Three days after her fourth birthday, Morwenna woke to pain.
It was there before she even opened her eyes, settled deep in her arms and legs with a dull, heavy persistence. It felt like an ache that lived in the very marrow of her bones, vibrating with every shallow breath. She knew this specific sensation; last year had been exactly the same. The runes had carved their pathways through her magic, and her small body was once again learning how to hold more than it knew it could.
She opened her eyes slowly. The nursery stayed quiet, filled with the familiar scents of old wood and the dried lavender Jane used to freshen the linens. The fire burned low in the stone hearth, casting a faint, pulsing orange glow across the rug. Morning light filtered through the gaps in the heavy curtains, appearing as a dull, leaden grey that offered no warmth.
Cinder remained pressed firmly against her side, a solid weight. His head rested on her ribs, and she could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart through her nightshirt. His ears sat flat against his skull, and his russet tail was still.
"Mama." Her voice came out rough, little more than a dry whisper.
Jane sat in the velvet-backed chair by the bed. She had been there for three days, barely moving from her post. Her red hair was loose and tangled, falling in messy waves over her shoulders where a few strands caught the dim light. Her dress was rumpled, and her face looked pale and drawn, the skin tight over her cheekbones. She moved the moment Morwenna spoke, leaning forward with a sudden, sharp focus until her hand found the child's forehead. Her palm felt cool and soothing against the girl's heated skin.
"You are awake."
Morwenna blinked up at her, her vision clearing enough to focus on the dark, bruised circles under her mother's green eyes. "It's over."
"It's over."
Morwenna tried to remember the details. There had been the stone altar—cold, hard, and unyielding. There had been the blue runes pulsing with a rhythmic, drowning light that seemed to fill the room. She remembered the brush of the tool on her skin, and the low, steady drone of Jack's voice answered by Aldric's deeper, gravelly tones. The runes had lit up one by one, pressing deeper into her skin than they had last year. Fifteen of them. More than last time.
"It hurt."
Jane's hand tightened on hers, her fingers trembling slightly. "I know."
"More than last time."
"Yes."
Morwenna looked at her mother's face. There were heavy shadows there, the same ones Jane had carried after the first ritual, the fever, and those long, terrible nights in the bath. She had been sitting here, watching and waiting for Morwenna to return to her from the depths of the ritual's exhaustion.
She squeezed Jane's fingers with what little strength remained in her hand. "I stayed awake."
Jane's mouth curved into a small, tired smile that reached her eyes. "You did. You counted, petite."
"I counted."
She had counted the shadows on the ceiling, just as she had done a year ago. One, two, three. She remembered the spreading warmth on her shoulder blade. Four, five, six. The sharp, electric pulse in her ribs. Seven, eight, nine. The deep, heavy ache that had settled in her spine. She had lost count somewhere in the middle, the numbers slipping away into the heat and the blinding blue light.
Cinder's black nose pressed against her wrist. She turned her hand, letting her fingers sink into his thick, warm fur. The fox made a small, whining sound and pressed his weight closer to her, his amber eyes wide and watchful.
"Tilly has broth ready," Jane said, her voice soft. "You need to eat."
Morwenna shook her head against the pillow. Her arms felt too heavy to lift. "Later."
"Later," Jane agreed.
. . .
The journal entry came later that night, after Morwenna had fallen back into a restless sleep and Jane had forced herself to eat the food Tilly had placed before her with a worried bow. Jane sat at her desk, the quill poised over the paper. The fire was low, and the shadows in the room were long.
April 29th.
The second blood ritual is done.
Fifteen runes. She counted the shadows. She stayed awake.
She said it hurt more than last time. She said she stayed awake.
Jane set the quill down on its rest. She watched the black ink dry on the page, the letters sharp and final. She didn't write anything else.
. . .
A week passed in a slow, quiet blur. Morwenna slept through most of it, her body focusing all its energy on healing the new channels and accepting the weight of the magic. When she woke, Jane was always there. When she slept, her mother remained.
