Dinner was quiet. The table stretched long under the low ceiling, the dark wood worn smooth in places where elbows had rested for generations. Nimue sat between Jane and Andrew, the heavy chair feeling oversized for her small frame. Cinder remained tucked under her seat, his furry body pressed firmly against her ankles, providing a steady warmth through her thin socks.
She ate without tasting much. The mashed potatoes were soft and buttery, and the gravy was thick and savory, but her fork moved in slow, heavy arcs. Her eyelids felt like lead. Across the table, Andrew talked to William about something that had happened at school earlier that week. His voice sounded distant and muffled, like sound traveling through deep water.
Jane's hand touched her shoulder, the warmth of her palm seeping through her shirt. "Tired?"
Nimue gave a slow nod. Her head felt far too heavy for her neck to support.
Jack pushed his chair back, the wooden legs giving a low scrape against the floor. "Bed."
She didn't argue. She slid off the seat, and Cinder was already out from under the table, his shoulder pressed against her shins as he guided her toward the door. She took her mother's hand, her fingers small and limp.
The stairs were steep and narrow, the wood polished to a mirror finish, and she had to pull ourselves up by the banister. Jane didn't carry her, but she stayed close, her hand hovering just an inch from the small of Nimue's back in case she faltered.
The bedroom was cold, the night air pressing against the windowpane. Jane pulled the thick, patterned quilt up to Nimue's chin, tucking the edges in tight. Cinder jumped onto the mattress, turned in two tight circles, and dropped like a stone against her side. His breathing went slow and rhythmic before hers did.
She listened to the old house settle into the night. Floorboards creaked with the shifting temperature. Somewhere downstairs, a chair scraped against the stone floor of the kitchen. A door closed with a muffled thud. Then there was nothing but the silence of the valley.
She slept.
. . .
Morning light came through the window in a pale, dusty rectangle, not quite reaching the edge of the bed. Nimue lay still for a long time, watching tiny dust motes drift through the beam of light. Cinder was already awake and alert, his ears swiveling toward the door every few seconds at the sound of movement downstairs.
Voices drifted up through the floorboards. She recognized Andrew's energetic tone, then William's low rumble, and finally Saoirse's sharp laugh cutting through the morning quiet.
She slid out of bed, her feet meeting the cold floorboards. Her clothes from yesterday were folded neatly on the chair; Jane must have brought them up and smoothed them out while she slept. She dressed herself quickly, pulling the cotton shirt over her head and stepping into her linen shorts. Her trainers waited by the door. She sat on the floor to tie them, her fingers working the laces into a sturdy double knot. Cinder sat beside her, his amber eyes patient and watchful.
The kitchen smelled strongly of fried bacon and toasted bread. Saoirse stood at the black iron stove, poking at a heavy pan with a spatula. Jane sat at the wooden table with a steaming cup of tea. Andrew was across from her, a comic book spread open in front of him, his toast sitting forgotten and half-eaten on the plate.
William looked up and offered a warm smile when Nimue entered. "Morning."
She climbed onto the chair beside Jane. Cinder followed her, settling into his usual spot under the table with his nose pointed at the floor.
Saoirse slid a plate in front of her containing eggs, crispy bacon, and a thick slice of bread. "Eat. You will need it."
Nimue picked up her fork, her curiosity piqued. "Why?"
Andrew closed his comic book with a snap. "Are we still going to the tablets?"
Jack came in from the hallway, buttoning his heavy coat against the morning chill. "If she wants to."
Nimue looked at Andrew. He was watching her, waiting for her reaction. "What tablets?"
"The ancestors." He said it like it should be something obvious. "In the Hall. I told you about it yesterday."
She remembered then. The Ancestors' Hall. The tablets with the names of the family. She looked up at Jane. "Can we go?"
Jane reached for her tea, her expression thoughtful. "After breakfast."
. . .
