The morning before her birthday, Morwenna woke before the sun had even touched the horizon.
She lay in bed with Cinder curled at her feet, a solid, warm weight against her ankles that grounded her in the dimness. She watched the ceiling's shadows shift from a solid black to a charcoal grey, then finally to the first pale, watery light of dawn.
Her body was humming again, a restless vibration that had persisted for days, ever since Saoirse had returned and filled her head with vibrant stories of the world beyond the wards. She thought about swings that touched the sky, ice cream trucks with tinkling bells, and carousel horses that she had not yet chosen.
But today felt different. Today was the day before. Tomorrow she would be four.
She slid out of bed, her feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft, rhythmic patter. Cinder lifted his head instantly, his russet ears swivelling toward her through the shadows.
"Not yet," she whispered, her voice a soft rasp. "Go back to sleep."
He lowered his head back onto his paws, but his amber eyes stayed open, tracking her movements through the room's grey corners.
She went to the window. The garden stayed grey and still under the morning's weight. Frost still held in the deep shadows beneath the hedge, appearing like scattered salt across the dark earth.
The snowdrop patch was gone, the white flowers long dead. Their leaves sat brown and curled against the soil, but other things were pushing through the dirt. Stubborn green shoots stood near the hedge—living things she didn't have names for yet. She had been watching them for weeks, waiting for them to become something she could recognise.
She pressed her palm to the glass. It felt bitingly cold. Nothing happened.
She pulled back and looked at her hand, turning it over in the weak light. Tomorrow she would be four. She went back to bed and lay there, listening to the manor's ancient wood creak, until the sun finally rose.
. . .
Morwenna was already in the entrance hall, sitting on a high-backed chair she had pulled close to the hearth. She had been there since breakfast. Her legs swung in a steady rhythm and her hands remained folded in her lap just as Jane had shown her. Then she unfolded them, then she folded them again, her excitement making it impossible to stay still. Cinder lay beside her, his head resting on his paws, his ears tracking every groan of the house.
Jane had told her Viviane was coming today, not tomorrow. Morwenna had planted herself in the hall and refused to budge for any reason.
The flames rose green and high, casting a brief glare across the stone floor. Viviane stepped out onto the hearth, dressed in dark travelling robes that looked perfectly neat. Not a single hair sat out of place. She brushed a stray fleck of ash from her sleeve and looked up, her eyes finding Morwenna at once.
Morwenna was off the chair before she could think about the movement. Her feet carried her across the stone, and she stopped just short of crashing into Viviane's legs. "Vivi."
Viviane crouched down, her movements fluid. Her hands stayed steady on her goddaughter's shoulders. "You are taller, petite."
"I'm going to be four."
"I know. I was there last time." Viviane's mouth curved into a real smile, her expression softening. "You cried at your cake. You had purple frosting on your nose."
Morwenna's hand went to her nose, checking instinctively for sugar. Viviane laughed, the sound ringing through the high-ceilinged hall.
"I was three," Morwenna said with great gravity.
"Now you are going to be four."
"Yes."
Viviane pulled her close in a quick, warm hug. Morwenna pressed her face into her godmother's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of floral perfume and clean linen. When she pulled back, Viviane was still holding her small hands.
"You are not coming to London," Morwenna said, her voice dropping.
Viviane's expression did not change, but her dark eyes softened. "No. I cannot. I have work to attend to."
"Saoirse said there will be other times."
"There will be." She squeezed the girl's fingers.
Morwenna nodded. She had known this fact for some time; Jane had told her weeks ago, and she had filed it away. It stayed there, even if she did not like the reality of it.
"Will you write to me?" Morwenna asked.
"Of course. But not every day, mon trésor."
Morwenna nodded again. Then she pulled her hands free and grabbed Viviane's sleeve, tugging at the dark fabric. "Come see my seedling. It is almost open. Gran-père said maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after."
She pulled Viviane toward the greenhouse, talking the entire way. The seedling remained closed, a tight green secret. Morwenna stood in front of the terracotta pot, her hands flat on the table and her face close to the stem. It was taller than it had been yesterday. The bud looked fuller, its tip appearing pale and almost white.
"It is going to open. Soon."
Viviane stood behind her, watching the plant with quiet attention. "What is it?"
"Something from Gran-père. He didn't tell me the name. He said I have to wait and see." She reached out and touched the stem, a light brush of her fingertip. The plant did not move. She pulled her hand back. "If it opens when I am in London, I won't see it."
"You will see it when you come back."
"It won't be the same."
Viviane stayed quiet for a moment. "No. It won't be the same. But it will still be there, waiting for you."
Morwenna looked at the closed bud. She thought about the snowdrops—the ones that had bloomed and died while she was watching. She had been there for every second of their lives. She had seen them open. "I want to see it open."
"Then maybe it will wait for you."
The child looked at Viviane. Her godmother's face remained calm and her eyes stayed steady. Morwenna did not know if plants possessed the ability to wait. She did not know if they made choices, the way the magical seeds Lucien had told her about did. He said those seeds watched the world and decided when to wake. She looked back at the seedling. "Maybe," she said.
. . .
The morning of her birthday, Morwenna woke before the sun again.
