The weeks after Hermione's first visit settled into something that felt, to Nimue, like a second skin. It was a comfortable weight that she wore without thinking, a quiet familiarity that draped itself over the house and the street.
She learned the rhythm of the London house the same way she had learned the rhythm of the manor. She did this by waking before the milk cart arrived at the curb, listening for the distinct clink of glass bottles in the crates and the low murmur of the milkman's voice. She listened for the metallic click of the kettle in the kitchen when it reached its boil.
She recognized the specific sound of her mother's footsteps, a soft scuff against the floor as they moved from the stove to the table and back again. The stairs gave a familiar creak in the same places every morning, and the refrigerator hummed itself into a steady vibration at half past six.
Cinder eventually learned the sharp sound of the post sliding through the letterbox, and he stopped raising his head for it after the third day, merely flicking an ear in acknowledgment.
They went to the local market twice a week, where the air was thick with the scent of damp wood, fresh produce, and the sharp tang of the fishmonger's ice. Jane bought vegetables from the woman with the grey hair and calloused hands. The woman now called Nimue by her name and sometimes slipped her a bruised apple. It was still sweet and cold under the skin, and Nimue would eat it while they walked.
They went to the little bookshop on the corner, a quiet place that smelled of ink and old paper. The woman with the glasses let Nimue sit on the low wooden stool by the window where the light was clear. She sat there and read anything she wanted. She worked her way through the shelf of bright picture books, then started on the ones with more words. Her finger traced the black lines across the page. Her lips moved silently as she sounded out the syllables. The woman never rushed her, simply nodding as she polished the counter.
Some afternoons they went to the park where the grass was patchy and green. Nimue knew the feel of the cold iron swings now. She knew the way the rusty chains bit into her palms when she went too high. She understood the way her stomach dropped when she leaned back far enough to see the rooftops and the sky upside down.
She knew the metal ladder of the slide and the way the sun heated the silver top of it. It made her hands stick slightly to the warm metal when she climbed. She knew the exact speed of the roundabout where the world blurred into a smear of color. Her ears filled with the rushing wind. She had to squeeze her eyes shut or the dizziness would tip her off the edge.
She didn't fall off the roundabout. She hadn't fallen off anything in weeks.
Hermione Granger became a constant presence in her life. She lived four houses down at number eleven. Her hair was a wild cloud of brown curls that seemed to defy both gravity and combs. She spoke quickly, her voice bright and insistent. She knew many things, and she liked to share them with anyone who would listen.
They met in the small, walled garden behind the London house where the dirt was damp and dark. They met in the Granger living room, a space surrounded by tall shelves of books that reached for the ceiling. They met at the park where the swings made a rhythmic creak and the grass wore thin and brown near the slides.
Other children joined them sometimes.
There was a boy named David from number eight and a girl named Sarah from across the square. But Hermione was the one who stayed. She was the one who brought books to show Nimue. She was the one who explained how the swings worked. She used serious terms like momentum and friction to explain the way the world moved.
Hermione came three times a week. Sometimes they played in the garden, building great, messy castles in the dirt under the shade of the tree. They worked until their knees were stained green and their hands looked like they had been dipped in thick mud.
Sometimes Hermione brought books from her own house. There were picture books with colorful animals, books about the stars in space, and a heavy volume with a blue cover. It had long words that Nimue had to sound out slowly while Hermione waited with her hands in her lap.
The first time Hermione showed her a book about the solar system, she opened it to the page featuring Jupiter. She pointed at the planet's Great Red Spot with her whole hand, her small fingers splayed wide across the glossy paper. The book's ink smelled slightly sharp and fresh, and the planet appeared as a vibrant whorl of ochre and deep rust in the illustration. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, making the gas giant's colors shimmer.
"It's a storm. It's been going for four hundred years. Do you know how long four hundred years is?"
