The car hummed beneath her. It was a steady, rhythmic vibration that traveled up through the leather seat and into her very bones. Nimue had her face pressed tightly to the window, her warm breath fogging the glass in small, disappearing clouds that obscured the world for a second before vanishing.
The city was gone now. The streets with their plane trees, the brick houses with their painted doors, and the busy corners where she had learned to wait for the green man had all fallen away behind them.
Now there's only the long road, the wide sky, and the endless, rolling fields of green.
She watched the hedgerows blur past in a streak of emerald. They were thick and tangled, their leaves dark and waxy with the height of summer. The sky was incredibly wide here, wider than anything she had seen since the valley of Thornwell. It stretched from one horizon to the other, appearing as a pale, watery blue at the edges and deepening to a brilliant white where the sun sat high in the center.
She had been watching for a long time. Her neck ached from the sharp angle, but she didn't move. There's simply too much to see.
"Mama."
Jane looked up from the book she wasn't currently reading. Her hands were folded over the cover, her thumb marking a place in the middle she hadn't yet reached.
"Will we go back? To Thornwell? To the London house?"
Jane was quiet for a long moment. She set the book aside on the seat between them, the spine giving a soft creak.
"You mean Hermione."
Nimue didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Jane reached out and smoothed the fine white hair back from her daughter's face. Her fingers felt warm and soothing. "Maybe. If you are well enough next year, maybe we can go. Or maybe we won't. We will be busy. There will be things we have to do."
Nimue kept her face to the glass. The fields seemed endless. A farmhouse appeared in the distance, low and grey, and then it vanished behind them as the car sped on.
"Things change. Later. In the future. But not soon."
"She said they might move," Nimue said. "Mione. To a bigger house."
"Yes."
"I don't know where."
Jane's hand remained on her hair. "If the lady of fate allows it, you will meet her again. In the future. When you are older."
Nimue thought about those words. They sat in her chest, neither heavy nor light. They're just there; a thing she would carry forward.
She gave a small nod. It's a subtle movement, her chin barely lifting from the rest of her arm.
Jane reached into her coat. Her hand came out holding a small envelope. It's cream-colored, and the edge was slightly bent from being folded into her pocket. "From Hermione. Her mother gave it to me before we left."
Nimue looked at the envelope. Her name was written on the front in a careful, slanted hand. The letters were pressed hard into the paper, the ink appearing dark and determined.
She wanted to take it. Her fingers twitched against the windowpane. She wanted to open the paper and see what Hermione had written. She wanted to know what words her friend had put down on paper when she couldn't say them fast enough or loud enough.
Nimue shook her head.
"Keep it. For me."
Jane's hand stilled on the paper. "You don't want to read it now?"
Nimue looked at the fields, the sky, and the road stretching ahead toward the hills. "Later. When I'm five. After the ritual. Then I will read it."
She didn't know why she said that. The words came out of her mouth before she had time to think about them. But once they are out, they felt right. The ritual was a wall she would have to cross. On the other side of it, she would be different. She would be stronger. She would be more herself. That was when she would truly want to know what Hermione had said.
Jane tucked the envelope back into her coat pocket. "I will keep it safe."
Nimue nodded. She pressed her face into her mother's side, her nose finding the soft, familiar wool of her mother's jumper. Her mother's arm came around her, and a warm hand settled on her shoulder.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, the light had changed.
The sun was lower in the sky, and the shadows were longer. The world outside the window was no longer flat. The road had begun to climb. The car's engine worked harder, its hum deepening into a low growl. The flat fields had given way to rolling hills, their sides thick with ancient trees. The green was deeper here, and the grass was much longer. The light filtered through the branches in slanted bars of gold.
She sat up. Her cheek felt warm where it'd been pressed against her mother's side. The fabric had left a faint, cross-hatched pattern on her skin.
"Look." Her voice came out soft and surprised.
Jack turned in his seat. Saoirse leaned forward from the passenger side to see. Jane's hand remained on Nimue's shoulder, but she was watching the view too.
The road curved sharply around the shoulder of a hill, and the valley opened up below them.
It wasn't like Thornwell. Thornwell had been neat and contained, with the houses gathered around the oak. This was different. This was wide. The valley spread out in all directions. The green was so deep it appeared almost blue in the shadows. Fences crisscrossed the land, made of grey wood, dividing the fields into long, uneven strips.
