The morning room windows stood open for the first time since October. The air that drifted through the mesh was cold but no longer biting, carrying the rich, damp scent of wet earth and the sharp fragrance of green shoots waking beneath the lingering frost.
Morwenna had her face pressed against the wire screen, the metal feeling cool and slightly rough against her skin. Her breath fogged the wire in small, disappearing clouds. She was waiting. She had been waiting for three days, ever since Jane told her that Gran-ma and Gran-père were coming.
Her body simply wouldn't stay still. She tried to sit on her chair like her mother instructed—once, twice, three times—but each time she slid off again before she even realised she was moving. Her trainers made a soft, frantic scuffing sound against the stone floor as she paced the room's perimeter.
Cinder watched her from the rug, his amber eyes tracking her restless laps. His russet ears twitched with every turn she made. He had eventually given up on following her with his head and simply rested his chin on his paws, his tail giving an occasional, rhythmic thump.
Jane sat at the table with a cup of tea that had long gone cold. A thin, grey film had formed over the dark liquid, but she didn't drink. She sat and watched her daughter walk endless circles, her own hands folded loosely around the porcelain.
"You will wear a path in the stone, petite," Jane said, her French accent softening the observation.
Morwenna stopped at the window. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass. She saw her white hair, her green eyes, and a small face that looked back with a familiar sort of restlessness. "When?"
"Soon. You asked me that five minutes ago."
Morwenna pressed her forehead against the glass. The chill felt good against her skin, settling a jittery sensation in her chest that had persisted all morning. "I want to see them come."
"They will come through the Floo. You won't see them from the window."
The child pulled back and looked at her mother. Jane's face remained calm. Morwenna thought about the Floo for a moment, picturing the emerald glare, the way the fire roared and settled, and the way a person stepped out onto the hearth. Then, she ran.
Jane heard her footsteps echo down the corridor, followed by the slap of rubber soles on stone stairs and finally the distant thud of the heavy front door. She let out a quiet sigh, set down her cold tea, and went after her. She found Morwenna standing on the front step.
The girl had her arms wrapped tight around herself and her white hair was blowing in the wind. Cinder sat beside her, his ears pinned flat against the sharp gusts. He shivered slightly but kept his shoulder pressed against her leg.
"They aren't coming through the front door," Jane said. She reached out and gently pulled her daughter back over the threshold. The morning air was too cold for standing around in just a shirt, and she could feel the chill already seeping into Morwenna's small hands.
Morwenna was already moving again. Her hand found Jane's and she pulled her mother toward the entrance hall. "We wait there."
Jane let herself be led. They stood in the entrance hall, mother and daughter, waiting together near the central fountain. The water murmured its steady, familiar sound as it splashed against the marble basin.
The portraits watched from their gilded frames. Isolde was awake for once, her eyes tracking Morwenna's restless feet. Edmund was pretending to read, though his gaze kept drifting up from the parchment. The old woman with white hair simply observed, her gaze steady and ancient.
Morwenna shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her hands stayed at her sides, her fingers opening and closing. She was humming something, a shape without a tune, her mouth barely moving as the vibration ran through her throat. Jane didn't tell her to be still.
The Floo roared into emerald life.
Morwenna was off before the flames had even settled, her trainers slapping against the stone. Jane watched her daughter run toward the hearth. She watched Celestine step out of the shifting fire, and she watched Morwenna stop just short of crashing into her grandmother's legs.
Celestine's hands came up, catching the girl's shoulders. For a moment, her face remained perfectly still. Then her composure softened at the corners, and she pulled her granddaughter into a close embrace.
"You are taller," Celestine said.
Morwenna's voice was muffled against her grandmother's heavy travelling coat. The wool smelled of travel and lavender. "I'm going to be four."
"I know. I remember."
Behind Celestine, the flames flared again. Lucien stepped through, and the air in the hall seemed to shift. The light from the high windows gathered around him, warming as it passed his cheekbones. His eyes found Morwenna, and his mouth curved into a gentle smile.