Nimue looked at the picture. The red spot was bigger than the Earth, according to the book's caption, though she didn't fully understand that comparison's weight. "Long."
"I asked my mum. She said four hundred years is before the Pilgrims. Before America. Before Shakespeare, maybe."
Nimue wasn't sure who the Pilgrims were, or Shakespeare, but she understood the scale. Four hundred years was Thornwell. Four hundred years was the massive oak standing on the green, its branches spreading like a canopy over the stone wall.
"It's a storm," she said, her voice quiet.
"Yes." Hermione flipped the page, her brown curls bouncing with her enthusiastic movement. "And Saturn has rings. They are made of ice and rock. Some of the rocks are as big as houses. Imagine a rock as big as your house flying around in space."
Nimue imagined it. She could see the rock, grey and pitted, as it tumbled end over end through the black void. Stuck to one jagged side was the London house's green door. She pictured the brass knocker catching the distant stars' light as the stone spun. The image made her laugh.
Hermione looked at her. She didn't look sure if she was being laughed at or if Nimue was simply being silly. "What?"
"Nothing."
Hermione turned back to the book. She pointed at Neptune, which appeared blue and far away on the page. "This one has the solar system's strongest winds. They are faster than anything on Earth. If you stood on Neptune, you would be blown away before you even landed."
She said it with the same absolute certainty she used for everything. Her voice was fast and sharp. Her finger tapped the page with a rhythmic sound that kept time with the clock's ticking on the mantle. She was daring the blue planet to disagree with her.
Nimue watched her. She watched the way Hermione's brow pulled down when she was explaining something. She noticed the way the other girl's mouth moved faster than her thoughts sometimes. Her words stacked on top of each other like building blocks that might topple at any second.
"You know a lot," Nimue said.
Hermione's face went pink. "I read."
That was the first time Nimue noticed it. It was the way Hermione's voice got louder when she knew a fact. Her sentences ran together into a single, breathless stream. She looked at Nimue as if she were waiting for the other girl to catch up to her position. It wasn't a mean feeling. It wasn't anything Nimue had a name for. But it made her feel small in a way that wasn't about her physical size.
It's a Tuesday afternoon in the Granger living room. The space smelled faintly of peppermint tea and an old paper scent. They were sitting on the thick rug with a book about planets open between them. The rug's dark blue weave felt slightly scratchy beneath Nimue's knees. Hermione was pointing at a diagram illustrating Saturn.
"The rings are made of ice and rock. Most people think they are solid but they are not. It's actually quite simple physics if you understand gravity. My dad told me. He knows about teeth but he knows about this too. Actually, I read it in this book yesterday. It's important to know the difference because otherwise you might think you can stand on them."
She looked at Nimue. Her chin was lifted slightly. Her eyes were bright, and they seemed to be demanding some kind of acknowledgement.
Nimue felt a small knot tighten in her chest. It wasn't anger. It was a sensation of being talked at rather than being spoken to. It was the feeling of being placed on the other side of a counter while someone sold her something she didn't need.
"Hermione." Her voice was soft.
Hermione didn't stop. "And the planet's rotation is tilted, which means the seasons are different, but not like Earth because."
"Hermione."
The other girl paused. She blinked twice, her curls settling around her shoulders. "What?"
"You are talking too fast." Nimue kept her hands folded neatly in her lap. "And your tone is wrong. It sounds like you think I don't know anything."
Hermione's face flushed a deep pink. The neck's color spread up to her cheeks. She looked down at the open book, her fingers tracing the page's edge. "I didn't mean it like that. I just know this information. I thought you would want to know."
"I do want to know. But you are lecturing me. I don't like it."
Hermione gave a small nod. She looked miserable. "I'm sorry. I will try to stop."
She tried.
For two days she watched her words with an intensity that made her mouth stay pressed into a thin line. She paused before speaking, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. She asked questions instead of making statements, her voice sounding small and careful in the quiet house.