The Hall was situated at the very edge of the village, past the church and the small stone school, where the paved road turned to gravel and the houses finally stopped. A low stone wall ran along the path, with thick green moss filling the joints between the rocks. Beyond the wall, the field sloped down toward the rushing stream, the grass still appearing silver and wet with the morning dew.
Andrew walked ahead of the group, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Saoirse walked beside Nimue, her long strides shortened to match the child's smaller pace. Jack and Jane followed behind, their voices low and private.
"It's not like the portraits at your home," Andrew said, without turning around. "There's no magic in them. But we put them up anyway. My grandmother said the Keiths in the main family have their pictures that talk. We have this instead."
Nimue looked at the building ahead. It was made of stone, like the rest of Thornwell, but it looked newer. The edges of the blocks were sharper, and the mortar was lighter in color. A single wooden door, dark with age and weather, sat in the center. There were no windows at eye level.
"The tradition came from China," Andrew explained. He stopped at the door, resting his hand on the heavy iron ring. "My grandmother told me the story. A long time ago, one of the Keiths married a woman from there. She brought the custom with her. The tablets, the offerings, and the way you light the incense. We kept doing it."
He pushed the door open, the hinges giving a soft, well-oiled creak.
The air inside was cool and perfectly still. It smelled of old wood, dust, and a lingering, floral scent—incense, perhaps, though nothing was currently burning. The light entered through two narrow windows set high in the stone walls, creating thin beams that fell across the floor in slanted, golden bars.
The tablets lined the walls from floor to ceiling. They were made of dark, polished wood, each one about the size of a book. Names were carved into them in gold lettering; some were faded and dim, while others were still bright and sharp. Row after row filled the room, a silent record of everyone who had come before.
Nimue stepped inside, her trainers sounding loud and hollow on the stone floor.
"Four hundred years," Andrew said softly. He had followed her in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "That's how long the family has been in this valley. My grandmother's grandmother was the first one buried in the churchyard. The ones before that—we don't know where they are. So we put them here instead."
Nimue walked down the first row. The names were unfamiliar to her, but the family name was always the same. Keith. Over and over again, the gold letters spelled out Keith.
Andrew pointed to a tablet near the middle of a row. "That's my grandmother. She died two years ago."
Nimue looked at the name carved there.
Margaret Keith.
Below it, the dates were etched: 1901 to 1982. Eighty-one years of life.
"She was old," Nimue said.
Andrew shrugged, though his eyes remained on the wood. "She was ready."
Jane came up behind them. She held a small porcelain plate in her hands containing bread, a cup of red wine, and a small dish of salt. Jack was beside her, carrying a bundle of thin, brown wooden sticks.
They moved toward the center of the room where an altar stood. It was low and wide, carved from the same dark, heavy wood as the tablets. Jane set the plate down carefully. Jack placed the sticks beside it.
Saoirse struck a match, the scent sharp in the still air. The flame caught, small and flickering. She touched it to the end of one stick, and smoke rose in a thin, pale, fragrant line.
She handed the stick to Nimue.
"You hold it, and you think of them. That's all."
Nimue took the incense stick. It felt warm in her small hand. The smoke curled toward the high ceiling, twisting through the golden light and the rows of wooden tablets.
The adults stood back in a loose semicircle. Jack was perfectly still. Jane had her hands folded neatly in front of her. Saoirse stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her face unreadable in the shadows. Andrew stood beside her, his hands still tucked in his pockets.
No one spoke. The silence was absolute.
The incense burned slowly. The smoke drifted through the room. Nimue stood with the stick in her hand and thought about what Andrew had told her—about the family that didn't throw their children away, that built a home for them instead, and that kept the name even when the magic had faded out.
Something tugged at her chest.
It wasn't a thought she could name, nor a sound she could hear. It was just a pull, gentle but firm, like a silken thread wrapped around her ribs. Her feet moved toward the altar before she even understood that she was walking.