Morwenna pulled back from Celestine, looked at Lucien, and pointed at her own ear. He touched his in response, and she grinned.
Elara came through last. Her movement remained unhurried, her face its usual careful neutral. She took in the hall, the fountain, and the portraits. Her gaze stopped on Morwenna, who was now tugging Lucien's hand toward the greenhouse.
"She has been waiting for you," Jane said.
Elara's eyes tracked the child across the hall. "I can see that."
. . .
Morwenna pulled Lucien through the corridors, her grip tight on his fingers. Cinder followed them, his claws clicking on the floorboards. She was talking quickly, her words running together as she told him about the snowdrops that had bloomed and died, about the new shoots, and about the seedling she had been watching for weeks. "It hasn't opened yet. But it will. I know it will."
"When?" she asked. She already knew what he would say, but she liked the sound of the answer.
Lucien reached out and touched the stem. It was a light touch, a gentle brush of his fingers against the green surface. "Ah, the timing is almost right, petite," he said, his voice carrying a melodic, singing cadence. "In a few days, perhaps. Maybe a week."
She looked at the closed bud, then at him. The greenhouse air felt warm and humid, smelling of damp soil and life. "Before I go to London?"
"If you are lucky."
Her face changed as excitement and worry tangled together. "What if it opens when I'm not here?"
Lucien leaned down slightly, his movements unhurried and fluid. "Then you will come back and see it when the time is right."
She considered this, her hand resting on the pot's rim. The terracotta felt slightly gritty under her fingers. She thought about the snowdrops, the ones she had counted every morning until they died. She had been there for them. She had watched them open, one by one, and she had been there when they finally closed. "Saoirse says London has parks with flowers. Real flowers, not just pictures."
"It does."
"Will they be open when I go?"
"Some of them. The early ones. Crocuses, maybe daffodils."
She nodded, filing this away. Her hand left the pot and she stood, looking around the greenhouse at the rows of seedlings, the pots of herbs, and the climbing vine that had started putting out new, translucent leaves. "Gran-père. Are there plants in France that aren't here?"
Lucien stood up. "Many."
"What are they called?"
He told her, the names long and intricate. Some were French, some were Latin, and some were in the Veela tongue that made the air vibrate differently when he spoke them. She repeated each one, her mouth working around the unfamiliar shapes. She stored them in the same place she kept the rune names and the pictures of London buses. When she got one wrong, he corrected her. She tried again until she succeeded.
"Bien," she said.
He smiled. "Très bien."
. . .
In the morning room, Celestine sat with Jane. The fire had been lit against the April air, and the light through the windows was pale, catching the dust motes. Celestine's hands were wrapped around a teacup, her eyes on the garden outside.
"She is different," Celestine said.
Jane knew what she meant. "She is louder. She runs everywhere. She laughs at nothing. Saoirse came back, and something..." She paused.
"Loosened," Celestine said.
Jane looked at her mother. "Yes."
Celestine set her cup down on the saucer with a soft click. "The mundane world trip is soon?"
"After her birthday. In a few weeks. Jack's family has an estate—the mundane branch. We will stay there, then go to London for a few days."
"Jane." Celestine's voice remained quiet. "She has been in this manor her whole life. She has been surrounded by magic, by rituals, by things that ask her to be still and patient. Of course she is going to be different when she thinks about leaving."
Jane looked at the window, at the grey light and the garden. "I know."
"Let her be different," Celestine said firmly. "She isn't the same child who asked a portrait if the ritual would hurt. She shouldn't be."
Jane nodded. She picked up her tea, then set it down again without drinking. "I know."
. . .
The Floo flared again at noon. Morwenna was in the entrance hall when the flames turned green, Cinder at her feet and her body already tensed to move. She had been waiting for this too. Jane had told her Luelle and Raphael were coming, and she had been counting the days.
