Nimue watched from the window as the land began to fold inward. The flat, open farmland she had watched for the past hour started to swell into low, rolling hills that rose and fell like a heavy green sea. The grass was much greener here, appearing lush and thick.
The hedges were older and more gnarled, their branches gnarled and twisted into intricate knots with age. Stone walls appeared, constructed from grey rock that caught the morning light and held it in their rough surfaces. The road narrowed once again as the hills closed in on either side.
She had her hand pressed flat against the glass, the cool surface vibrating against her skin. The car's hum resonated through her palm. It was a steady, mechanical rhythm that was nothing like the carriage's rhythmic creak and sway. Cinder had fallen into a deep sleep on her lap. His weight was a warm, familiar pressure against her thighs, but she was too awake to rest.
The sun had climbed higher now. The light shifted from the pale gold of early morning to a deeper, richer yellow that made the hills' green look almost blue in the deep shadows. She watched the walls grow taller and the trees more ancient. The sense of the world pressing in on itself deepened with every mile.
"We are close," Thomas said from the front seat.
He hadn't spoken much during the long drive. He let Jane and Jack talk in low, private voices, let Saoirse sleep with her head leaning against the window, and let Nimue watch the passing world. Now his eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, and he smiled.
"Thornwell sits in a valley. You will see it when we reach the top of the next hill."
Nimue moved closer to the glass. The car climbed the incline, the engine working harder and its pitch changing to a low growl. The road curved sharply around a hill's shoulder, which was thick with old, massive oaks.
Then they were at the top, and the valley opened up below her in a wide, breathtaking sweep.
She gasped.
It was small. That was the first thing she understood as she took in the view. It was smaller than she had imagined from the stories. It was smaller than the space between the manor and the lake. The houses were gathered close together. Their roofs were a soft, weathered grey, and their walls were built from the same pale stone as the walls lining the road.
Smoke rose from a handful of chimneys, appearing as thin, white ribbons against the stark blue sky. In the green's center, a great oak stood at the heart of the village, its branches spreading out like a protective canopy.
But the place felt incredibly old. She felt the history of the stones before she even saw the details, the same way she felt the hum of the wards around the manor. The houses weren't new. They had stood there for centuries, their walls thick and their windows small and deep-set.
The road they drove on had been worn smooth by feet that had walked it for four hundred years. The oak in the center was massive. Its trunk was thicker than the carriage, and its branches spread wide enough to shade the low stone wall that circled its base.
"It's beautiful," she said.
Thomas glanced at her again through the mirror. "It's. The family has kept it that way for a long time."
The car began its slow descent into the valley. The road wound down through more stone walls, passing fields where white sheep grazed and a small stream ran fast over grey, moss-covered stones. The houses on the village's edge came first. They were solid and square with neat gardens at the front and smoke curling lazily from their chimneys.
Then they were inside the village proper.
The road became a narrow lane, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, with cottages pressed close on either side. Their doors were painted in deep colors, such as red, blue, and green, and their windows had wooden boxes spilling over with bright spring flowers. A woman in a blue apron stood at her gate, her hands encased in heavy gardening gloves. She looked up as the car passed.
Her eyes went wide with sudden recognition. She stared, her mouth falling open in a small O of surprise, and then she smiled. It wasn't the polite smile of a stranger seeing a visitor. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly who was in that car and had been waiting a lifetime to see them arrive.
Nimue looked back at her until the car turned the corner and the woman vanished from sight.
The lane opened onto the green. The oak was truly massive up close, its branches reaching toward the sky like gnarled fingers. The grass around it was cut short and neat. A low wall of the same grey stone circled its base, and on that wall, a row of children sat with their legs swinging and their school bags resting at their feet.
They had just come from the school. She could see the building at the green's far end. It was a solid stone structure with a small bell tower and a low wall around its playground. The children were smiling in the yard, calling to each other in high, bright voices that rang through the quiet air. A teacher stood at the gate, a woman in a long coat who had her hand raised in farewell.
Then the car passed, and the children on the wall turned as one to look.
This particular car was clearly not a common sight in Thornwell. Nimue saw it in their faces—in the way they stopped swinging their legs and in the way their mouths formed silent words. One boy pointed a finger. A girl with bright red hair twisted on the wall to watch them go, her eyes wide with curiosity.
A woman was standing at the gate of the house nearest the green, her hand resting protectively on a small boy's shoulder. She looked up when the car passed, and her face did something Nimue couldn't quite name. Her hand went to her chest, and she bent down to say something to the boy, her voice low and quick.