But on the fourth day, they were building a castle out of wooden blocks in the middle of the sitting room. The blocks were smooth and smelled of pine, clicking together with a hollow sound as they stacked. Hermione corrected Nimue on the tower's structural integrity before Nimue had even placed the third block. The words came out rapid and sharp, a sudden flood that broke through her resolve. Her chin lifted again. Her eyes demanded acknowledgement.
Nimue didn't speak. She stopped moving her hand, leaving the block poised an inch above the wood. She turned her head slowly, her movement deliberate and calm.
She looked at Hermione.
It was a look she had seen in the mirror during the long nights after the rituals. It was a look she had seen on her mother's face when a supplier tried to overcharge for herbs in the market. It was flat and perfectly still. It didn't blink. It didn't show any flash of anger. It simply existed in the space between them. It said stop without making a single sound.
Hermione's voice trailed off into the silence. The words died in her throat, leaving her mouth slightly open. She looked at Nimue. She looked at the green eyes' stillness. The flush returned to her face, appearing as a deep pink that stained her cheeks. She looked down at the pile of blocks. She picked one up and placed it silently onto the floor.
Nimue turned back to the tower. She wasn't mad. She understood that Hermione didn't do it on purpose. It was a habit. it was a way of being safe in a world where knowing things mattered above all else. But being labeled as stupid was uncomfortable for her. It was a weight Nimue didn't want to carry. She hoped Hermione would change. She knew it would be hard. Some things were part of the bone.
They finished the castle together, the towers rising until they were as tall as Nimue's shoulder. They didn't talk about the tone. They played until the light faded and the room grew dim.
It happened again three days later.
They were in Hermione's house this time, sitting on her bedroom floor with a book about ancient Egypt spread between them. Hermione's room was small and neat, smelling of graphite and clean paper. It had a single bed and a desk covered in sharpened pencils. Her windowsill's rock collection sat in a perfect row, each stone labeled in her careful, slanted handwriting.
"The pyramids took twenty years to build." Hermione's voice was already picking up speed, the excitement bubbling over. "They used ramps, not wheels, because they didn't have the wheel. Not for building. They had wheels for other things, just not for." She flipped the heavy page. "This one is Khufu. It's the largest. The blocks weigh two and a half tons each. Do you know how much that is?"
Nimue didn't, but Hermione was already telling her.
"It's about as much as a car. Two thousand kilograms. And they moved them without any machines. They just used people and rope and ramps. Some people think aliens did it, but that's stupid. There's the ramps' evidence. Archaeologists found them. They have the evidence."
She was talking faster now. The words stacked on top of each other like the stone blocks she was describing. Her hands moved with the sentences, gesturing wildly. She had the book open to the pyramid's diagram, but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking at Nimue, her eyes bright and wide, waiting for her to understand something she hadn't had time to process.
Nimue put her hand flat on the page, the paper feeling cool and slightly grainy under her palm.
Hermione stopped.
She stared at Nimue's hand, then up at her face. The red was already starting at her collar, a creeping heat.
"You are doing it again," Nimue said.
Hermione's mouth opened, then closed. She pressed her lips together and looked down at her hands, which were still gripping the book's edges.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"I don't mean to."
Nimue pulled her hand back. The pyramid's diagram was still there. The blocks were neat and square, and the lines showed where the ramps had been. She looked at the drawing for a moment, then up at Hermione's face.
"Why do you do it?"
Hermione's fingers tightened on the book. "I don't know. I just—I know things, and I want to say them. If I don't say them right then, I forget I wanted to say them at all. And then it comes out wrong."
She was still red. Her voice was quiet now. It wasn't the fast rush of before but something thinner and more careful.
"It's not wrong. It's just a lot."
Hermione didn't answer.
It kept happening throughout the following weeks. It wasn't every single time they sat together on the patio or in the sitting room, but it occurred often enough that Nimue learned to recognize the signs before the first word even left Hermione's mouth. She watched the way Hermione's shoulders would go up toward her ears. She noticed her small hands starting to move in frantic, sweeping gestures to punctuate her points.
