The nursery was a muted grey when Morwenna opened her eyes. The November light pressed against the windowpane, thin and pale as old parchment, and the fire had burned down to a few stubborn embers that glowed deep orange behind the iron grate. Cinder was a solid, warm weight at her feet. His ears twitched at a faint sound echoing from the hallway, though he didn't wake.
Jane sat on the bed's edge. She held the small grey stone in her hand, her thumb tracing the smooth surface.
Morwenna pushed herself up, rubbing her eyes with her fists. Her white hair was a wild tangle against the pillow. "Mama."
"Good morning, sweetheart." Jane held out the stone. "I found this on the altar this morning."
Morwenna took it, her small fingers wrapping around the cool-looking rock. She blinked in surprise. The stone was warm. It was warmer than it should have been; warmer than the morning air in the room or the blankets. She closed her fingers tightly around it and felt the rush of feelings she had tucked away there—the sound of the piano, the golden afternoon light, and her mother's hands moving gracefully across the keys. The memory was still there. It was still hers.
She looked up at Jane, her eyes wide. "It's warm."
"I noticed."
Morwenna nodded, satisfied with the answer. She tucked the stone into her serpent pouch, where it settled comfortably against the silver box and the crystal sphere. Then she climbed out of bed and padded over to the window.
The garden was grey and still under the autumn mist. The snowdrop patch had spread further than the day before, appearing as a pale smudge against the dark hedge. She pressed her palm to the glass. It was bitingly cold. Nothing happened. No frost bloomed, and no fire flickered. She pulled back and looked at her hand with a small, thoughtful frown.
"Breakfast is ready," Jane said from the doorway, her voice a gentle summons.
Morwenna turned and followed her mother out into the hall.
The morning room was bright and warm. The fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, and the table was set with steaming bowls of rice and plates of fried eggs. A pot of tea sat at Jane's elbow, the steam rising in white curls. Tilly had put out the honey again, the thick, golden kind harvested from the summer hives.
Morwenna climbed onto her usual chair. Cinder settled under the table, his nose pointed toward the floor in anticipation of anything that might fall.
Jack was reading the Prophet, the newspaper's pages spread across the dark wood. Aldric and Seraphina were already eating, their conversation low and unhurried as they discussed the day's plans. Jane poured tea for herself and for Jack, the liquid a dark amber.
A barn owl came through the window at half past eight.
It was a grey and serious bird. It landed on an empty chair's back with a letter tied to its leg by a sturdy cord. Jack set down his cup and untied the parchment. The owl shook its feathers once, ruffling its wings, and took off back into the grey morning without waiting for a treat.
Jack unfolded the letter. His face didn't change, but something in the way he held the paper shifted, his grip tightening. He read the contents once, then passed it across to Jane.
"William," he said shortly.
Aldric looked up from his plate. "That's right. For the first stop in the mundane world, our family's estate is a better choice than London."
Seraphina turned to Morwenna. "Are you excited, little one? It's only half a year before you travel."
Morwenna looked at her grandmother. She thought about the village her father had described to her. She tried to imagine the world beyond the wards, where people drove metal cars and walked on stone pavement while never knowing magic existed.
"Yes. I want to see it."
Seraphina smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Jane reached for the teapot. "Saoirse will be back by then. She is coming with us."
Morwenna's spoon paused mid-air over her rice. She remembered the meadow, the giant Abraxan horses, and the hand waving against the blue sky. "She promised."
"She keeps her promises," Jack said firmly.
Once the breakfast dishes were cleared, the adults scattered to their usual routines. Aldric went to the library, with Seraphina following him to continue her knitting in the quiet. Jack kissed Jane's cheek and disappeared toward his study to handle correspondence.
. . .
The light was a dull grey through the glass walls, and the koi fish drifted in slow, lazy circles in the fountain's basin. Morwenna was at the low table by the piano, a box of crayons spread in front of her. Jane had bought them weeks ago from the shop near the bookstore. They were thick and waxy, and the colors appeared vibrant against the white paper. Morwenna had a red one in her hand, pressing down hard enough to leave deep grooves in the page.
"What are you drawing?" Jane sat on the bench beside her.
Morwenna didn't look up from her work. "The horses. The ones from the meadow."
Jane looked down at the paper. There were shapes there; they weren't quite horses yet, but they clearly wanted to be horses. They were red and gold and white, all smudged together where Morwenna's hand had dragged across the soft wax.
"They are beautiful."
Jane waited in silence.
Morwenna drew for a long while. The koi fish continued their circling. The light outside began to shift toward noon.
"The Evans ritual," Jane said, her voice quiet. "The one Grand-mère sent the ingredients for. We are going to do it in December. We want to finish before the snow gets too deep."
Morwenna's crayon stopped mid-stroke. She set it down and looked up at her mother's face.
"It's like the blood ritual, but gentler. The ingredients go on your skin, and your body absorbs them. It will feel strange. It will be warm at first, then maybe a little uncomfortable." She paused, searching for the right reassurance. "It won't be like the bath. You won't be in pain like that again."
Morwenna picked up a blue crayon. She drew a long, slow line across the top of the paper. "When?"
"Early December. Before the solstice."
Morwenna nodded solemnly. She kept drawing. The blue line curved and became a wing, then transformed into the shape of something flying.
"Is it the same as last time?"
"It's different. Last time was the Keith ritual. It was the one with the runes. This one comes from the Evans family. It's about the bloodline. It's about making your blood remember what it carries."
Morwenna looked down at her own hand. The blue crayon was still gripped in her small fingers. "Will it work?"
Jane set the green crayon back on the table. "We hope so. We think so."
Morwenna was quiet for a moment. Then she went back to her drawing. The blue wing became a second wing, and then a body took shape beneath them. It was a horse that was almost flying.
Jane watched her. She watched the way Morwenna's hand moved and the way she pressed harder when she wanted the color darker and softer when she wanted it light. She watched the way Morwenna's tongue poked out from her mouth's corner when she was concentrating.
"Mama."
"Yes?"
"The stone. This morning. It was warm."
Jane waited for her to continue.
"Lily's hands," Morwenna said. "Were they warm?"
Jane was quiet for a moment. The koi fish circled in their endless loop. The light through the glass walls had shifted from a dull grey to a pale gold as the afternoon began to settle in.
"I think so. I think she was warm."
Morwenna nodded. She picked up a white crayon and added bright light to the horse's wings. The paper was full now; it was a riot of red and gold and blue and white, all pressed together in a waxy mosaic.
"Good."
Jane sat beside her and watched her draw. The koi fish circled. The light moved across the glass walls, and the morning became afternoon, and neither of them moved.