The boy turned and stared with unblinking eyes.
Thomas slowed the car to a crawl. A man was coming out of the post office, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He saw the car and stopped in his tracks. His face changed instantly. He lifted his free hand in a small, respectful wave, and Thomas lifted his in return.
"That's Mr. Davies," Thomas said quietly. "His grandmother was a Keith. His mother was, too."
Nimue watched the man through the rear window. He was still standing there, watching them pass, when they finally turned the corner.
The lane curved around the green. The houses here were larger and set back from the road with low walls and iron gates. A woman pushing a pram stopped to let them pass, and she stared too. Her hand came up to shield her eyes from the sun so she could see inside the car better.
"Is that them?" she called out to someone across the lane. "Is that the main family's car?"
Nimue heard the answer, but the specific words were lost in the engine's hum. She saw the other woman give a solemn nod, and then they were past.
The car slowed further. Thomas was looking for something, his eyes moving between the road and the buildings ahead. Then he turned, guiding the car through a set of stone gates set between two tall, moss-covered pillars.
The lane here was private and lined with beech trees whose branches met overhead. Their new leaves appeared bright green against the grey stone. The gravel was fresh and even, the verges were cut short and neat, and at the end of the drive, the house waited.
It wasn't as large as Keith Manor. Nothing would ever be as large as Keith Manor, Nimue thought. But it was substantial. Three stories of pale stone rose against the sky, featuring tall sash windows that caught the afternoon light. A portico at the entrance was supported by white columns. The front door was dark wood, polished to a high shine. Above it, carved into the stone, she saw the Keith crest. The oak and the serpent were there, though the design was simpler than the one on her father's signet ring.
The car stopped. The engine cut off, and in the sudden silence, Nimue heard the clear singing of birds in the beech trees.
Thomas opened his door. The sound was loud—a solid, mechanical thunk—and then he was around the car, opening her door before Jack could move.
"Welcome to Thornwell," he said.
She took his hand and stepped out onto the drive. The gravel felt the same as the manor's gravel, crunching under her trainers. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass, woodsmoke, and a sweet, green scent she didn't know the name for.
The front door was already opening. A man came out, tall and broad, with silver hair that caught the sun and a face that was the same shape as her grandfather's. He was smiling, his hands outstretched in welcome.
"Jack. Jane. You made it."
Jack was already moving, shaking the man's hand. Then the man was looking at Nimue. His smile softened into something she didn't expect. It wasn't the smile of a stranger meeting a child. It was the smile of someone seeing a cherished part of his family for the first time.
"This is her," he said, and his voice sounded thick with emotion.
Nimue stood still. She felt Cinder press against her legs and felt Jane's hand on her shoulder. She looked up at the man.
"I'm Nimue," she said.
He crouched down with a slow, careful movement. His eyes were the same deep brown as her father's, and they were bright with a moisture she didn't have a word for.
"I'm William. Your father's cousin. You can call me whatever you like. Cousin William, William, Uncle William, if you want. We are family."
She looked at him. She thought about her father's words regarding the bridge between worlds and about the Squibs who carried the blood without the magic. She thought about the woman at the gate, the man at the post office, and the way the children on the wall had watched them. They had all been waiting for her.
"Uncle William," she said.
His smile widened. He stood up and turned back to the house. A woman was coming down the steps. Her hair was grey and her face was kind. Behind her followed a boy of about twelve.
"Welcome," the woman said. "We have the room ready. The one for family."
She meant the good room. Nimue heard it in her voice—the way she said family and the way her eyes moved to Jane and softened. It wasn't the room they kept specially for the wizarding branch. It was nicer than their own rooms, and it had been waiting for them for a long time.
Jane took her hand. "Thank you."
They went inside.
The hall was cool and quiet. A staircase curved up from the center, its wooden banister polished to a high shine. On the walls, portraits watched them pass. They weren't moving portraits, not like the ones at home. They were still, their faces painted in oils that had faded over the centuries. But they were watching her now, the same way the portraits at home watched, with eyes that had seen centuries of Keiths walk these floors.
William led them up the stairs. The wood was old and worn, dipping slightly in the center where generations of feet had stepped. The runner was faded to a soft, dusty red. At the top of the stairs, he turned right, moving down a corridor with more portraits and doors. He stopped at the last one.
"This is yours."
He opened the door.