She stepped forward, the incense stick held steady. The smoke trailed behind her like a ribbon. She stopped at the altar, right where the bread, wine, and salt sat waiting.
She knelt.
The stone was bitingly cold under her knees, but she didn't seem to feel it. Her hands came to rest on her thighs, her palms facing up and her fingers loose. The incense stick remained between her fingers, its smoke rising straight up toward the rafters, steady and undisturbed by any draft.
She closed her eyes.
Her face went entirely still. The little crease of concentration that usually lived between her eyebrows smoothed out, and her mouth softened. She didn't look like a child pretending to pray. She looked like someone who had been performing this exact rite for a very long time, even though she had never done it before.
The incense smoke seemed to hang in the air, appearing thicker and more substantial than it should have been. The light from the high windows caught the grey clouds and held them, turning the air itself into gold.
Her skin began to glow. It wasn't a bright, burning light—it was just there, a soft, pearlescent radiance that came from inside her. It pushed out through her cheeks, her small hands, and the very tips of her ears.
Jane made a sound. It was small and instantly cut off.
Andrew's mouth had fallen open. He was staring at Nimue's hands and the way the smoke curled in perfect, impossible circles. He watched the way the light moved across her skin like a living thing.
Saoirse didn't move an inch. Her arms were still crossed, but her fingers had tightened visibly on the fabric of her sleeves.
Jack stood as still as the stone walls. His face was blank, the way it always got when he was thinking hard, but his eyes were wide and focused.
The incense burned down until it was almost at Nimue's fingers. She didn't flinch or pull away.
She opened her eyes.
She blinked once. The glow was gone. The smoke was just ordinary smoke again, thin and pale as it drifted toward the high windows. She looked down at the stick in her hand. The end was grey and brittle, almost entirely ash.
She looked up.
They were all looking at her. Andrew still had his mouth open in shock. Saoirse's arms were held tight across her chest. Jane had her hand pressed flat against her collarbone, her breathing quick. Jack's face was carefully empty of expression.
"Nimue." Jane's voice was almost too steady, as if she were holding it together with effort. "What did you just do?"
Nimue tilted her head to the side. "I prayed."
She looked back at the altar, at the offerings of bread and wine, and at the thousands of names lining the walls. The incense stick was cool now. She set it down in the small dish beside the plate.
"For them," she said. "The ancestors."
She looked back at her mother. Jane's face was doing something complicated and shifting that Nimue didn't understand.
"Was it wrong?" she asked.
Jane blinked, and her hand finally dropped from her collarbone. "No. No, it wasn't wrong at all."
Andrew's mouth finally closed. He was looking at her with an expression of wonder.
Jack moved first. He crossed the floor to the altar, picked up the cold remains of the incense stick, and set it in a small ceramic dish by the wall. When he turned back, his face had returned to its normal, calm state.
"Why don't you go play?" he suggested. "Andrew can take you. It's Sunday. There will be other children out on the green."
Nimue stood up. Her knees ached slightly from the hard stone, so she brushed the dust off them. "Can I take Cinder?"
"Of course you can."
She went to the door. Andrew was already there, holding it open for her. The light outside felt incredibly bright after the dim, hushed atmosphere of the Hall. She blinked against the glare.
Cinder was waiting on the path, his ears pointed forward and his tail wagging in a slow, sweeping motion. He pressed his body against her legs the moment she stepped out into the air.
Andrew closed the heavy wooden door behind them.
. . .
The children were gathered on the green. There was a group of them, maybe eight or nine, scattered around the base of the massive oak tree. A girl was drawing on the pavement with a piece of white chalk. Two boys were tossing a ball back and forth, the sound of the catch sharp in the air. A smaller girl sat on the low stone wall, watching the others.
Andrew waved a hand. "This is Nimue. She is staying with us for a bit."
The girl with the chalk looked up. She had bright red hair and a face full of freckles, and she was missing one of her front teeth. "You are the one staying in the big house."
