The room was quiet when Nimue woke. The light through the window was a flat, muted grey, the sun not yet visible behind the jagged skyline of the city. She lay still for a moment, listening to the house. Cinder remained at her feet, his breathing slow and rhythmic.
The building was silent in a way it hadn't been for a month. There was no kettle clicking in the kitchen, no voices downstairs. There was only the weight of the morning pressing against the cold glass of the windowpane.
She slid out of bed. Her feet hit the floorboards, the wood feeling cool and familiar under her soles. The bag Jane had given her was already by the door. It was made of dark green canvas with a long, sturdy strap. It sat open, its mouth wide and waiting.
She dressed herself quickly in her blue denim shorts and the white shirt with the small fox on the chest. Her laces went tight as she pulled them, the double bow sitting flat against the tongues of her shoes. Then she opened the wardrobe.
Her clothes were folded on the lower shelf in neat, square piles. The stack was significantly smaller now. She had worn most of them, washed them in the loud machine, and folded them back. She added the grey wool jumper, the pale blue shirt with the small pocket, and the white socks with the pink flowers. The green dress went on top, the silk feeling cool and liquid against her fingers.
She carried the clothes to the bag and pressed them down firmly. Her palm was flat against the fabric as she made space. Her toothbrush went into the small side pocket. The book from the market was placed on top, its cover a little worn from her reading. The small jar of honey from Mr. Chen's bees went beside it, carefully wrapped in a clean, white cloth.
She stood back and looked at the bag. It was much fuller than it had been when she arrived. The new blue skirt with the deep pockets was tucked inside. There was the pressed flower from the market, safe between two pages of her book. There was the stone from the river, smooth and grey, that Lucy had given her on their last day in the valley.
She picked up the leather pouch from the nightstand, feeling the weight of her treasures. The memory stone, the silver box, the crystal sphere. The small dark box from Sylvaine and the silver bell from Saoirse. The locket was already around her neck, the silver feeling warm against her chest.
She tied the pouch at her waist and picked up the heavy bag.
. . .
The house was dark when she stepped into the hall. The curtains were still drawn, and the furniture looked like it was waiting to be covered. She found Jane in the kitchen, standing at the counter with a cloth and a bottle of vinegar. The sharp, clean scent of the liquid filled the narrow room.
"Morning," Jane said. She didn't look up from her work, her movements steady and focused.
Nimue set her bag by the door and stood in the kitchen entrance. "What do I do?"
Jane handed her a clean cloth. "The table. Then the counters. Then the windowsills."
The girl worked slowly. She wiped the same spots twice, checking her work from different angles. The dark wood of the table came up clean, the grain of the timber becoming visible under the damp cloth.
She did the counters next, sweeping the cloth in long, even lines the way Jane had shown her. The windowsills were narrow and the dust was caught deep in the corners. She had to stand on the tips of her toes to reach the far edge of the stone.
Saoirse came down the stairs carrying a heavy pile of white sheets. Jack followed her with a broom, the bristles already looking worn from use. They moved through the rooms together. They pulled the white cotton over the chairs, the sofa, and the long table in the dining room.
The house grew quieter with each sheet they laid down. The colors of the rooms faded to a ghostly grey and white. The echoes of their movements softened against the fabric.
By the time the sun was fully up, the rooms were completely covered. The sitting room had become a field of white shapes. The furniture was huddled under the cotton like sleeping animals. The dining table was a long, silent white mound. The kitchen was bare. The counters were clean, and the refrigerator was empty.
They ate their last meal standing at the counter. It was just bread and butter and the very last of the strawberry jam. Jane poured tea into four ceramic cups, the steam rising in thin curls. No one sat down. There was no chair to sit at anymore.
"We should check the windows," Jack said, his voice sounding hollow in the bare room. "Make sure they are locked."
"I did the upstairs," Saoirse said. She had done it yesterday.
"The back door?"
"Locked."
Jane wiped the counter one last time, her hand moving in a final circle. "We are ready."
Nimue looked at the kitchen. The light through the window was bright now, the morning sun catching the tiny dust motes dancing in the air. The walls were bare. The shelves were empty. The house was waiting for someone else to come and fill it with noise.
They sat in the sitting room together on the sofa. It was still uncovered, the only thing left in the house that was not wrapped in white. Nimue sat between her parents, her feet swinging back and forth. Cinder lay at her feet, his ears pointed forward and his nose aimed at the front door.
Saoirse stood by the window, peering through a gap in the curtains with her arms crossed. "He said noon."
"He will be here," Jack said.
