The morning light was thin and pale when Nimue woke, the kind of light that meant the sun was still low behind the slate rooftops of the city. She lay still for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of London waking up. Cinder was already awake and alert, his ears swiveling toward the door every few seconds. The house felt quiet in a different way today. It wasn't the heavy, sleeping quiet of early morning, but the held-breath quiet of a place that knew something was ending.
She slid out of bed, her feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft patter. She dressed herself quickly in her blue denim shorts and the white shirt with the fox. She tied her laces twice, making sure the knots were tight and even, and then went downstairs.
Saoirse was already in the kitchen, pulling a handwritten list from her pocket. Jack stood by the window with his back to the room, looking out at the small garden where the shadows were still long. Jane was at the table with a steaming cup of tea, her red hair loose and her face still appearing soft with sleep.
"Market," Saoirse said the moment Nimue appeared in the doorway. "The last one."
Nimue climbed onto a chair, her knees bumping the wood. "The last one?"
"We leave tomorrow." Saoirse folded the list and tucked it back into her pocket with a sharp movement. "So today we buy things to give away. And we say thank you to the people here."
"Thank you to who?"
"The neighbours. The ones who took our pudding and said hello when we passed them on the pavement. The ones who didn't mind Cinder digging in their flowerbeds."
Cinder's ears flattened against his head at the mention of his name. He had been very careful about the flowerbeds, mostly.
Jack turned away from the window. "We should go before the market gets crowded. Eat something first, Nimue."
Nimue ate a slice of toast, watching the butter melt into the warm, porous bread. She drank a small glass of cool milk. Saoirse was already at the door, pulling her heavy coat on, her hair still slightly wet from a morning shower.
"Ready?" she asked.
Nimue slid off the chair. Cinder pressed his shoulder against her legs, his nose pointed toward the front door.
"He stays here," Jane said, her voice gentle but firm. "We won't be long."
Cinder's ears flattened further. He sat down on the rug, but his amber eyes followed them all the way to the threshold.
. . .
The market was quieter than usual. The stalls were open and the vendors were calling out their prices, but the crowds were thinner than they had been on the weekends. Nimue walked between Jack and Saoirse, her hand tucked into her father's palm. The air smelled of wet pavement, crushed herbs, and fresh bread.
Saoirse led them to the vegetable stall first. The woman with the grey hair was busy stacking cabbages in a neat, pale green pyramid. She looked up when they approached, her face creasing into a genuine smile.
"The last time?" she asked.
"Tomorrow," Jane said. "We wanted to get some things before we go."
The woman gave a slow nod. She reached under the stall and pulled out a small paper bag. "For the little one. These are some of the early apples. They are sweet."
Nimue took the bag, the fruit feeling cool through the thin paper. "Thank you."
"You come back next year. We will have more for you."
They bought a bounty of vegetables, such as carrots, onions, and potatoes, which was far more than they needed for one meal. Saoirse added leeks and a bunch of crisp celery. Jack carried the heavy basket, the weight of it already pulling at his arm.
They moved to the bread stall. The man was already wrapping a loaf when they arrived, his hands moving with quick, practiced movements.
"I heard you were leaving. I thought you might want something for the road."
He pushed the wrapped loaf across the counter toward them. "This is on the house."
Jack tried to pay, but he waved her off with a calloused hand. "You brought us pudding. You brought us bread. You said hello. That's enough."
Nimue held the bread against her chest. The warmth of the loaf seeped through the brown paper.
They bought sharp cheese from the woman at the corner stall, fresh eggs from the man with the red face, and a small jar of amber honey from the beekeeper's table. By the time they reached the fishmonger, the basket was full to the brim.
The fishmonger looked at the pile of vegetables, the bread, and the cheese. "Are you feeding an army?"
"We are saying goodbye," Saoirse said. "We brought everyone something when we came. We will bring something when we go."
The man nodded slowly. He reached into his bed of ice and pulled out a small, wrapped package. "Prawns. For the little one. She liked them last time."
Nimue took the package. The paper felt cold and damp against her fingers.
When they left the market, the sun was higher in the sky and the light was sharper against the brick buildings. Saoirse carried the basket now, her arm looped through the wicker handle. Jack had the heavy bag of vegetables. Nimue walked between them, the bread still warm against her chest and the prawns cold in her hand.
. . .
The kitchen filled up quickly once they returned. Jane unpacked the vegetables onto the counter. Saoirse put the fish into the refrigerator and started pulling out the heavy pots. Jack found the large cutting board and set it by the sink.
"It's the same as before. We cook, and then we share."