She didn't bother staying in bed this time. She dressed herself in the green dress—the one that had been too large last year and now fit her perfectly. She tied her hair back with a silk ribbon. The knot sat a little crooked, but she pulled it tight. She put on her blue trainers and tied the laces in a bow that actually held.
Cinder watched her from the bed, his russet ears pointed forward. "Today," she told him, her eyes bright. "I'm four today."
The fox's tail thumped against the blankets.
She ran down the stairs, her trainers making soft sounds on the stone. The house stayed quiet. The portraits remained in deep sleep, and the morning light was a dull grey through the high windows. The hall was empty. The kitchen was empty. She ran through the corridors until she reached the morning room.
Jane was already there. She was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, her red hair loose and her face still soft with sleep. She looked up when Morwenna burst through the doorway. "You are up early, ma chérie," she said.
"I'm four."
Jane smiled. "You are."
Morwenna climbed onto the chair beside her mother. Cinder followed, settling into a ball at her feet. She looked at Jane's face, at the fine lines around her green eyes and the way her mouth curved. "Mama. Today I'm four."
Jane's arm came around her and pulled her into a side-hug. "I know."
They sat like that for a while as the light grew stronger and the house woke up around them. Then Morwenna heard footsteps on the stairs and voices echoing in the hall. She was off the chair and running again.
. . .
Sylvaine came through the Floo at exactly ten o'clock.
Morwenna was in the entrance hall when the flames turned green. She was surrounded by the gathered adults, her hand in Jane's. She had been waiting for this too; Sylvaine always came last, and she always arrived exactly when she said she would.
The flames settled into embers. Sylvaine stepped out, small and upright. Her silver hair remained pinned in its sharp, immaculate bun. Her robes were dark and plain. She looked at the hall, at the people gathered, and finally at the child standing in the centre. She crossed the stone floor, her boots making soft, precise sounds.
"Happy birthday," Sylvaine said.
Morwenna looked up at her. "I'm four."
"Yes." Sylvaine's mouth did not smile, but something behind her eyes shifted. "I remember when you were two. You told me the serpent was sleeping."
"I told it to sleep."
"You did."
She reached into her robes and drew out a small box fashioned from dark, undecorated wood. She held it out. Morwenna took it with both hands, feeling the box's weight. "This is for later. When you are older."
Morwenna looked at the box, then at Sylvaine's face. She tucked it carefully into her pouch, next to the memory stone, the silver box, and the crystal sphere. "Thank you," she said.
Sylvaine gave a fraction of a nod and moved aside to join the others.
. . .
The party was held in the Great Hall.
The floating lights were back. They were the same gold ones from her third birthday, drifting like embers near the high ceiling and casting a warm glow. The table was long, set with white cloth and polished silver. Flowers were everywhere—white and purple—arranged in low bowls that caught the light.
Morwenna sat between Jane and Celestine. Her plate was piled with small portions: dumplings, rice, and noodles with dark sauce. She ate with her fingers, and for today, no one told her not to.
Saoirse was telling a story about the mountains. She spoke of a storm that came up so fast the monks had to pull her inside before she froze solid. She was acting it out with her arms wide, her black hair messy. Luelle was laughing, her head thrown back, while Raphael watched with his mouth curved in amusement.
Morwenna ate and listened and watched. She looked at the faces around the table.
Jane was watching her. Jack was pretending to read a letter but looking up at her instead, his white streak catching the light.
Aldric was talking to Lucien about the greenhouse. Seraphina had a book open beside her plate. Celestine listened to Saoirse with her head tilted to the side.
Elara sat between Jane and Raphael, her face calm and her eyes on Morwenna. Viviane was laughing at something Luelle had said. Sylvaine watched everything with her hands folded.
Saoirse finished her story. The table applauded. Morwenna clapped too, her small hands coming together and her face feeling warm.
Then Tilly appeared, carrying the cake.
It was round, with white frosting and purple and silver flowers piped along the edges. Four candles stood on top, their flames steady and bright. Tilly carried it to the table with both hands, his large ears trembling and his eyes fixed on Morwenna's face. He set it down carefully in front of her. "The little miss likes it?" he asked.
Morwenna looked at the cake. She looked at the flowers, the candles, and the way the light caught the frosting. "Yes."
The house-elf made a small sound and stepped back.
They sang the old song. The Evans family added the French version, their voices weaving through the English words in a beautiful harmony. Morwenna listened with her hands flat on the table, her eyes moving from face to face. When they finished, she closed her eyes. She pressed her hands against the wood.
She opened her eyes and blew out the candles.
The flames went out. Smoke curled up in thin, grey lines. The room remained quiet for a heartbeat, and then Saoirse whooped and Luelle laughed and everyone was clapping for her.
Morwenna grinned.
. . .
That night, after everyone had finally gone to bed, Jane sat at her desk. The fire was low and the room was dim. The baby blue journal was open in front of her, the pages blank.
She picked up her quill.
April 26th.
She is four.
She laughed at her cake. She ate dumplings with her fingers. She asked Viviane if the seedling would open while she was gone. She told Sylvaine she was four.
She is going to London. She is going to see the world.
She set the quill down. The fire popped. Through the window, the moon was a thin crescent, low in the sky. The garden was dark, and the green shoots she had been watching for weeks were invisible in the shadows.
She closed the journal and sat with her hand on the cover.