The room was large, with a window that faced the green. The bed was high and covered in a white counterpane that looked soft and clean. A small table sat by the window with a vase of fresh flowers. The walls were papered in a pale, faded blue, and the rug on the floor was thick and worn. It wasn't the nursery at home. It wasn't silk and velvet and ancient magic. But it was warm and quiet. It smelled of beeswax and sunlight.
Nimue walked to the window. The green spread out below her, with the oak at its center. The children were gone now, and the school was empty. She could see the pub on the green's far side, its sign swinging in the breeze, and the church beyond it, its tower rising above the rooftops. She could see the hills rising on either side of the valley, green and gold in the afternoon light.
She was tired. The exhaustion came on her suddenly, the way it did after a long day or after the blood rituals, when her body demanded rest. Her legs and eyes felt heavy. The bed was soft and white and waiting.
"Mama."
Jane was there instantly. Her hand was on Nimue's back, warm and steady.
"Sleep. We will be here when you wake."
Nimue climbed onto the bed. The sheets were cool and smooth, and the pillow smelled of lavender. Cinder jumped up after her, turning twice before settling at her feet, his warmth spreading through the blankets.
She closed her eyes.
The light through the window was different when she woke. It was lower, the gold of it deeper, and the shadows on the wall had shifted. She lay still for a moment, listening. There were voices downstairs—many voices—and the clatter of plates. Somewhere, someone was laughing.
She sat up. Cinder lifted his head, his ears swiveling toward the door.
She slid off the bed. Cinder followed her, his claws clicking on the wood.
The corridor was empty, but the voices were louder here, drifting up from the floor below. She followed them down the stairs, her hand on the polished banister and her feet silent on the runner.
The dining room was at the house's back. It was a long room with windows that looked out onto a garden. The table was set with a white cloth and silver candlesticks, and it was full of people. She saw William at the table's head and his wife beside him. The boy from earlier sat across from a girl a few years younger, her hair the same dark brown. There were others who were older; a man who could have been William's brother and a woman with a kind face and a baby on her lap.
They were all looking at her.
She stopped in the doorway. She hadn't meant to come down. She had meant to find her mother, but her mother was at the table, and so was her father, and Saoirse. They were all looking at her now, their faces soft with an expression she didn't have a word for.
"Nimue," Jane said. "You are awake."
She crossed the room. Her hair was loose and tangled, and she was still wearing the clothes she had put on that morning. Her shirt was wrinkled and her shorts were creased. But Jane pulled her close and settled her on her lap, and no one said anything her hair.
"You slept through lunch," Saoirse said. Her voice was low and conspiratorial. "There was pie."
Nimue blinked. "Pie?"
"Apple. With cream. There might be some left." Saoirse looked at William's wife with raised eyebrows. "Is there some left?"
The woman laughed. It was a warm sound, the same laugh Nimue had heard from the kitchen. She nodded. "There's always pie."
The plate that appeared in front of her had a thick slice of pie. The crust was golden and flaking, and the filling was soft and sweet. There was cream in a small jug, and Saoirse poured it over the top until it pooled on the plate.
Nimue ate. The pie was warm and the apples were soft. The cream was cold, providing a sharp contrast. She ate it all, her fork scraping the plate, while the voices around her rose and fell. She didn't listen to the specific words. She listened to the shape of them and the way the laughter came easily. She watched the way William's wife reached across the table to touch her daughter's hand and the way the boy was watching her with a curious, wondering look.
When the plate was empty, she looked up. The table had quieted. They were all watching her again.
"Nimue," William said. His voice was gentle. "How do you like Thornwell?"
She thought about it. She thought about the green, the oak, and the children on the wall. She thought about the room upstairs with its faded wallpaper and its window facing the green—the room they kept for family.
"It's quiet," she said.
William's smile widened. "It's. That's why we like it."
She looked at the boy across the table. He was older than her and tall for his age, with his father's jaw and his mother's coloring. He had been watching her since she came down, and now he was the one to speak.
"Do you want to see the village?"
The table went quiet again. William looked at his son, then at Nimue, then at Jack.
"If she wants to," Jack said.
Nimue looked at the boy. His name was something she hadn't caught yet, but he was family. She could see it in the shape of his face and the way he sat. He watched her with the same patient attention her father gave to things that mattered.
"Yes."
She slid off Jane's lap. The boy was already standing and waiting for her.
"Come on. I will show you."
His name was Andrew. He was twelve, and he had been waiting for her to come since his father told him she would be visiting. He walked beside her down the lane with his hands in his pockets. His strides were long, but he kept them slow enough that she could keep up.
