The morning light through her window was thin and pale. It was the kind of light that meant the sun was still low behind the city's rooftops. Nimue lay in bed for a moment, watching the plane tree branches' shadows move across the ceiling in slow, skeletal patterns. Cinder was already awake. His ears swiveled toward the door every time a car passed on the street below, the engine's low hum vibrating through the house's old walls.
She heard Saoirse before she saw her. Her aunt's voice carried up the stairs, bright and fast, just as it always did when she was planning something. Jane answered in a slower, measured tone. Then the kettle clicked off with a sharp snap, and the house settled into the steady rhythm of morning.
Nimue slid out of bed. Her feet felt cold on the bare floorboards. She dressed herself quickly, pulling on her shorts and a cotton shirt before stepping into the blue trainers. She still had to tie the laces twice to keep them from coming undone. Cinder followed her down the stairs, his claws clicking rhythmically on the polished wood.
Saoirse was in the kitchen, her hair pulled back tight and a handwritten list in her hand. Jane sat at the table with a steaming cup of tea. Jack stood by the window, looking out at the small garden. His shirt was untucked and his hair remained messy from sleep.
"We need food," Saoirse was saying. "Actual food. Not just bread and butter."
Jane looked up when Nimue appeared in the doorway. "We are going to the market. Do you want to come?"
Nimue gave a quick nod. She hadn't been to shops before—the bookshop, the café, and the place where Jane bought tea. She didn't know exactly what that meant, but Saoirse was already pulling on her coat. Jane reached for her bag, and the morning felt like something significant was about to happen.
The market was four streets away. They walked past the row of houses with their black iron railings and narrow front gardens. They passed the corner shop with its window full of newspapers and the pub that wasn't open yet. Nimue walked between Jane and Saoirse. Cinder was on a lead Jane had bought for him, though he mostly walked pressed against Nimue's leg anyway, his fur soft against her skin.
She heard the market before she saw it. There were many voices calling out prices and greetings. She heard the hollow clatter of wooden crates being moved. The smell hit her when they turned the corner and the street opened into a wide square full of stalls.
The air smelled of earthy vegetables, fresh fish, and something sugary from a stall at the far end. She smelled the wet pavement, cut grass, and the fishmonger's ice with its sharp salt. There was the scent of bread, fresh from an oven somewhere, along with oranges and the damp wool of the coats of people pushing past her.
Nimue stopped at the square's edge and stared.
There were stalls everywhere. Bright canvas awnings stood in bright colors. Crates of apples were stacked higher than her head. Bunches of carrots with their green tops still attached were tied together with twine. A woman shouted about her tomatoes while another held up a fish by its tail, the silver scales catching the grey morning light.
Saoirse was already moving. She pulled Jane toward a stall featuring a pyramid of oranges. "Look at these. Look at the color."
Jane laughed and let herself be pulled along. Nimue followed, her eyes moving from stall to stall, trying to take in everything at once.
"This's a market," Jane said, crouching beside her. "People bring food here to sell. Vegetables, fruit, meat, and fish. Bread and cheese. Anything you want to eat."
Nimue looked at the oranges. They were bright, almost glowing in the flat light. "Where do they come from?"
"Near places. Faraway places. Anywhere." Saoirse picked one up and held it to her nose. "You smell that? That's how you know it's good. Sweet."
She handed the fruit to Nimue.
Nimue held it to her face. The skin was cool and dimpled. The scent was sharp and sweet at the same time, like summer or something she didn't have a name for.
"We will get some," Jane said. "But first, vegetables."
She led them to a stall where the carrots were piled in messy heaps. The cabbages sat in rows, their leaves pale green and tightly folded. The woman behind the stall had grey hair and thick, calloused hands. She smiled when she saw Nimue looking.
"First time?" she asked.
Nimue nodded.
The woman picked up a carrot and held it out. "You want the ones that are firm. No soft spots. See?" She squeezed the vegetable. "That's good. If it bends, it's old. You don't want that."
Nimue took the carrot. It felt hard and cool in her hand, the green top still damp with dew. She squeezed it. It didn't bend.
"Good," the woman said.
Jane bought carrots, onions, potatoes, and a cabbage so big Nimue had to hold it with both hands. Saoirse picked out leeks and a celery bunch.
Nimue watched the way her aunt tapped the stalks, listening to the snap they made when she bent them.
"Fresh," Saoirse said. "You hear that? That's how you know."
Nimue tried it on a celery stalk. It snapped clean and sharp. She put it into the basket.
They moved to the fishmonger next. The smell was sharp and the ice glittered under the stall's lights. Saoirse talked to the man behind the counter about white fish and what was best today. Nimue watched the fish laid out on the ice—silver and grey shapes with clear eyes and red gills.