Nimue stood in the doorway, watching them move. It's the same kitchen, the same golden light through the window, and the same sounds of running water and knives scraping against wood. But it felt different today. The movements were slower and the pauses were longer. Jack handed Jane a knife without being asked. Saoirse reached for the salt before Jane could even tell her where it was kept.
"Nimue," Jane said, pointing to a bowl of carrots. "Wash these. It's the same as last time."
The girl pulled the stool to the sink and turned on the cold water. The carrots were stiff and cold, the dark dirt coming off in brown streaks under the spray. She washed each one, rubbing her thumb over the skin until it was clean, lining them up on the counter when she finished.
"Potatoes next," Jane instructed.
She washed the potatoes too. They were round and heavy, their skins feeling rough against her palms. Saoirse took them and began cutting them into thick, even slices, her knife moving with a fast rhythm. Nimue watched her aunt's fingers curl back safely from the blade.
"Do you want to try?" Saoirse asked.
Nimue looked at the sharp knife. She looked at her own small, pale hand.
"Not this time. Watch. Learn. You will try it later."
Saoirse handed her a potato anyway. "Just hold it for a second. Feel the weight."
Nimue held the potato. It felt cold and firm. She put it back on the counter.
Jack was at the counter with the onions, his eyes watering from the fumes. Saoirse was melting yellow butter in a pan, the rich smell filling the kitchen. Jane had the fish in a pan, the silver skin already starting to crisp and sizzle.
They worked in the same rhythm as they had worked a month ago. But today there was much less talk. Saoirse didn't tell any stories about distant mountains. Jack didn't complain about the onions stinging his eyes. Jane didn't laugh when Nimue asked why the prawns looked different from the picture in the book.
They worked until the food was ready. Then they divided the meal into bowls and wrapped the containers in wax paper, tying each one with a length of string. There were eleven bowls in total for the eleven houses.
"We will start at number one. We will go down the street. We say thank you, and we say goodbye."
The first house was the one with the vibrant red door and the brass lion knocker. The old woman opened the door slowly, her hand resting on the wooden frame for support. She looked at the bowl in Jane's hands and then at Nimue standing beside her mother.
"Are you leaving already?"
"Tomorrow. We wanted to thank you for being kind and for saying hello."
The woman took the bowl. Her hands were pale and thin, the skin appearing as fragile as papery parchment. "Will you be back?"
"Not this year. Maybe next year."
The woman looked at Nimue. Her eyes were the same pale blue as the sky over the valley of Thornwell. "You grew up. In just a month."
Nimue looked down at her hands. They felt like the same hands. "I'm four."
The woman smiled. "Yes. You are."
They moved to the next house, and then the next. They saw Mrs. Mark with the ginger cat and Mr. Ainsworth with his glasses and his blackboard. They visited the woman with the baby who smelled of talcum powder. Each door opened. Each hand reached out to accept the gift. Each voice said some version of a goodbye.
At the ninth house, the woman with the pram was standing at her garden gate. She took the bowl Jane held out and looked at Nimue.
"You will miss the garden."
Nimue thought about the small patch of green grass, the tree with its low, inviting branches, and the patch of dirt where she and Hermione had built their castles. "Yes."
The woman smiled. "It will be here when you come back."
At the tenth house, the blue door with the dead flowers sat in the pots. Jane knocked. The man with the glasses opened it. He looked thinner than he had a month ago, and his cardigan hung loose on his frame.
"We are leaving tomorrow. We wanted to say thank you for being neighbourly."
Jane held out the bowl. The man took it, his hands appearing steady.
"You brought pudding when you first came. My wife used to make something just like that." He looked at the bowl and then at Nimue. "Will you be back?"
"Next year. Maybe."
He gave a slow nod. "The house is quiet when you are not here. The little one next door said you played together in the garden."
"We built castles."
"Castles." He smiled, and for a moment he looked less tired. "My daughter used to build castles in the sandpit when she was small. She lives in Manchester now. She sends me letters."
He closed the door, and Jane stood for a moment with her hand resting on Nimue's shoulder.
"Let's go home," she said.
. . .
Lunch was fresh bread, sharp cheese, and the last of the red tomatoes. They ate at the small table in the kitchen with the windows open. The sounds of the street drifted in on the breeze. Saoirse told a story about a man in Morocco who tried to sell her a carpet that was not actually there. Jack laughed at the tale. Jane offered a small smile.
Nimue ate slowly, her eyelids feeling heavy. The morning had been long with all the walking, the carrying, and the saying of goodbye. Her fork moved in slow, rhythmic arcs.
Jane looked at her. "It's time for a nap."