Her voice would steadily climb in pitch and speed until the words were running into each other like water rushing over a fall. Sometimes Hermione caught herself mid-sentence and slowed down. Her cheeks would turn a deep, embarrassed pink. Sometimes she didn't catch herself at all, far too lost in the rush of facts she had gathered from her library of books.
The worst time occurred in the garden, two weeks after they had finished the book about Egypt. The afternoon was warm and still, the sun beating down on Nimue's white hair. They were drawing with gritty sticks of chalk on the stone patio.
Nimue was making a snake, its long body curling intricately around the grey stones. She drew its head raised as if it were looking at something hidden in the grass. Hermione sat a few feet away, her fingers covered in a fine blue dust. She was drawing the solar system, making circles inside circles, with the sun's circle in the middle and its rays spreading out across the pavement.
"Mars is smaller than Earth. It's the solar system's biggest volcano. Olympus Mons. It's three times taller than Mount Everest. Do you know Everest's height?"
Nimue didn't look up. She kept drawing, the chalk scratching softly against the stone. The snake's tongue was a thin, vibrant red line.
"It's eight thousand eight hundred metres high. That's almost nine kilometres. So Olympus Mons is twenty-four kilometres tall. That's much taller than the distance from this house to the park. Imagine a mountain that tall. It would touch space. Not really, but almost. It would be far above the clouds. You could stand on the very top and see the planet's curve. If you were on Mars, you could see—"
Nimue stopped drawing.
She didn't say anything. She set the yellow chalk down on the stone with a soft, distinct click and looked at Hermione. Her face was perfectly still. Her eyes were steady and unblinking.
Hermione's voice trailed off. Her hand remained suspended in the air, still holding a piece of blue chalk. Neptune's circle was left half-finished on the patio, a jagged arc of blue.
"What?"
Nimue didn't answer. She simply kept her gaze fixed on the other girl.
"What is it?" Hermione's voice was higher now, sounding uncertain. "I was just telling you about—"
Nimue's gaze didn't move.
Hermione's words got slower and slower. They got quieter until they were barely a breath. She finally lowered her hand to her lap. The blue chalk left a small, bright mark on her palm where she had been gripping it so tightly.
"I was talking too much again," she said.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Nimue drew the snake's eye. It was green, like her own eyes, but she didn't say that out loud.
They didn't talk about it again.
Nimue learned to let the steady word stream wash over her like a warm tide. She would give a small, rhythmic nod at the parts that seemed to matter most and quietly let the remaining information drift away into the golden afternoon light. Hermione learned to slow her talking pace, at least occasionally. She still forgot.
A new fact's excitement would often seize her, and she would start talking too fast again. She would stack fact upon fact like a precarious tower and look at Nimue with that wide-eyed gaze, waiting for her to finally catch up. But when she caught herself mid-rush, she stopped abruptly. Her cheeks would turn a deep, sudden red.
Sometimes she whispered a quick apology. Other times she didn't say anything at all; she simply closed her mouth and looked away.
Nimue didn't know if that effort was enough. She didn't know if Hermione could truly change something that seemed to be a fundamental part she possessed. It felt like the way Nimue's own cold belonged to her body. It was always there. It was settled deep in her bone marrow and waiting for its moment to come out.
She thought about the way Hermione spoke. It wasn't a cruel way, nor was it particularly kind; it's simply factual. She thought about how quickly Hermione's face flushed with that bright red heat whenever her mistake was realized.
It wasn't a mean thing. It wasn't anything Nimue had a name for. But she hoped that when Hermione grew older, she would learn how to hold her words a little longer before they came rushing out. She hoped the red wouldn't have to come so fast.
She didn't voice those thoughts. She drew her yellow snake and watched the sun's slow movement across the patio stones and listened to Hermione's breathing as it finally started to slow down.