"Never buy fish with cloudy eyes," Jane said quietly. "That means it's old."
Nimue looked at the eyes. They were as clear as glass.
They bought two cod fillets, wrapped in thick paper, and a handful of prawns for something Saoirse called a "starter." Nimue didn't know what that meant, but she carried the bag with the prawns, her fingers feeling the cold through the paper.
At the bread stall, the man let her pick out a loaf. She chose one with a thick crust and a pattern scored into the top. He wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with string, handing it to her like it was something precious.
She held it against her chest. It was still warm.
By the time they left the square, her arms were full and her legs felt tired. Her nose was cold from the morning air. Saoirse had a basket over one arm and a bag of oranges in the other. Jane carried the vegetables. Cinder walked beside Nimue, his ears forward and his nose twitching at the scents that followed them home.
. . .
The kitchen was small, but they filled it quickly.
Jane unpacked the vegetables onto the counter. Saoirse put the fish in the refrigerator and started pulling out heavy pots and pans. Jack came down from upstairs and stood in the doorway, looking at the piles of food.
"We are cooking," Jane said. "All of us."
Jack raised his eyebrows. "All of us?"
"All of us." Jane handed him a knife. "You are on vegetables."
He took the knife without any argument. Saoirse was already pulling a heavy pot onto the stove. Jane was unwrapping the fish, and Nimue stood in the middle of the kitchen, not sure where to put herself.
"Morwenna." Jane pointed to a bowl of carrots. "Wash those. Use the cold tap and scrub them with your hands. Get the dirt off."
Nimue pulled a stool to the sink and turned on the water. It was colder than she expected. The carrots were stiff and muddy. She held one under the stream and rubbed her thumb over the skin, watching the dirt run brown down the drain.
When she finished, she lined them up on the counter in a neat row. Jane looked at them and gave a nod.
"Good. Now the potatoes."
She washed the potatoes too. They were round and heavy with rough skins. Saoirse took them and cut them into thick slices, her knife moving fast and even. Nimue watched the way her aunt's fingers curled back from the blade, the way the potato fell away in neat white pieces.
"Watch," Saoirse said. "You do this with your hand like a claw. Fingers tucked. The knife goes down, not forward. You never cut yourself if your fingers are tucked."
She handed Nimue a potato and put her hand over the girl's, guiding the knife down. The blade went through the vegetable with a soft crack. Nimue pulled her hand back, fascinated.
"Good," Saoirse said. "Now another."
She cut three more slices. Each one was a little crooked and a little thicker than the last. Saoirse didn't fix them. She just put them in the pot with the others.
Jack was at the counter with the onions. His eyes were watering, and he was moving slower than Saoirse, but his slices were even and thin. Nimue watched the way he held the onion steady, his fingers curved just as Saoirse had shown her.
"Why are you crying?" she asked.
"Onions. They do that."
"Everyone should know how to cook," Jane said. She was at the stove now, the oil heating in a pan. "It doesn't matter if you are a man or a woman. You need to eat. You should know how to make food."
"Your grandmother taught me," Jack said. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "She said no son of hers was going to live on toast."
Saoirse laughed. "She said the same thing to me. And then she taught me how to make her stew. The one with the red wine and the beef."
"That stew," Jane said, her voice softening. "I haven't had that in years."
"We don't have beef," Saoirse said. "But we have fish. And leeks. And butter."
She was already moving, pulling a pan from the cupboard and finding butter in the refrigerator. Jane handed her the leeks. Saoirse sliced them thin, her knife moving so fast Nimue could barely see it.
"You want the white part," Saoirse explained. "The green is too tough. You save that for stock."
Nimue leaned closer. The leeks were white and pale green. When Saoirse cut them, they fell apart into soft, layered rings.
Jack finished the onions and started on the celery. Jane had the fish in a pan now. The skin was sizzling, the smell filling the kitchen. Saoirse melted butter in another pan and added the leeks. Their cooking sound was soft and steady, like rain against a window.
Nimue stood on her stool, watching them move. She saw her mother at the stove, her shoulders straight and her hand steady on the pan. Her father was beside her, sliding vegetables into a bowl and wiping the counter without being asked. Her aunt moved between them, reaching for salt, pepper, and the herbs in a glass jar on the windowsill.
They didn't bump into each other. They didn't argue. They moved like they had done this many times before, like the kitchen was a room they all knew how to share.
"Here," Jane said. She lifted Nimue so she could see into the pan. The fish was golden brown, its skin crisp and crackling. "That's what it looks like when it's done. You don't move it too much. You let it cook."
