory, simple and whole.
When they finished, Morwenna leaned her head against her mother's side. Jane's arm came around her, warm and steady. The fountain murmured in the background. The light softened as evening began to approach.
"Tomorrow. We do this again."
Jane kissed the top of her head. "Tomorrow."
They sat there for a while, mother and daughter, the silence settling around them, a soft blanket. Morwenna could feel her mother's heartbeat through her ribs, slow and steady. The koi fish drifted. The light continued its slow fade toward a dusty grey. Then Morwenna slid off the bench and ran to find Cinder, her bare feet slapping rhythmically against the warm stone.
. . .
The study was quiet, smelling of beeswax and old, dry paper. The fire burned low in the grate, the flames casting long, flickering shadows across the dark wood panelling. Jack sat at his desk, a fresh sheet of parchment laid out in front of him. His quill's nib was already inked, the black liquid gleaming, but he hadn't started writing yet.
He had been thinking about this for weeks. The child rule: age four. Next spring, Morwenna would be old enough to leave the manor, to walk into the mundane world, and to meet the family she didn't even know existed. They were the family that carried Keith blood but couldn't do magic. They were the branch that kept the old house in Thornwell, gathered at the Ancestors' Hall, and maintained the tablets that held all the names of their lineage.
Jack had visited Thornwell once, many years ago, before he had met Jane. He remembered the village green, the sturdy stone houses, and the stream that ran behind the Manor. He remembered the churchyard's yew tree, which was older than the church itself, its thick branches heavy with the weight of years. He remembered the tablets in the Ancestors' Hall: row after row of names, Keiths who had lived and died without being able to do magic, their blood still running in his own veins.
The head of the mundane branch was a man named William Keith, currently in his sixties. Jack had met him only once, at a funeral. It was the last time the magical and mundane branches had stood together in the same place. William had been younger then, his hair still dark and his handshake firm. He had looked at Jack with curiosity and something like recognition, as if he saw a familiar ghost in the stranger's face. Jack hoped William still remembered him.
He dipped the quill. The nib scratched softly against the parchment.
----
The Most Ancient and Noble House of Keith
Keith Manor, England
15th August, 1983
To the Head of the Keith Mundane Branch,
Thornwell
Dear Cousin,
I hope this letter finds you and your family well, and that the summer has been kind to you. I trust the harvest at Thornwell is proceeding as it should, and that the village continues in good health.
I write with news that I hope will please you.
Next year, in May, my wife and I will bring our daughter to visit the mundane branch. She will be four years old then, and according to the old custom, she will be old enough to walk outside the manor walls and into the wider world. We intend for her to meet the family she hasn't yet met, and to see the places where our shared history lives.
My sister will accompany us. She has been away for some months now, travelling, but she will return before then. She is eager to see Thornwell again. It's been too long.
We plan to spend some days at Thornwell Manor, if you will have us. After that, we will go to the London house for a short while. The city will be new to her, and I think she should see it.
Our daughter's name, for the purposes of this visit and for all public occasions, is Nimue Keith. She is known by this name outside our immediate circle. For safety reasons, we don't use her full formal name beyond the family's innermost walls. I trust you will understand, and I ask that you make this clear to anyone who will meet her during our stay.
She is a bright child. Curious. She asks many questions. I suspect she will ask you many questions too, about the village and the family and the tablets in the Ancestors' Hall.
It's been too long since our family's magical and mundane branches stood together in the same place. I won't let so much time pass again. Our daughter should grow up knowing that the Keith family isn't just the manor and the rituals and the old magic. It's also Thornwell. It's also you.
I look forward to seeing you next spring.
With warm regards and family affection,
Jack Keith
----
He read the letter again. The words felt right to him. They were formal enough for the address, but there was a warmth underneath. It was family speaking to family. He signed his name, the letters flowing from his quill in his usual precise, elegant hand.
Then he folded the parchment carefully, pressing the creases flat with his thumb. From his desk drawer, he took a stick of dark green wax and held it over the candle flame until it softened and began to drip onto the folded edge. He set his signet ring into the soft wax and held it there, counting to ten in his head. When he lifted the ring, the Keith crest stared back at him. It was the oak, gnarled and ancient, with the serpent winding up the tree's trunk, its scales catching the dim light. The eye seemed to watch him, even in the cooling wax.
He stood up and walked to the aviary. The room was high in the east tower, open to the air on one side, with roosts built directly into the stone walls. The wind tugged at his robes as he entered, feeling cool and sharp with the forest's scent. A barn owl sat on its perch, blinking at him with dark, liquid eyes. He tied the letter to the bird's leg with practised fingers, the knot secure but not too tight.
"Thornwell," he said. "The Manor. You know the way."
The owl blinked once. Then it launched into the air, its wings silent, and disappeared through the open stone arch. Jack stood at the tower's edge and watched it go. The bird grew smaller against the grey sky, then smaller still, until there was nothing left but the clouds and the distance and the faint line where the world curved.
He stood there for a long moment, thinking about next spring. He thought about the village green and the stream and the yew tree. He thought about introducing his daughter to a world that didn't know magic existed. He thought about watching her see it for the first time.
Then he turned and walked back inside.