Luelle stepped through first. She was shorter than Jane and quicker, with none of the Evans composure but all of the energy. Her hair was windswept and her cloak sat crooked on her shoulders. Her face was split with a wide grin. She saw Morwenna and made a sharp sound of delight.
Morwenna ran. Luelle caught her, lifted her up, and spun her once, twice, three times. Morwenna's laugh bounced off the stone walls. Cinder yelped and scrambled out of the way of their spinning feet.
"You are so heavy," Luelle said. "What have they been feeding you? You have grown so much!"
Morwenna grabbed Luelle's face with both hands, her palms warm. She held her aunt steady so she could look at her properly. "I'm going to London. I'm going to ride a bus. I'm going to go on a swing that goes so high my stomach drops out."
Luelle's green eyes went wide. "Who told you that?"
"Saoirse."
Luelle looked at Jane, who was standing at the hall's edge with her arms crossed, wearing a small smile. Jane shrugged. "Of course. Of course Saoirse told her that."
Raphael came through the Floo behind his sister. He was taller than her and quieter, with the same green eyes and the steady calm that Jane carried. He took in the scene and smiled.
"Hello," he said.
Morwenna looked at him. "Raph."
. . .
They ate lunch in the morning room, all of them together. The table was crowded and noisy. Celestine sat at one end with Lucien beside her. Elara was between Jane and Raphael, her face its usual careful neutral, but she was listening to Morwenna talk with her head tilted. Luelle was across from Morwenna, asking questions and laughing at the answers.
Saoirse had appeared at some point, her face still carrying the shadows of her travels. She was telling Luelle about the monks, the mountains, and the cold that was so deep it felt like falling.
Morwenna was eating with one hand and gesturing with the other, her fork forgotten on the plate. She was telling Celestine about the seedling in the greenhouse, the new leaves on the climbing vine, and the way Lucien had taught her to say the plant names.
"I got it right. The third time."
Celestine's mouth curved. "You always get it right eventually."
Morwenna nodded, pleased. She ate a piece of bread, chewed, and then turned to Elara. "The stone from the mountains. Saoirse said it's never warm. Does it work? The cold light thing?"
Elara's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes flickered. "The stone holds what it's been given. It will help."
Morwenna considered this. She had been thinking about the stone for weeks. She thought about something that was never warm and about the abbess who was ninety years old. "Will it be here before I go to London?"
"I don't know. The monks sent it their own way. It will come when it comes."
Morwenna nodded. She had learned to wait for things that came in their own time. The seedling. The stone. The day she would finally walk out the front door. "Good," she said, and ate another piece of bread.
. . .
That night, after dinner, the adults sat in the morning room. Morwenna had been sent to bed twice and had come back down three times. The last time, Jane had carried her up herself, and her footsteps were still echoing on the stairs. Now she was back, moving more quietly. Her steps were barely audible over the sound of Saoirse's voice.
Saoirse was on the floor with her back against the wall, her legs stretched toward the fire. She was telling Luelle about the monastery again, about the abbess, and about the Binding of Cold Light. "They don't fight it. They teach the child to hold it. That's what she said. Let the light be light."
Celestine spoke from her chair, her face illuminated by the firelight. "The stone will help?"
"It will. It's been touched by the Cold Light for so long that it is never warm." Saoirse paused, her gaze fixed on the flames.
Raphael broke the silence. "The mundane world trip. When?"
Jack leaned forward, his face serious. "After her birthday. We will do the blood ritual first, then we will go."
"The blood ritual. The second one."
"Fifteen runes. More than last time."
Seraphina, who had been quiet all evening, set down the book she had been pretending to read. "She handled ten. She will handle fifteen."
Jane had returned by then, taking her seat again. She looked at her mother-in-law. Seraphina's face was calm, but her hands were flat on the table, her fingers spread wide. "She handled it."
Jack looked at Jane across the table, and he reached for her hand. "She is going to be fine," he said.
Jane held on. "I know."
She wasn't sure she believed it, but she was learning to.