They waited in the silence. The clock in the hall ticked with a heavy, rhythmic sound. Nimue counted the seconds, lost her count, and started again. The light through the window moved slowly across the floorboards. Cinder's ears twitched at every distant sound from the street outside.
At eleven o'clock, a car pulled up to the curb. The engine cut off with a low hum. A door opened and then closed with a muffled thud.
Nimue was off the sofa before anyone else could move. She was at the front door with her hand on the handle, waiting for the signal. Jane's hand was on her shoulder, feeling steady and warm.
Thomas knocked once. Jane opened the door to the street.
He looked the same as he had at Thornwell. He was tall and broad, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples. He offered a smile when he saw Nimue standing there.
"Ready?"
The girl nodded. She picked up her bag.
But Thomas didn't move toward the car. He was looking past her, down the street toward number eleven. Nimue followed his gaze.
The Grangers were standing at their gate. Jean had her hand resting on Hermione's shoulder. Dan was beside them with his hands tucked into his pockets. They were all watching the house with the green door.
Hermione saw her and her hand came up in a small, hesitant wave.
Nimue stepped out onto the front step. Jane followed her, and Jack came behind them. Saoirse was already busy loading the bags into the car's boot. Her movements were quick and her eyes kept darting toward the Grangers.
Jean walked down the path first. Dan followed a few steps behind. Hermione stayed where she was for a long moment, watching, and then she suddenly ran.
The girl stopped at the gate, her hands gripping the iron bars. Her face was flushed and her breath was coming fast. "You are leaving."
Nimue stood on the step.
Jean reached them first. She put a gentle hand on Jane's arm. "We wanted to see you off. The pictures came out well. I paid higher to get them developed as soon as possible." She handed over three photographs. There was one of the Keiths, one of the whole group, and one of just the two girls.
"Thank you," Jane said, her voice soft.
Dan shook Jack's hand. "Safe travels to you."
Jack gave a firm nod. "Thank you. For everything."
Hermione was still at the gate. Her hands were white where she gripped the iron. Nimue walked down the path, her bag forgotten on the step behind her. Cinder followed her, pressing his body against her legs.
"I will miss you," Hermione said. Her voice sounded small and fragile.
Nimue looked at her friend's face. She saw the pink cheeks and the hair that was already escaping its neat plaits. She saw the hands gripping the gate as if Hermione might fall over if she let go.
She thought about the conversation she had had with her mother, three nights ago, in the quiet of her bedroom. She had asked Jane about the feeling in her chest when Hermione talked too fast, when her voice got sharp, when her words stacked on top of each other until Nimue couldn't breathe.
"It's not anger," she had said. "It's not sad. It's something else." Jane had sat on the edge of the bed, her hand on Nimue's knee.
"It's hurt. She doesn't mean to hurt you. But when someone speaks to you like you don't matter, it hurts."
"I don't want to hurt her."
"You won't. You'll tell her. Gently. Because she's your friend, and friends tell each other when something is wrong."
She looked at Hermione now. At the way her fingers were curled around the iron. At the way her chin was set, trying not to cry.
She reached out and took Hermione's hand. The fingers were warm and a little damp.
"Mione. You are one of my friends. I thank you that you became my friend."
Hermione's eyes went wide at the words.
"You know that I was never mad at you, right?"
Hermione nodded slowly. Her throat moved as she swallowed.
"But sometimes the way you talk, it really makes me feel sad and angry." Nimue's voice was steady and clear. "It makes me feel small. It's like you look down on me. Like I don't matter to you. I don't like that feeling. The tone you use, the way you talk, sometimes it hurts."
Hermione's face was a deep red now, and her eyes were appearing very bright with tears.
"I know you don't mean it. That's why I keep being your friend." Nimue squeezed the hand she was holding. "But Mione, if you keep using that tone, many of your friends will get hurt. Slowly, nobody will want to play with you."
A single tear slipped down Hermione's cheek. Then another followed it.
"You don't want that to happen, do you? Then can you please promise me to try? To try harder? I don't want you to get sad."
Hermione was crying properly now. The tears were running down her face and dripping off her chin. She didn't make a single sound as she wept. She just stood there, holding Nimue's hand, her shoulders shaking with the effort.
Nimue lifted her free hand. She wiped the tears from Hermione's cheek with her thumb. She did it the way Jane did for her, with hands that were gentle and steady.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Hermione's shoulders. Hermione's arms came up around Nimue's waist. She pressed her face into Nimue's neck and she cried.
Nimue held her there. She could feel Hermione's heart beating fast and light against her own ribs. She could feel the wetness of the tears against her skin.
