The grass remained damp from the morning dew, the moisture soaking through the canvas fabric of Morwenna's trainers and leaving dark, irregular patches. She didn't mind the dampness. The wetness felt cool against her skin through her thin socks, and the meadow smelled of rich earth and growing things. The wild grass was already beginning to brown at the edges as summer crept toward the cooling breath of autumn.
Cinder bounded ahead, his russet fur a bright, fiery streak against the deep green. He disappeared into the tall grass, only to reappear a few metres away with his ears flat against his head and his tail held high in a playful arc. He circled back, pressing his cold nose against Morwenna's leg for a brief second before bounding off again into the undergrowth.
Jack walked beside her, his hands tucked into his pockets and his pace slow to match her shorter legs. Jane was on her other side, her red hair loose today and catching the afternoon light in copper flashes.
They had been walking for a while, and Morwenna didn't know exactly where they were going. They had left the manicured garden behind, passed the stone fountain where the water shot up in silver arcs to fall back with a rhythmic splash, and taken the path that wound toward the creature meadow.
But at the last turn, Jack had steered them left instead of right, leading them toward the lake path that sloped gently down through the long, unmown grass.
Morwenna held a stone in her hand. She had picked it up near the fountain, a flat grey disc that felt smooth from years of water washing over it. She didn't know why she had kept it, but it felt right in her palm—cool, solid, and heavy.
Cinder stopped ahead of them, his ears pricked forward as he reached the hill's crest. He stood at the top of the slope, looking down at the lake's wide expanse. Morwenna reached the top beside him and came to a halt.
The lake spread out below them, dark and still. The surface was broken only by the occasional ripple where something surfaced and then sank back into the cold depths. The island was a dark smudge in the centre, the stone pavilion just visible through the clusters of trees. The far shore was lost in the hazy golden light of the afternoon, the trees merging into a dark, blurry line against the pale sky.
Jack knelt beside her on the path and picked up a flat stone. He weighed it in his palm, his thumb rubbing against the smooth, silty surface. "Do you know what a Muggle-born is?" he asked.
Morwenna looked at him, her brow furrowed. She had heard the word before. It had appeared in the books her father read to her, slipped into the stories of Hogwarts and the wider wizarding world, but no one had ever explained it clearly.
"A witch or wizard," she said slowly, searching for the right words, "born from Muggle?"
"Mundane people, ordinary people," Jane corrected gently, reaching down to tuck a stray lock of white hair behind Morwenna's ear. Her French accent made the vowels lilt. "That's the word we use. Mundane. Muggle is what some people call them, but we say mundane."
Morwenna nodded. She filed this away in her mind. Mundane, not Muggle. The word felt softer in her mouth, less like a label and more like a description.
"That's right," Jack said. He stood and flicked his wrist in a sharp, practised motion. The stone skipped across the water once, twice, three times, before sinking with a tiny plink. "Mundane-borns are born with magic in their blood. It wakes up when they are young, the same way yours did. The magic chooses them." He looked at her, his expression thoughtful. "Do you know what a Squib is?"
Morwenna shook her head. The word was unfamiliar, sounding strange and hollow when she tried to say it silently to herself.
"A Squib is the opposite." Jack picked up another stone, turning it over in his fingers. "They are born to magical parents, but the magic in their blood stays sleeping. It never wakes. They can't do magic. Not ever."
Morwenna thought about this. She looked at her own small hands, at the fingers that had held frost and cold fire. She tried to imagine the cold staying trapped inside her forever, never finding a way out. It was like imagining the snowdrops in the garden never blooming, or the sun rising but giving no light to the world.
"Like the snowdrops," she said, her voice quiet. "The ones that don't come up."
Jack looked at her, his expression shifting into something soft and surprised. "Yes. Like the snowdrops that don't come up."
Jane's hand found Morwenna's shoulder, warm and steady through her jumper. "They are still part of us. They carry the same magic as you do. It just doesn't wake the same way."
Morwenna watched her father pick up another stone. He held it for a moment, looking out at the water, then placed it back on the path. "Come," he said. "Let's walk."
They started down the slope toward the lake. The grass was long here, brushing against Morwenna's knees, and the ground felt soft and springy under her trainers. Cinder ran ahead, his ears bouncing with every stride, then circled back and ran ahead again in a tireless loop.
"The Keith family is old," Jack said as they walked. "Older than Hogwarts. Older than the Ministry. And when a family is that old, they have children. Many children. Some of those children have magic that wakes. Some don't." He paused, looking out at the water.
The lake was close now, the path ending in a stretch of pebbled shore where the dark water lapped gently against the stones.
"The Squibs are the ones whose magic doesn't wake. So they can't study the same things as us, or work in the same elements as us. So the family built them a place."
Morwenna looked up at him. "A place?"
"A village." Jane picked up a flat stone from the shore and handed it to Morwenna. "A place where they could live. With other Squibs, and with mundane people who knew about magic and worked for our family. A place where they would be safe and happy."