On the third day, she finally asked for food. Tilly brought steaming broth, then crusty bread, and then small bowls of fluffy rice. She ate in small, hesitant amounts. Her hands shook as she held the metal spoon, and her jaw worked slowly. Cinder sat beside her chair, his ears pointed forward, waiting for any scrap that might fall to the stone floor.
On the fourth day, she managed to walk to the window. Her legs felt unsteady, like wet clay, and her grip on the sill was tight enough to make her knuckles white. She looked out at the garden, at the green shoots pushing through the damp soil, and at the sky, which remained pale and clear.
"Did it open?" she asked.
Jane stood directly behind her, her hands hovering, ready to catch her if she stumbled. "Not yet. It's still waiting."
Morwenna looked toward the greenhouse. She couldn't see the seedling from this angle, but she knew exactly where it sat. It was on the table by the door, in its small terracotta pot. It was a green stem with a bud that had turned almost white.
"Good." She turned from the window and let her mother lead her back to the safety of the bed.
The guests left one by one, the manor growing quieter with each departure.
Sylvaine left first, on the morning after the ritual was completed. She came to the nursery before breakfast and stood in the doorway, her small frame upright and silent. She looked at Morwenna while the girl was still sleeping, her sharp gaze softening for a fleeting second. She didn't wake the child. Instead, she left a small box on the nightstand—dark wood with no inscription—and walked out without a word.
Celestine and Lucien left on the fifth day. Morwenna was awake when they came to say goodbye. She was sitting up in bed, her white hair loose and her face still pale against the white pillows. Celestine sat on the edge of the mattress, her indigo silk rustling. She looked at her granddaughter's face, noting the fading shadows under her eyes and the way her small hands rested quietly on the blanket.
"You are healing," Celestine said.
Morwenna nodded, her movements slow. "Slow."
"Slow is good. Fast isn't always better for these things."
Morwenna looked up at her. "The seedling. Is it open yet?"
Celestine's mouth curved into a soft expression. "Not yet. Lucien checked it this morning. It's waiting for you."
Morwenna looked at the window and the grey light. "I'm going to London."
"I know."
"I want to see it before I go."
Celestine reached out and touched the child's hair, a light and brief stroke. "Then maybe it will open before you leave."
Morwenna looked at her grandmother's face, tracing the green eyes so like her own. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Celestine kissed her forehead and stood. Lucien was in the doorway, the light from the hall catching the melodic shimmer in his eyes. He crossed the room and touched Morwenna's ear, then his own.
"Gran-père."
"Little one." His voice was measured and melodic, carrying a gentle warmth. "Maybe tomorrow."
She held his gaze for a moment, then she gave a small nod. He left with Celestine, their footsteps fading down the corridor. The door closed with a soft click, and the nursery was quiet once more.
Elara left that afternoon.
She came to the nursery alone, her footsteps silent on the stone boards. Morwenna was awake and sitting up with Cinder beside her. Elara stood at the foot of the bed and looked at her with a clinical but kind attention.
"The bracelet. May I see it?"
Morwenna held out her left arm. The silver felt warm against her skin. The warding script was fine and almost invisible under the afternoon light. Elara touched the metal with cool, steady fingers.
"It's holding," Elara said, her French accent clipped. "It's holding." She released Morwenna's wrist and stepped back. "The stone from the mountains hasn't come yet. It will. When it does, it will help."
Morwenna nodded. She had heard this before. The stone would come when it came. The seedling would open when it opened. She was learning how to wait, and she was learning that waiting didn't mean standing still. Elara looked at her for a moment longer, then she turned and walked out.
Raphael and Luelle left on the sixth day.
Luelle came to the nursery first, before the breakfast dishes were even laid out. Her green eyes were red, and her mouth was pressed into a tight, hard line. She sat on the edge of the bed and held Morwenna's hand tightly, her fingers squeezing.