"Be good," Nimue whispered.
Hermione gave a small nod against her shoulder. Her arms tightened their hold for a second. Then she let go.
Jean had her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wet with her own tears. Dan stood beside her. His face was still, but his jaw was held tight and his hands were curled into fists at his sides.
Jane was watching Nimue. Her face was soft and her hand was pressed flat against her collarbone. Jack was beside her, his hand resting on her back for support. Saoirse had stopped loading the car. She stood by the open door with her arms crossed and her eyes appearing very bright.
Thomas was already in the driver's seat. His hands were on the wheel and his gaze was fixed on the rearview mirror.
Jean stepped forward. She knelt beside Hermione and placed a hand on her daughter's back. "Are you alright?"
Hermione nodded. She wiped her face with her sleeve. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes were red, but she was going to be fine.
Jean looked up at Jane. "Thank you."
Jane shook her head slowly. "She did it herself."
Jean stood up. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, white envelope. "For the road. It's something from Hermione."
Jane took the envelope. She didn't open it yet. She simply tucked it into her own pocket.
Jean looked at Nimue. "You take care of yourself, little one."
Nimue gave a nod.
Jane walked to the car and pulled out four bottles. Two were made of amber glass, the liquid inside appearing dark and thick. Two were clear, containing a liquid that looked like pale gold. She held them out toward Jean.
"My mother sent these from France. They arrived last night. It's the shampoo and the conditioner for Hermione's hair. It's to help with the frizz. It might tame it a little."
Jean took the bottles, looking at the labels. Then she looked back at Jane. "You didn't have to do that."
"We wanted to." Jane looked over at Hermione. "It's a gift from Nimue."
Hermione's hand went to her hair, touching the wild curls. Her face was still red and her eyes were still wet, but she was almost smiling now.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was small, but it was clear.
Nimue offered a smile. "You are welcome."
They got into the car. Jane went first, then Jack. Nimue climbed in last, sliding across the pale leather seat with her bag beside her. Saoirse closed the door and walked around to the passenger side. Thomas started the engine with a quiet purr.
Nimue pressed her face to the window. The street was turning to gold as the sun climbed. The shadows were short. The Grangers were still standing at their gate. Jean had her arm wrapped around Hermione. Dan stood behind them both with his hand resting on Jean's shoulder.
Hermione was waving.
Nimue raised her own hand and pressed it flat against the glass. The window felt cool. The glass vibrated with the engine's steady hum.
The car pulled away from the curb. The house with the green door slid past the window. Then the house with the blue door slid past. She saw the plane trees, their leaves appearing thick and dark green.
Hermione was still waving.
Nimue watched the girl's figure shrink. She became smaller and smaller. She was just a blue dress and a small white hand.
The car turned the corner.
Hermione was gone.
. . .
They stood at the gate, the three of them, watching the car disappear down the long street. Jean had her hand on Hermione's shoulder. Dan stood behind them, his hand resting on Jean's back.
Hermione didn't move. Her hand remained up in the air, still waving, even though the car was long gone.
"She is gone," Jean said softly.
Hermione lowered her hand at last. She wiped her face with her sleeve again. "I know."
"Are you alright?"
Hermione looked at the empty street. The house with the green door was quiet now. The curtains were drawn and the furniture was covered. The garden behind it was empty. The tree was still, and the patch of dirt where they had built their castles was already beginning to dry.
"She said I talk too much."
Jean didn't answer her.
"She said I make people feel small. She said if I don't stop, nobody will want to be my friend."
Jean knelt beside her daughter. "She said it because she is your friend. Because she wants you to have friends."
"Is it true?"
Jean smoothed the hair back from her daughter's face. "Sometimes it is. When you get excited. When you want to show people what you know. You talk very fast. You forget that not everyone knows what you know."
"I don't mean to do it."
"I know you don't mean it. That's why she told you. Because she knows you don't mean it."
"She will come back," Hermione said.
Jean held her even tighter. "Yes."
"Next year. She said maybe she would."
"Maybe she will."
Hermione pulled back. She looked at the bottles in her mother's hand, the amber glass and the pale gold liquid. "That's for my hair?"
Jean held them up so she could see. "From her grandmother. In France."
Hermione touched her hair. The curls were wild and escaping the plaits, just as they always were. "Do you think it will work?"
"We can try it."
Hermione gave a nod. She turned back to the house. The green door was still. The windows were dark. The street was quiet.
She raised her hand one more time. She did it just in case. She did it just to be sure.
Then she took her mother's hand, and they walked back to number eleven, and the door closed behind them.