Nimue watched the oil bubble around the fillets' edges. The smell was sharp and clean. Her stomach made a noise that made Saoirse laugh.
"You can set the table," Jane said, setting her back down.
She knew how to set a table. She had been doing it since she was two, counting the plates, the forks, and the napkins. She found them in the cupboard. The plates were heavy and white, and the forks felt cool in her hand. She set them at the dining room table, one for each chair. Then she stood back and looked at them.
Four chairs.
Four plates.
Four forks.
The table was smaller than the one at the manor and smaller even than the one at Thornwell. But the plates were straight and the forks were in the right place. When she went back to the kitchen, Saoirse was carrying a pot to the table. Jack was opening the oven, and the smell of bread, fish, and butter was everywhere.
The pudding came last.
It's pale and wobbly, sitting in a glass bowl on the counter. Jane had made it the night before while Nimue was asleep. When she brought it to the table, Nimue leaned forward to look.
"What's it?"
"Panna cotta." Jane said it like it's a secret. "Your grandmother's recipe. From France."
It's white and smooth. When Jane spooned it into bowls, it trembled like the lake's surface when something moved underneath. Nimue took a bite. It was cold and sweet, tasting of vanilla, cream, and something else she didn't have a word for.
She ate it slowly, watching the others. She saw Jack with his eyes half-closed, the way he got when something was especially good. Saoirse scraped her bowl with her spoon. Jane watched her with a soft expression.
"Good?" Jane asked.
Nimue nodded. She felt warm, full, and tired. It was the good kind of tired that came from a morning of walking, carrying, washing, and cutting.
She was about to ask for more when Jane pushed back from the table.
"We have something to do first."
Jane had wrapped the pudding in ten small bowls, covered with wax paper and tied with string. She put them in a basket with the bread loaf Nimue had picked at the market and a small jar of honey from Mr. Chen's bees.
"When you move somewhere new," Jane said, "you introduce yourself to the neighbors. You bring them something. Food, mostly. It says you are friendly. It says you are a good neighbor."
Nimue looked at the basket. There were ten bowls. One loaf was cut into slices, each wrapped separately. There were ten small honey pots.
"We are staying for a month. That's long enough to know the people next door."
She took Nimue's hand, and they went out into the street.
The first house was on the left. The door was red, featuring a brass knocker shaped like a lion's head. Jane lifted it and let it fall. The sound was loud in the quiet street.
A woman opened the door. She was old, with white hair and a face creased like a folded map. She looked at Jane, then at Nimue, then at the basket.
"We just moved in," Jane said. "The house with the green door. We are staying for a month, and we wanted to say hello."
She held out a bowl. The woman took it, her movements slow but steady.
"Pudding," Jane said. "Panna cotta. And bread, and honey."
The woman looked at Nimue. Her eyes were a pale, kind blue.
"Well. That's very nice. Very nice indeed." She leaned down, her back giving a soft crack. "What's your name?"
"Nimue."
"Nimue." The woman said it slowly, as if she were tasting it. "That's a pretty name. French?"
"Welsh. It means Lady of the Lake."
The woman smiled. "Well, Lady Nimue. Welcome to the street."
They moved to the next house, and then the next. They met a man with a beard who shook Jane's hand too hard. They met a woman with a baby on her hip who smelled of talcum powder and milk. A girl not much older than Nimue peered out from behind her mother's legs and didn't say anything at all.
By the fifth house, Nimue's legs felt tired again. By the seventh, she was leaning against her mother's side. By the ninth, she was counting the steps to the tenth house, her eyes fixed on the door and willing it to be the last one.
The tenth house had a blue door and a pot of dead flowers on the step. Jane knocked, and a man opened it. He was tall and thin, wearing glasses and a cardigan missing a button.
"Oh," he said when he saw them. "Hello."
"We just moved in. We wanted to introduce ourselves."
He took the bowl she held out. "That's very kind. Very kind." He looked at Nimue, then back at Jane. "You have a daughter."
"Yes."
He gave a slow nod. "I had a daughter. She lives in Manchester now. She sends me letters." He looked at the bowl in his hands. "Pudding?"
"Panna cotta. And bread, and honey."
He smiled, and for a moment he looked younger and less tired. "My wife used to make something like that. Before she—" He stopped himself. "Well. Thank you."
He closed the door.
Jane stood for a moment, her hand resting on Nimue's shoulder. Then she turned, and they walked back down the street toward their own door, green painted wood with a brass knocker. Even before they reached it, they could hear Saoirse singing off key and Jack laughing inside. The house felt warm, bright, and full of life