"You are going to have the best time in London. You are going to ride the swings and eat too much ice cream and climb trees with Saoirse. And when you come back, you are going to tell me everything."
Morwenna squeezed her aunt's fingers. "I will write it down. In the notebook Vivi gave me."
Luelle made a sound that was almost a laugh. "You had better." She hugged Morwenna carefully, keeping her touch light, and then she left.
Raphael came in after her. He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, his expression calm and steady. He looked at Morwenna for a moment, observing the way she was sitting up and the faint colour that was slowly returning to her cheeks.
"You are stronger," he said.
Morwenna looked at her hands. They were still pale and thin, but they were no longer shaking. Raphael gave a single, firm nod. He didn't say anything else. He touched her hair once, briefly, and then walked out.
Viviane left on the seventh day.
She came in the afternoon, when Morwenna was out of bed for the first time. The girl sat in the chair by the window while Cinder remained at her feet, his head resting on her knees. Viviane sat on the floorboards beside her, her dark robes pooling on the stone. She leaned back against the wall and stretched her legs out. She looked at Morwenna's face and the way the light came through the glass.
"You are almost better," Viviane said.
Morwenna nodded. "I can walk now. To the window and back."
"That is good."
They sat in silence for a moment. The fire crackled in the grate. Cinder's tail thumped once against the floor. Morwenna reached into her pouch and pulled out the silver frame with her photograph. She looked at her own face and the laugh she didn't remember.
"I'm going to see the swings. The ones Saoirse told me about."
Viviane watched her, her dark eyes warm. "You will have to tell me what they feel like."
Morwenna looked at her. "You have been on swings before."
"Not those swings. Not the ones you are going to ride."
Morwenna held the frame against her chest. "I will write it down. In my notebook. I will write what it feels like."
Viviane's mouth curved. "I would like that."
She stayed until the light shifted and the room turned to gold. She only left when Jane came to tell her dinner was ready. When she left, she kissed Morwenna's forehead and said she would write every month. Morwenna held the photograph and watched her go.
Saoirse didn't leave.
She was in the morning room when Morwenna came down for breakfast the next day. She sat with her tea in front of her and her feet propped up on the mahogany table.
"You aren't supposed to put your feet on the table," Morwenna said, her voice sounding stronger.
Saoirse looked at her feet, then back at Morwenna with a grin. "I'm the aunt. I can do what I want."
Morwenna climbed onto her high chair. "That isn't a rule."
"It's my rule."
Jane came in behind Morwenna, her hands full of plates. She looked at Saoirse's feet on the table, then at her daughter's face, then at the way Morwenna was already reaching for the toast.
"Your rule is wrong," Jane said, her tone mock-stern.
Saoirse put her feet down with a heavy thud. "You are no fun."
Morwenna laughed. It was the first time in a week. The sound was small, but it was there.
The next day, Morwenna went to the greenhouse alone.
Cinder followed her, his claws clicking on the stone floor, and his ears were pricked forward. The air inside the glass felt warm and wet. The walls were steamed up, making the light through them soft and green. She went to the table by the door. The terracotta pot was there. The soil looked dark and damp. The stem was tall and straight.
The bud was open.
She stopped. Her hands were at her sides. Cinder pressed against her legs, his fur soft against her skin. The flower was white. The petals were thin and almost translucent, appearing like delicate paper. The centre was a pale yellow. It was small—smaller than the snowdrops had been—but it was open.
She stood there for a long moment, looking at it. Then she knelt on the damp stone floor, bringing her face close to the petals.
"Thank you," she said.
The flower didn't move. It wasn't supposed to move, but it was open, and she was there, and she had seen it. She touched the stem with a light brush of her finger, then she stood up.
. . .
That night, Jane wrote in the journal.
May 18th.
She is well enough to travel.
The seedling opened this morning. She saw it. She said thank you.
Tomorrow is her first step outside the manor wards.