. . .
The park was busy on Saturday morning, filled with the sharp, happy sounds of play that echoed through the open air.
It was the final Saturday before they left for the farm. Nimue knew this because Jane had told her at breakfast, counting the days on her fingers while they sat at the honey-colored table. Three days until the car came to the curb. Three days until the London house would be empty again, the furniture covered in white sheets and the kitchen silent.
She didn't want to think about that yet. She wanted to feel the rhythmic pull of the chains and the rush of the air.
The park was crowded with children. A group of older boys was kicking a leather ball at the far end, their voices rising and falling in rhythmic shouts. A toddler was crying by the sandpit, the sound thin and fragile, while her mother crouched beside her to wipe her face with a soft tissue. The roundabout was spinning in a dizzying blur of primary colors, children hanging off the metal bars with their hair flying behind them like banners.
Hermione was already there. She was standing by the black iron swings with her mother. Her hair was pulled into two neat, tight plaits that looked far more disciplined than the wild cloud of the day before. Her white shoes were so clean they looked as if they had just come out of a cardboard box. She waved when she saw Nimue, her whole arm moving in a wide, enthusiastic arc.
Jean Granger stood beside her, a heavy canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She offered a warm smile when Jane approached. "We were early. Hermione wanted to get the good swings."
"The good swings?" Jane looked at the long row of swings. To her eyes, they all looked the same.
"The ones that don't squeak." Jean laughed, the sound bright and easy. "She has a list."
Hermione's face went a deep pink. "They are better. The chains are tighter."
Nimue didn't ask what that meant. She simply reached out and pulled Hermione toward the empty rubber seats.
Saoirse followed behind them with her coat open and her hands tucked deep into her pockets. She had been quiet all morning. It was the kind of quiet that meant she was watching the world more than she was speaking to it. She settled onto the green wooden bench near the swings, sitting close enough to see the girls but far enough away that she didn't hover over their play.
The men occupied the bench near the sandpit. Jack had his hands resting in his lap, his posture steady. He was watching the roundabout where a small girl in a red coat was holding onto the bars with both hands. Dan Granger sat beside him with his legs crossed and his elbows resting on his knees. They had been talking for a while, the voices' low, steady rhythm carrying across the green grass.
Jean sat down beside Jane. She had her bag resting on her lap, and one hand was moving inside the canvas, pulling out a small biscuit packet. "She has been asking about her. Every morning. 'When is Nimue coming? Can we go to the park? Can I ring her bell?' She is very taken."
Jane smiled. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. She was just sitting there, watching Nimue climb onto the swing. She watched Saoirse lean back on the bench and watched the white clouds' movement across the pale blue sky.
"She has been good for her. Nimue. She has never had a friend before this year. Not someone her own age."
Jean looked at her with wide eyes. Her hand stopped moving inside the bag. "Never?"
"Her health." Jane said it the way she said everything about the child's health. It was flat and factual. The words were worn smooth from years of use. "She couldn't go out. She couldn't meet people. It's only this year she has been well enough."
Jean's face changed, her expression softening. She pulled her hand out of the bag, the biscuit packet forgotten for the moment. "I didn't know."
"We didn't say." Jane watched Nimue push off from the rubber-matted ground. The swing rose into the air, and Nimue's white hair lifted off her shoulders. "We wanted her to have normal. To be normal. For a little while."
On the swings, Hermione was already reaching for the sky. Her plaits flew behind her like dark ribbons. She was laughing with her mouth wide open, her eyes fixed on the blue expanse above. Nimue was slower in her movements. Her legs pumped with a steady, determined rhythm, her small feet kicking at the air. Her hands were loose on the cold metal chains.
Nimue watched Hermione. She watched the way the sunlight caught her friend's face whenever she leaned back into the arc of the swing.