Morwenna held the stone. It was flatter than the one she had found earlier, smoother, its edges worn down to nothing by the lake's motion. "Why?" she asked.
Jack knelt beside her again, bringing himself down to her height so their eyes met. "Because they are family. Because they carry our blood. Because a family that abandons its own doesn't last." He picked up his own stone, a flat grey disc that fit perfectly in his palm.
"Do you know how many families have fallen, Morwenna? Ancient families, powerful families, families that were old when Hogwarts was built. They fell because they fought. They turned on each other. They let the small differences become walls, and the walls became battles, and the battles became graves." He flicked his wrist, and the stone skipped across the water in a long, clean arc that touched the surface four times before finally sinking.
"We remember," he said.
Morwenna knew those words. They were carved into the stone above the entrance hall in the manor, two words in silver letters that she had passed a hundred times without really understanding their weight.
We remember.
"That's why," Jack said. "That's why the village exists. Because we remember what happens to families who forget."
Morwenna looked at the stone in her hand, took a breath, and threw. It skipped once—a small, hesitant hop—then sank. The splash was tiny, barely a ripple on the dark surface. "Again," she said.
Jane smiled. She picked up a stone and showed Morwenna how to hold it, demonstrating the flick of her wrist. "Flat side down. Wrist straight. Like this."
Morwenna tried again. The stone skipped twice this time, the second hop longer than the first, before it disappeared into the dark water. She looked at her mother, and Jane nodded in encouragement.
"Good," Jane said. "You are getting it."
Morwenna bent to find another stone, her fingers closing around a flat grey disc that felt smooth and cold. "When was it built?" she asked. "The village."
Jack picked up a stone of his own. "Sixteenth century. Around four hundred years ago."
Morwenna's brow furrowed. Four hundred years was a number she had heard before in the books her father read. "That's old," she said.
"It is." Jack threw his stone. It skipped five times, each hop smaller than the last, before it sank. "It was built before the International Statute of Secrecy."
Morwenna tilted her head. "Statute?"
Jane picked up a stone. "A law. A very old law. It says that wizards and witches can't let mundane people know about magic."
Morwenna looked at her, confused. "Why?"
"Because they were afraid." Jane's voice was quiet. "A long time ago, mundane people and magical people lived together. Some mundane people knew about magic, worked for magical families, and lived alongside them. But others were scared. They didn't understand magic, and they feared what they didn't understand."
She threw her stone. It skipped twice, clean and straight. "There were witch hunts. Mundane people who were afraid would hunt witches and wizards. Some died. Many more hid. And after a while, the wizarding world decided to hide for good."
Morwenna thought about this. She thought about the books she had read with her mother—the pictures of cars and buses and supermarkets. She thought about the people in those pictures, ordinary people living ordinary lives, never knowing that magic existed right beside them. "We can't tell them?" she asked.
"The law says we can't show them," Jack said. "We live apart. We keep our magic hidden. And when we go into the mundane world, we must be careful. We must not let them see what we can do."
He looked at her, his expression serious. "Morwenna. In the future, when you go into the mundane world, you must never speak about magic there. Never do magic in front of mundane people. Never tell them about Hogwarts, about the wizarding world, or about any of it. Do you understand?"
Morwenna nodded slowly. "They will be scared?" she asked.
"They will be scared." Jane's voice felt gentle. "Not because they are bad. Just because they don't understand. And things that are different can be frightening when you don't understand them."
Morwenna looked at the lake. The water was dark and still, the surface smooth except for the ripples where their stones had sunk. Cinder sat at the water's edge, his ears pricked forward as he watched something in the depths. She picked up another stone. "Tell me more about the village," she said.
Jack smiled. He picked up a stone of his own, turning it over in his fingers. "Before the Statute, some mundane people worked for wizarding families. They served in the houses, tended the gardens, and did the work that needed doing. They knew about magic. They lived with it every day."
He threw his stone. It skipped once, twice, three times, four. "When the Statute came, those mundane families had a choice. Some chose to forget, to leave the magical world behind. But some chose to stay. They kept working for the wizarding families, kept the old agreements, and kept the old loyalties."
He looked at Morwenna. "The Keith village was built for them too. For the Squibs of our family and for the mundane families who chose to stay with us. They live together, work together, and look after each other. The mundane families serve us, and we pay them. They help look after the Squibs who can't do magic, who need the same things mundane people need."
Morwenna thought about this. She thought about Tilly, who could do magic with a snap of his fingers, making her porridge appear at breakfast. "The Squibs can't do magic," she said. "So they live like mundane people."
"Yes." Jane's voice remained soft. "They have mundane jobs. They go to mundane schools. They marry, have children, and grow old. Their lives are different from ours."
"Because they can't do magic."
"Because they can't do magic."
Morwenna looked at the stone in her hand. She thought about the snowdrops again, the ones that didn't bloom. They were still snowdrops, still flowers, even if they never opened their petals. "Are they still Keiths?" she asked.