She saw animals. They weren't the sheep of Thornwell, white and clustered. These were larger shapes. Horses, she thought, but not like the Abraxans she knew. These were stockier, with shaggy coats of brown, black, and rust-red. They moved in groups. Their heads were down and their tails were sweeping. Some stood near the fences, their noses pointed curiously toward the road.
There are houses too. They weren't close together like in the village. They were scattered across the valley, each one set in its own pocket of land. Some were large, two-story structures with barns beside them. Some were small, appearing as little more than cottages with gardens thick with vegetables.
And there are trees. There are more trees than she had seen since leaving the manor. They lined the roads, clustered at the edges of fields, and climbed the hills in thick, dark waves. The forest was very close here. She could see the forest's edge, the line where the open fields stopped and the dense, shadowed trees began.
Her heart began to beat faster. She pressed her hands flat against her thighs.
"There," Saoirse said. She was pointing at something ahead. It was a turn in the road where a gate was set between two stone pillars. "That's it."
The car slowed down. Thomas signaled, and the indicator's click was loud in the quiet interior. The car turned, the wheels crunching on loose gravel. They were on a lane that wound between tall hedges. The leaves were a bright, vibrant green, and the branches were woven together overhead.
Nimue pressed her face to the glass again. Her breath fogged the window, and she quickly wiped it away with her sleeve.
The lane opened up. The house was ahead. It sat back from the road, featuring a front porch that was low and wide. It wasn't like the London house with its dark brick and narrow windows. It wasn't like Thornwell with its pale stone and iron gates.
It was made of wood.
The walls were unpainted. The grain was visible, appearing dark in some places and pale in others. The roof was low, and the shingles were grey with age. The porch had a railing. On that railing, someone had hung pots of flowers. They were red, yellow, and white, their petals bright against the weathered wood.
Nimue's mouth fell open. She didn't close it.
The car stopped. The engine cut off. In the sudden silence, she heard birds. They weren't the pigeons of London or the sparrows of Thornwell. They are something else. Something called from the trees, its voice rising and falling in long, clear notes.
Thomas opened his door. The sound was a loud, solid thunk. He walked around the car, his boots crunching on the gravel.
Jane opened her door. The air rushed in. It's warm and thick. It smelled of grass, earth, and something green and growing that she didn't have a name for yet.
"Come," Jane said.
Nimue slid across the seat. Her legs were shaking, though she didn't know why. Her feet hit the gravel and she stood up. The world felt so wide and so green. It's so much that she couldn't hold it all in her eyes at once.
She laughed. It's a small sound, surprised out of her. Then it came again, louder. Her body was trembling. Her hands were at her sides, and her fingers were curled tight.
Saoirse looked at her, and her expression softened. "You like it?"
Nimue couldn't answer. She was looking at the house, the porch, and the flowers in their pots. She was looking at the field beyond the fence and the animals moving in the long grass. She was looking at the trees at the forest's edge, where shadows pooled beneath the branches.
She laughed again. It's silly. She knew it's silly. But she couldn't stop herself.
. . .
A woman was standing on the porch. She was tall, with skin that'd been darkened by the sun. Her hair was pulled back under a wide hat. She was wearing trousers, and the legs were stained a deep green at the knees. Her shirt had the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She was smiling.
She came down the wooden steps, her boots sounding loud. "You made it."
Jack stepped forward. "Mrs. Hartwell."
"Margaret." She shook his hand with a firm grip. "Call me Margaret. Everyone does."
Jane came up beside him. "Thank you for letting us stay."
Margaret waved her hand dismissively. "You are paying. That's enough thanks." She looked past them at Saoirse and Thomas. Then her gaze stopped on Nimue, who's standing at the gravel's edge.
"This is the one," she said. It wasn't a question.
Jane put her hand on Nimue's shoulder. "This is Nimue."
Margaret crouched down. It's a slow movement, and her knees gave a soft crack. She looked at Nimue's face, the white hair, and the eyes that are still wide with wonder.
"You like the country?"
Nimue gave a nod. She still couldn't find her voice.
Margaret offered a smile. "Good. There's plenty to see here."
She stood up and turned back toward the house. "The place is ready. The beds are made, and the kitchen's stocked. There are eggs from the hens, bread from the village, and milk from the cow. If you need anything else, I'm up at the main house. It's ten minutes away if you take the path through the field."
Jack was already moving toward the car's boot, reaching for the bags. Saoirse followed his lead. Jane kept her hand on Nimue's shoulder, guiding her toward the porch.