Nimue gave a small nod.
"Can you play hopscotch?"
Nimue didn't know what hopscotch was, but she said yes anyway.
The girl—whose name was Lucy—showed her how it worked. It was a pattern of squares drawn on the pavement with white chalk. You had to throw a small stone and then hop through the squares. Nimue's stone landed in the correct square on her second try. She hopped through the pattern, her arms held out for balance. Lucy clapped her hands together when Nimue made it all the way to the end without falling.
They played for a long time. Then the boys with the ball wanted to play catch. Nimue caught the ball twice before it hit her in the chest on the third throw and bounced off. She laughed, and the boy who had thrown it laughed too.
Someone brought out a long skipping rope. Two girls began to turn it, the rope slapping against the pavement in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. Nimue watched them for a while. She tried it once but tripped on the second turn and landed on her knees. She got right back up and tried again. The third time, she made it through three full jumps before the rope caught her ankle.
The girl holding the end of the rope grinned at her. "You are not bad at all."
Nimue's knees were scraped and her hands were covered in white chalk dust, and she was having more fun than she could ever remember having.
The sun climbed higher into the sky, and the shadows on the green shortened. Someone's mother called out from a nearby window that it was nearly lunch time.
Lucy picked up her chalk and stood up. "We are going to the river after. You want to come with us?"
Nimue looked over at Andrew. He shrugged. "It's shallow. We go there all the time."
She nodded her agreement.
The river ran behind the old church, through a cut in the muddy bank where the trees opened up and the sun hit the water. The path down to it was narrow and worn smooth by many feet. Nimue walked behind Lucy, her trainers sliding occasionally on the damp, mossy earth. Cinder ran ahead of them, his paws leaving small, distinct prints in the mud.
The water was crystal clear, the bottom visible through the surface. She could see pebbles, sand, and a few flat stones where the current had worn them smooth over the years. It came up to Lucy's knees, and to Nimue's, it sat a little higher.
Lucy stepped in first. Her shoes were already off, and her socks were stuffed into them on the bank. "It's cold!" she said, and then she laughed because the shock of it felt good.
Nimue sat on the grassy bank and pulled off her trainers. Her socks went inside them, and she pushed them safely to the side. The water was indeed cold. It closed around her ankles, then her calves, and finally her knees. She took a tentative step. The bottom was soft and the mud squelched satisfyingly between her toes.
Lucy splashed her with a handful of water.
Nimue splashed her right back.
The other children were in the water now, their voices bouncing off the surrounding trees. Someone tried to catch a small fish with his bare hands. Someone else found a flat stone and tried to skip it across the surface. It sank on the second hop.
Nimue bent down and picked up a stone of her own. She threw it exactly the way her father had taught her—flat side down, with her wrist held straight. It skipped once, twice, three times. The other children stopped what they were doing to watch.
"Do it again," Lucy said, her eyes wide.
She did it again. Four times the stone bounced before sinking.
She lost track of the time. Her shorts were soaked through and her shirt clung to her back. Her hair had come loose from its silk ribbon and hung in wet, white strands against her face. She didn't care about any of it.
They walked back through the village just as the bells in the church tower began to ring for noon. Twelve deep chimes echoed through the valley. Nimue's feet were wet inside her trainers and her socks squelched with every step. Her hair was still dripping down her neck.
Cinder was pressed against her legs, his ears flat and his fur damp from where she had picked him up to cross the deeper part of the river.
The house came into view at the end of the lane. Jane was standing on the front step with her arms crossed. Her mouth was doing something that wasn't quite a smile, but wasn't a scold either.
Nimue stopped in front of her.
"We went in the river."
"I can see that." Jane reached down and touched Nimue's hair. Her fingers came away wet. "You are going to need a bath."
"I already had one in the river."
"You need another one."