"She is very brave," Jean said. Her voice was different now. It was softer. "Hermione. She has always been like that. She dives into things. She doesn't think about what might happen next."
Jane looked at her daughter. Nimue was pumping her legs harder now, her shoes pointed toward the horizon. She was trying to match Hermione's height. Her face was set in a hard line and her jaw was tight with effort. She was going to catch up eventually. She always did.
"So does Nimue. She just doesn't show it in the same way."
They sat in silence for a while. The swings made a rhythmic, metallic creak. The roundabout spun nearby. Saoirse had moved from the bench to the roundabout. She was pushing it with one strong hand, her own laughter carrying across the grass. Hermione was shouting something. Her voice was high and bright. Saoirse shouted back in the same playful tone.
Jack's voice drifted over from the other bench. He was talking about Thornwell. He spoke about month they had spent in the valley. Dan was asking him something. His voice was too low for the women to catch the specific words.
"When she was three, she had a treatment," Jane said.
Jean didn't ask what kind. She simply waited, her gaze resting on the grass.
"It was supposed to be gentle. It was the first one. It was just to prepare her body for what came next." Jane's voice was very level. "Something went wrong. There was an ingredient she shouldn't have reacted to. Her body fought the infusion. For almost half an hour she was—"
Jane stopped.
On the roundabout, Saoirse was pushing even harder. The children were screaming and laughing with their arms held out to the sides. Nimue was on it now. Her hands were white where they gripped the safety bar. Her hair streamed behind her like a pale, shimmering banner. Hermione was beside her. Her face was red from the exertion and her mouth was open in a wide grin.
"She was awake through the whole time. We couldn't reach her. We couldn't stop the process. If we had stopped, it would've been much worse."
Jean's hand found Jane's wrist. She held it there. She wasn't squeezing the skin. She was just present.
"Afterward, she slept for three days. She couldn't walk for a week. It was a month before she was truly herself again."
The roundabout was finally slowing down. Saoirse was stepping back with her hands raised in a playful gesture. She was laughing at something Hermione was shouting. Nimue was leaning against the metal bar. Her head was tipped back and her eyes were on the sky.
"But the treatment worked, right?" Jean asked.
"It worked." Jane's voice remained steady. "She is stronger now. Her body can hold more. But next year." She looked at her daughter. Nimue was climbing off the roundabout. Her legs were unsteady on the grass and her hand reached out for Saoirse to steady herself. "Next year it's more dangerous. It's always been more dangerous. Children with her condition, in the past, they didn't always survive."
Jean's hand tightened on Jane's wrist.
"We have been looking for another way. Another ingredient. Something her body won't fight against. We have time. We have researchers. We have—" Jane stopped speaking. She watched Nimue run toward the swings. The girl's feet barely touched the grass. Her laugh was sharp and bright.
"We have her. That's what matters."
The row of swings stood empty for a brief, quiet moment. Nimue climbed onto one of the black rubber seats. Her small hands gripped the cold, metallic chains. Her legs began to pump with a steady, determined rhythm. Hermione settled into the seat beside her. She matched Nimue's height and speed with every arc, her own feet kicking at the air.
Jean looked at the two girls. "That's why you are traveling. That's why you are letting her see everything."
Jane didn't answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the way Nimue's shoes pointed toward the clouds with every forward thrust. She watched her daughter swing, the motion rhythmic and constant.
"You want her to have this," Jean said softly, her voice barely carrying over the sound of play.
Jane's voice was quiet, almost a whisper in the wind. "Yes."
Dan spoke to Jack on the nearby bench. Jack gave a low, short laugh that sounded grounded and real. Both men turned their attention toward the playground equipment. They watched the two girls as they rose higher and higher toward the pale sky.
Jean released Jane's wrist. She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a packet of biscuits. The plastic packet crinkled loudly as she opened the seal. She held one out toward Jane.
"She will be fine. She is strong. You can see it in her."