Nimue shook her head. "Later."
"Now," Jane insisted.
The girl didn't argue. She slid off the chair and climbed the stairs, her feet feeling slow on the wood. Cinder followed her, his claws clicking on the steps. She lay down on the bed. The sheets felt cool against her skin, and the light through the window was a soft gold.
She closed her eyes.
When she woke, the light had shifted across the room. The shadows were longer and the room appeared dimmer. Cinder was not beside her. She lay still for a moment, listening to the voices downstairs. She heard Jane's voice, Jack's voice, and Saoirse's. And then she heard another voice that was higher and faster.
It was Hermione.
Nimue slid off the bed, her bare feet finding the floor. She went down the stairs, her hand guiding her along the banister.
The sitting room was full of people. Jane was by the window, talking to Jean. Jack was shaking Dan's hand. Saoirse was already outside, setting something up in the street.
Hermione was standing in the middle of the room. Her hair was pulled into two plaits again, looking neat and tight. Her dress was the same blue color as the morning sky.
"You are leaving tomorrow," she said.
Nimue stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Yes."
Hermione's hands were clasped tightly behind her back. Her face was very serious. "My mum says we should take a picture. So you remember us."
Nimue looked at the door. Saoirse was out in the street with a camera hanging from her neck. Jack was already outside, positioning himself by the front step.
"Come on."
The light was soft, the sun being low enough to turn the street to gold. Saoirse had set the camera on a metal tripod, her hands moving over the dials and settings. She looked up when the girls came out of the house.
"First, the Keiths."
Jane smoothed her red hair. Jack put his hand on Nimue's shoulder. Saoirse pressed the button and moved into the frame, crouching beside Nimue with her arm around her.
The camera gave a sharp click.
"Second, everyone."
The Grangers stepped forward into the frame. Jean stood beside Jane. Dan stood beside Jack. Hermione stood beside Nimue, her shoulder pressing firmly against Nimue's arm.
Saoirse pressed the button again. The camera clicked.
"Third, just the girls."
Jane moved away from the group. Jack stepped back toward the door. The Grangers stepped back as well. Nimue stood on the step with Hermione beside her.
Hermione's hand found Nimue's hand. Her fingers were small and warm.
"Look at the camera. Now, smile."
Nimue looked into the lens. She felt Hermione's hand tighten around hers. She smiled.
The camera clicked.
After the pictures were finished, they went into the garden. The light was gold and the shadows were long across the grass. Hermione sat under the tree, her back pressed against the rough trunk. Nimue sat beside her, her legs stretched out and her hands resting in the cool grass.
Hermione pulled a blade of grass and began twisting it between her fingers. "My mum says we might move to a bigger house. But not yet. Not for a few years."
"Where to?"
"Somewhere with a garden. It will be bigger than this one. It will be big enough for a dog."
She looked at Cinder, who was lying on the stone bench with his ears forward.
"You will have a dog," Nimue said.
"Maybe. I want to be a vet. Or a scientist. Or maybe both."
Nimue looked at her friend. "You will be both."
Hermione's face went a deep pink. "You don't know that for sure."
"Yes, I do." Nimue pulled a piece of grass of her own. "You are good at learning. You will be good at everything."
Hermione was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers finally stopped twisting the grass. "You are leaving tomorrow."
"Yes."
"I will miss you."
Nimue looked around the small garden. She looked at the tree, the brick wall, and the patch of dirt where they had built their castles together. She thought about the month, the mornings spent at the market, the afternoons in the park, and the evenings in the kitchen. She thought about Hermione's voice, which was always fast and sharp, and the way her face went red when she realized she had talked too much.
"I will miss you too."
They sat under the tree until the light faded completely and the streetlights flickered on. Jean called out from the back door. Hermione stood up and brushed the grass from her floral dress.
"Tomorrow, before you go, I will come say goodbye."
"Okay."
Hermione walked to the gate. She stopped and looked back. Her face was half in shadow and half in the warm light spilling from the house.
"Bye, Nimue."
"Bye, Mione."
She walked through the gate and down the street. Nimue watched her until the other girl disappeared into the house with the blue door.
. . .
That night, Jane sat at the small wooden desk. The baby blue journal was open in front of her, the pages appearing stark and blank. She picked up her pen.
July 31st.
Tomorrow we leave. The neighbours all said goodbye to us. The woman with the apples gave her a bag for the road. The man with the glasses smiled when she said she built castles.
Hermione came over for pictures. They stood together on the front step. Nimue smiled.
She is tired. She is ready.
Tomorrow, we go to the farm.
Jane closed the journal and went to bed.