Jack and Jane looked at each other. Jane's hand found Morwenna's shoulder again, warm and steady. "Yes," Jane said. "They are still Keiths."
"Even without magic?"
"Even without magic."
Morwenna nodded slowly. She thought about the motto carved in stone above the entrance hall. She thought about her grandfather's voice, low and steady, telling her about the family that remembered. "We remember," she said.
Jack smiled. It was a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. "We remember."
Morwenna threw her stone. It skipped three times, clean and straight, before it sank. She looked at Jack, and he nodded in approval. "Better," he said.
She bent to find another stone, her fingers closing around a flat grey disc that was smooth from years of water washing over it. "The Squibs," she said. "They have families? Children?"
"They do." Jane picked up a stone of her own. "They marry, they have children. Some of those children aren't born with magic at all. And some..." She paused, looking at the stone in her palm. "Some are born with magic that's almost awake. Dormant, but there. They are brought into the main family. They learn about the magical world. They become the bridge between the branches."
Morwenna's brow furrowed. "Bridge?"
"The main family," Jack said. "The Squibs who know about the magical world. They are the ones who connect us to the mundane branches. When the magical family needs something in the mundane world, the main family handles it. When a child in the mundane branches shows magic, the main family contacts us. They are the bridge."
He threw his stone. It skipped four times, the last one a long, low arc. "So there are two," Morwenna said slowly. "The ones who know. And the ones who don't."
"Yes." Jack picked up another stone. "The main family knows about the magical world. They know about us. They carry the Keith name and the Keith blood, and they know where it comes from. They are the bridge."
He handed the stone to Morwenna. "The side families are different. Their blood has thinned over generations. They know they belong to something old, something big, but they don't know it is magic. They think it's family legend, old money, or stories from the past. They are still Keiths, still our blood, but the Statute keeps them from knowing the truth."
Morwenna held the stone. She thought about the snowdrops again, the ones that bloomed and the ones that didn't. They were all snowdrops, all part of the same patch, even if some never opened. "They are still family," she said.
Jack nodded. "They are still family."
Morwenna looked at the lake. The water was dark and still, the surface smooth except for the ripples where their stones had sunk. Cinder lay on the shore now, his head resting on his paws as he watched the ripples fade.
"We don't look down on them," Jane said. Her voice stayed quiet and firm. "We don't think we are better because our magic woke and theirs didn't. That's not how our family works. That's not how we work."
She looked at Morwenna, and her green eyes held her daughter's, steady and certain. "A magical person who looks down on a Squib is like a flower that looks down on the seed that never opened. They are the same plant. The same roots."
Morwenna thought about the seeds in the garden, waiting under the soil for the warmth to come. She thought about the snowdrops that had bloomed and those that hadn't. She thought about her own hands, which could hold frost and cold fire, and about the hands of a Squib, which couldn't. "Same blood," she said.
"Same blood," Jane agreed.
Morwenna threw her stone. It skipped once, twice, three times, four times—the hops clean and even—before it sank. She watched the ripples spread, the circles growing wider and wider until they faded into the dark water. "I want to see it," she said. "The village."
Jack smiled. "Next spring. When you are four. We will go together."
Morwenna nodded. She bent to find another stone.
. . .
That night, Jane sat at her desk. The fire burned low in the grate, casting long shadows across the room, and the baby blue journal lay open in front of her. The pages were half full now, filled with her precise handwriting—the record of a life she was determined not to forget.
She uncapped her quill.
September 12th, 1983.
We took her to the lake today. She wanted to skip stones. Jack told her about the mundane branch, about the village, and about the Squibs who carry our blood without our magic. She listened the way she always listens—quiet and still, her eyes fixed on his face.
She asked if they were still Keiths. She asked if they were still family.
She threw her stone and it skipped four times.
Jane paused, her quill hovering over the page as she gathered her thoughts.
A letter had come from France this morning. It was still on the desk, the seal broken and the parchment folded. She reached for it now, smoothing it flat beside the journal.
Grand-mère writes that the solution for the Evans ritual will be ready by December. She will ship it herself, with instructions and with the exact measurements, with the same hands that mixed it for her children and her children's children. She writes that the Hive has found records of two phoenixes with manifestations similar to Morwenna's. She is sending copies of the texts with the solution.
Jane read the words again. Her grandmother's handwriting was steady, the loops precise, but there was a weight behind the way the letters pressed into the parchment that wasn't just ink.
We are closer now. We know what to look for. We know what to prepare. We know what we are fighting for.
Jane set the letter aside and picked up her quill again.
We aren't guessing anymore. We have a shape. We have a path. We have a direction.
She looked at the words she had written. They felt thin on the page, flat, and not enough to hold the weight of what they truly meant. But she wrote them anyway, because that was what the journal was for. To hold the things that happened. To remember.
She threw her stone four times today. The first time, it sank after one. The second, two. The third, three. The fourth, four. She counted each skip, her lips moving silently and her eyes fixed on the water.
Jack said she gets her aim from him. I said she gets her patience from me. We are probably both wrong.