"The green is the village's heart. The oak has been there for five hundred years. It's been there longer than the houses. Longer than the church."
Nimue looked at the tree. It was massive. Its trunk was thicker than she could reach around, and its branches spread wide enough to shade half the green. The leaves were bright and new, matching the color of the grass, and the light through them was green and gold.
"Five hundred years."
"The first Keith planted it. When they built the house."
She didn't know if that was true. But she looked at the oak and thought about the manor and the gate. Some things were old. Some things had been there for so long that they didn't need proof.
They walked the edge of the green. The pub was called The Serpent's Head. Its sign was painted with a serpent coiled around a crown. The church was St. Catherine's. Its tower rose above the rooftops, and its graveyard was full of stones that had been there for centuries. Andrew showed her the post office, the school, and the shop where he bought sweets. He showed her the stream that ran behind the houses, fast and clear over grey stones, and the bridge that had been there since the village was built.
They stopped at the wall around the oak. The sun was lower now and the light was deeper. The green was empty. The children had gone home and the women with their prams had disappeared. It was just the two of them and the tree.
"Your room," Andrew said. "The one you are sleeping in. It was my grandmother's room. Before she died."
Nimue looked up at him.
"She was the one who kept it ready. For when you came. She said the other family would come one day and they would need a room that was theirs. She kept it clean. She put fresh flowers in it every week. She died two years ago. My mother does it now."
He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the oak. His shoulders were straight.
"I'm sorry," Nimue said.
He shrugged. "She was old. She was ready." He looked at her then, his face open and young in the golden light. "She would have liked you. She liked people who were quiet. She said quiet people notice things."
Nimue looked at the oak. The leaves moved in a breeze she couldn't feel, and the light through them shifted, turning the grass beneath to gold and green.
"I notice things," she said.
Andrew smiled. It was a small smile, but it was real. "I know."
They stood there for a while longer, not talking, watching the light move across the green. The pub door opened, and a man came out with a dog at his heels. He looked at them—at the girl with her white hair catching the sun and at the boy beside her. He gave a single, slow nod before he walked away.
"What was that?" Nimue asked.
Andrew looked at the man's back. "He knows who you are. Everyone knows who you are."
She thought about the car, the children on the wall, and the woman at the gate. She thought about the room upstairs, waiting for her and kept ready for years.
"Why?"
Andrew looked at her. He was twelve, but his eyes were the same as her father's eyes. He had grown up with the story. He had heard it from his grandmother, and his grandmother.
"Because of what your family did. Before the Statute. Before any of that."
He glanced at her, then back ahead as they walked.
"There were families who didn't treat their squib children well. Some ignored them. Some hid them away as if they had never been born. Others…" He hesitated for a moment. "Others were worse. They saw them as a stain on the family name. Something to be erased."
His jaw tightened slightly at the thought.
"The Ancestors could have done the same. It would have been easy. No one would have questioned it. But they didn't."
He slowed his pace.
"They chose differently. They chose to keep them. To care for them. To make sure they had a place in the world, even without magic."
His gaze lifted toward the village ahead.
"So they built this place. Not as an afterthought, not as somewhere to send people away, but as a home. A place where people like us could live properly and safely. We don't have to hide what we are or pretend to be something else."
He let out a quiet breath.
"When the Statute came and the wizarding world had to disappear, they didn't abandon it. They protected it. They made sure it would endure."
He looked at her again.
"That is why this place exists. Because your family refused to pretend we didn't exist."
He looked at the green and the oak.
"We don't forget that. We don't forget who we are. And we don't forget who made it possible."
Nimue looked at the village. The light was fading now and the shadows were long. The windows of the houses were beginning to glow with the warm light of lamps. The pub door was open, and she could hear low, comfortable voices inside. The post office was closed, the shop was dark, and the school was empty.
But the village wasn't empty. It was full. It was full of people who knew her name and had been waiting for her.
"I'm going to see the tablets later. The Ancestors' Hall."
Andrew nodded. "I can take you. If you want."
She looked at him. He was family.
"Yes. I want that."
They walked back toward the house, their shadows stretching long behind them on the grass. The windows were lit, and the door was open. When they came inside, the hall was warm with voices and the smell of good food.
Jane was waiting at the stairs' bottom. She looked at Nimue—at her tangled hair and the dirt on her shorts' hem—and she smiled.
"Good walk?"
Nimue looked back at the door, at the green beyond, at the oak darkening against the sky.
"Yes. It was good."