She lifted Nimue up before the girl could argue. Nimue's arms went around her mother's neck. Jane smelled like soap, tea, and the soft wool of her jumper.
"Was it good?" Jane asked.
Nimue pressed her face into her mother's shoulder. "Yes."
The bath was hot and steaming. Jane sat on the edge of the tub and poured warm water over her hair, working the soap through the tangles and the bits of river weeds. Nimue watched the grey dirt swirl away down the drain.
"I'm hungry," she said.
"Lunch is almost ready."
She let Jane wash her back, her arms, and the small scrapes on her knees. The water eventually cooled, but she stayed in until her fingers were wrinkled like raisins.
Jane wrapped her in a large, fluffy towel. "Go on. Your dry clothes are on the bed."
She dressed in dry linen shorts and a clean cotton shirt. Her hair was still wet against her neck, but she didn't mind.
Lunch was fresh bread and a thick soup full of vegetables. She ate sitting on the kitchen step, her bowl balanced on her knees. Cinder sat beside her, his ears forward as he watched every spoonful move toward her mouth.
Jane brought her a second bowl without being asked, and she ate that too.
The sun was high in the sky now, the light appearing sharp against the grey stone. She leaned back against the doorframe and closed her eyes.
She heard her mother's voice. It was low, talking to her father about something. They were talking about the tablets and what had happened in the Hall. The words slipped past her, sounding too soft to catch.
Her head nodded forward. She caught herself, blinked her eyes open, and lifted her head back up.
Jane was there. "Bed."
She didn't argue. She let herself be lifted and let her head fall against Jane's shoulder. The stairs went by in a blur of dark wood and shadow. The bedroom was cool and quiet. The quilt felt incredibly soft.
Cinder jumped up and pressed his warm body against her side.
She was warm. Her stomach was full. The light through the window was gold and soft.
She slept.
===
Okay so, remember when I mentioned that "higher being" background lore? Yeah, I think it'd be a good idea to slip it into the ancestor scene. Let me explain a bit about Nimue's posture, because I put way too much thought into this and now you have to hear about it lol.
So I positioned Nimue's hands with her palms facing upward, resting naturally on her thighs. Her fingers are slightly curled, relaxed, never stiff or forced.
The usual prayer gesture, hands clasped at the chest with the head bowed, carries a sense of supplication. It implies asking, placing oneself below something greater. That is not what Nimue is doing. She doesn't understand it yet, but she stands in a position to give, not to ask.
Open palms carry a different meaning. Across cultures, they appear in blessings, in depictions of saints, in the forms of deities. It is a gesture of offering. A four year old would not consciously know this, but her body does. Something deeper moves through her without her awareness.
I considered placing her hands higher, near her chest or face. I decided against it. That position leans too close to formal prayer and feels too submissive. Keeping them on her thighs grounds her, while still carrying that quiet sense of elevation. She kneels, but she is not diminished.
The kneeling itself is important. Nimue drops down without hesitation. Her spine is straight, not rigid. Her shoulders are loose. Her head tilts slightly upward, her eyes closed, her expression calm. No one in her family taught her this. She has never seen it before. Yet her body moves before her thoughts can follow.
That is the pull of her higher nature, made physical. The movement should feel inevitable, as if something within her drew her down rather than a conscious choice. Her straight spine reinforces that. A submissive kneel would fold inward. Hers remains open. She is receiving, but she is also holding something within herself.
The slight lift of her chin matters. She is not bowing toward the ancestral tablets in reverence. She is reaching beyond them. Beyond the hall. Beyond what anyone around her understands.
Her expression reflects that difference. It is serene, not devout. The calm comes from recognition, not worship. Something in her aligns in that moment. This place, these ancestors, this feeling, they fit into something her soul already knows. The peace on her face is not learned. It is the quiet familiarity of returning to something that has always been hers, even if she cannot remember why.
So yeah, that's the thought process behind that scene! Hopefully it makes sense now.