Jane took the offered biscuit. The surface was plain and slightly rough against her fingertips. It tasted a little sweet and a little dry. She broke the round biscuit in half. She ate one piece and then the other, the crumbs dry in her mouth.
"Yes."
The swings began to slow their pace as the momentum faded. Nimue's legs dragged against the rubber matting on the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Her hands loosened their grip on the chains. Hermione was already leaping off her seat before it had fully stopped. Her face was flushed red from the exertion. Her dark hair had started to escape from its neat plaits, forming a wild halo. She began talking to Saoirse about the roundabout. She described the way it made her stomach feel. She insisted that she wanted to go again right now.
Saoirse laughed at the enthusiasm. "You will throw up. Have some water first."
"I won't throw up," Hermione insisted, her chin lifted.
"You will," Saoirse teased.
"I won't."
Nimue's feet fully touched the ground, stopping the movement of the swing. She remained on the seat for a quiet moment. Her hands stayed wrapped around the chains. Her chest moved with her heavy breathing. She eventually slid off the rubber seat. She walked toward the wooden bench where Jane was sitting.
"Hungry," she said.
Jane looked at her daughter. Nimue's face was flushed from the exercise. Her white hair was a wild tangle. Her knees were stained a dark, earthy green from the grass. A thin red line marked a scratch on her arm from the roundabout's metal edge. She held her stomach as if it might fall out at any moment.
"There's biscuits," Jean said. She held out the crinkling packet once more.
Nimue took a biscuit. She ate it in three quick bites. Her eyes remained on the swings. Hermione was currently trying to convince Saoirse to give her another push.
"She is going to be sick," Jane said.
"Probably," Jean agreed.
Saoirse shook her head in a mock refusal, but her eyes were dancing. Hermione was already climbing back onto the swing. Her hands gripped the chains. Her face was set with a quiet determination. Saoirse placed her palm against the back of the seat. She pushed just once. It was just enough to get the girl moving again. Hermione's laugh became the loudest thing in the entire park.
Nimue ate another biscuit, the crumbs falling onto her shirt. She leaned against Jane's arm. Her shoulder pressed firmly into her mother's side. Jane placed her hand on the girl's head. Her fingers tangled in the white hair.
"One more time," Nimue said. "And then food."
"One more time," Jane agreed.
She didn't move. Her hand stayed on Nimue's head, her fingers still tangled in the white hair, and she watched her daughter watch her friend swing higher and higher into the sky.
. . .
The restaurant was three streets from the park.
It was the one with the vibrant red awning, the place they had walked past a dozen times without ever going inside. The woman at the door offered a warm smile when she saw the children. Their faces were still flushed from the park, their clothes were covered in a fine layer of playground dust, and their hair was a chaotic mess of curls and white strands. She found them a table near the window where the evening light was soft. She pushed two wooden chairs together and brought over fresh colouring sheets and a box of crayons without being asked.
Nimue sat between Jane and Saoirse, the chair feeling solid beneath her. Hermione was directly across from her. Her hands were flat on the table and her legs were swinging in a steady rhythm.
Jean Granger was beside her daughter, smoothing the wild hair back and attempting to retie the loose plaits. Dan Granger sat at the end of the table. He had taken his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, looking relaxed.
The colouring sheets featured various animals. Hermione received a lion with a large mane. Nimue received an elephant.
She began to colour it grey, the crayon feeling slightly waxy in her hand. She worked carefully, colouring the sky a pale blue, the grass a vibrant green, and the sun a brilliant yellow. Hermione was focusing on the lion's mane. Her tongue was caught between her teeth as her crayon moved in fast, confident strokes.
"Lions sleep twenty hours a day." Her voice was careful. It was much slower than usual. "Did you know that?"
Nimue looked up from her elephant. Hermione was watching her. Her crayon remained still against the paper as she waited for a response.
"No."
"They do. They sleep through most of the day. That's why they are so fast when they hunt. They save all their energy for the chase."
Hermione went back to her lion. Her crayon was steady once more. Her voice had been steady too. It wasn't the rushed, stacked delivery Nimue had grown used to. It was just a fact, handed over like something she genuinely wanted to share instead of something she needed to prove to the world.
Nimue coloured the elephant's large ear. She used the same grey as the body, the shade of the sky just before a rainstorm.
"That's interesting," she said.
Hermione's face went a soft pink. She didn't say anything else, focusing instead on the yellow of the lion's fur.
The food arrived shortly after. Nimue ate pasta tossed with butter and cheese. The noodles twisted easily around her fork, and the ceramic bowl felt warm against her small hands. Hermione ate fish and chips. She spent time cutting the fish into neat pieces and dipping each one into a small pot of sauce.
The adults talked in low, comfortable voices over their half-empty plates. Saoirse told a story about a bustling market in Turkey. She described a man who sold intricate carpets and a ginger cat that insisted on sitting on every single one. Jean laughed so hard at the description that she had to put her glass down on the table.
Nimue finished her pasta. She leaned back in her chair, her stomach feeling full and her legs heavy with exhaustion. Her eyes felt weighted. The window showed the street outside. The light was fading into a deep purple, and the cars were moving slower than they had been during the day.
The restaurant was warm and smelled of garlic and toasted bread. The woman who had brought the colouring sheets returned with a damp cloth. She wiped the table and asked if they wanted anything else before they left.
Hermione was yawning, her eyes watering. Her mother was already pulling a small coat from the back of the chair, helping the girl's arms through the sleeves and fixing the collar.
Nimue slid off her chair. Her legs felt a bit wobbly beneath her. She placed her hand on Jane's knee to steady herself.
"Tired," she said.
Jane stood up. She pulled Nimue's coat from the hook and held it open. Nimue pushed her arms through the fabric. She felt the wool settle on her shoulders and the hood hanging loose against her back.
"Say goodbye," Jane said softly.
Nimue looked at Hermione.
The other girl was looking back at Nimue with an expression that Nimue didn't have a word for yet. It was quiet and a little bit sad.
"See you," Nimue said.
Hermione gave a slow nod. Her mother was holding her hand, gently pulling her toward the door. Dan was already outside, holding the heavy door open for them. Jean pulled her daughter through the doorway. Her hand waved in a final gesture while her voice called out a goodbye. Saoirse was laughing at something Dan had said at the last second. Jane's hand rested firmly on Nimue's shoulder.
They walked home through the dark streets. The lights were already on in the windows. The curtains were half-drawn, making the houses look warm and yellow against the night. Cinder was waiting right at the door when they arrived. His ears were up and his tail was wagging. He sniffed Nimue's hands, her sleeves, and her coat. He was cataloguing the smells of the park, the restaurant, the grass, and the city dust.
Nimue let him finish his inspection. She knelt on the floor and buried her face in his thick fur. He smelled like home. He smelled like the London house, the small garden, and the wool blanket on her bed.
"Three days," she whispered into his ear.
The fox's tail thumped once against the wooden floor.
She went upstairs. Jane was right behind her. Her footsteps were slow and her hand rested on the banister. The stairs gave their familiar creaks. The light at the top of the landing was low, coming from a single bulb that cast a yellow glow.
Nimue went into her room. She left the door open just a crack so the light from the hall could reach her bed. Cinder jumped up onto the mattress. He turned twice and then settled against her legs. The sheets felt cool against her skin. The pillow was soft.
She closed her eyes.
Three days remained. Then they would go to the farm. She thought of the fields, the animals, and the open green space she hadn't seen since leaving Thornwell. She didn't know what it would look like.
She would find out soon.
Her eyes were very heavy. Her legs were tired from the long day. Cinder's breathing slowed down, and his ribs rose and fell against her feet in a steady rhythm.
She slept.