But Nimue didn't move.
She was looking at the animal standing at the fence's edge. It wasn't a horse. It was much larger. Its back was broad and its legs were thick. Its coat was a dark brown, almost black. Its face was wide, and its ears sat flat against its head. There's a rope around its neck, looped loosely over the top rail of the fence.
Nimue stared. She had seen pictures of cows. This was like a cow, but different. Its back was higher, and its neck was thicker. Its horns were short and curved. They weren't sharp; they are just there.
"What is it?" Her voice came out very small.
Margaret looked where the girl was pointing. "That's Bess. She is a Highland. The breed is from Scotland. She is much gentler than she looks."
Nimue took a step toward the fence. Then she took another. Bess lifted her head. Her ears moved forward. Her eyes were dark and patient, watching the girl's approach.
Nimue stopped at the fence. Her hand reached out and touched the wood. The grain felt rough under her small fingers.
"She is a riding cow. Most people use horses around here, but Bess is steady. She is good for beginners. My granddaughter learned on her."
Nimue looked at the cow's back. It's wide. It looked broad enough to hold her easily. The rope hung loose over the fence, the end trailing in the grass.
"You can ride her. If you want to."
Nimue looked at her mother. Jane was standing on the porch. Her hands were at her sides and her face looked soft.
"Go," Jane said.
Margaret moved to the fence. She unlooped the rope and pulled it over Bess's head. The cow didn't move. She stood there, patient, her breath misting in the warm afternoon air.
"Come here," Margaret said.
Nimue walked to her. Her legs are still shaking. Her hands felt cold.
Margaret lifted her easily onto the cow's back. The hide was warm under her legs, and the hair was thick and coarse. She gripped the rope, her fingers tightening around the rough, dry fibers.
"Hold on. She will walk. You just sit there."
Bess moved. The movement was slow, and her feet felt heavy on the grass. Nimue swayed with the motion. Her body began to learn the rhythm. Her hands loosened their grip on the rope. The fence slid past. The house slid past. Her mother's on the porch, watching, with a hand pressed to her chest. Saoirse's beside her. Her mouth's open and her face was bright with excitement.
The field opened up in front of her. The grass was long, reaching almost to the cow's belly. The trees are dark at the field's edge. The sky was vast.
Nimue laughed. It wasn't the silly, nervous laugh from before. It was something else. It's a sound that had come from deep in her chest. it came from the place where the cold lived and from the place that had been waiting for this moment.
Bess walked on. The rope remained loose in Nimue's hands. The sun felt warm on her face. The field seemed to go on forever.
. . .
Margaret left after showing them the interior of the house. She'd been inside for less than ten minutes. She pointed out the stove, the water pump, and the cupboard where the extra sheets are stored. She looked at Nimue one last time, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"You come up to the main house tomorrow," she said. "I will show you the animals."
Then she walked back to Bess and swung herself onto the cow's back. She rode away down the lane, her hat pulled low against the sun.
Nimue watched her go. The cow's hooves made soft, dull sounds on the dirt. The rope swung loose at Margaret's side. Then she's around the bend. The trees closed behind her, and she's gone.
Now they are all inside. The house was full of their voices and the sound of their footsteps on the wooden floorboards. She heard Saoirse opening and closing cupboards. Jack was testing the stove. Jane's pulling fresh sheets from the linen press.
the house was smaller than the London house. The rooms are low, and the ceilings are sloping. The kitchen had a fireplace that's blackened with years of use. There was a table that would fit all of them only if they sat very close together. The windows looked out on the field, the fence, and the forest's edge.
Nimue stood in the middle of the sitting room. There's a sofa covered in a faded floral print and chairs with worn arms. There's a rug with muted colors and frayed edges. Books sat on a shelf, their spines cracked and their titles unreadable from where she stood.
She touched the wall. The wood felt cool. The grain's raised under her fingertips. She pressed her palm flat against the timber and felt the house breathe.
"Nimue." Jane's in the doorway. She had a stack of sheets in her arms. "Come help me."
She followed her mother down the narrow hall. There're two bedrooms. One's large and the other's small. The large one had a bed that fit Jack and Jane, a wardrobe with a mirror, and a window that looked out on the open field. The small one had a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, and a window that faced the trees.
"This is yours," Jane said.
Nimue walked to the window. The forest's very close here. The first trees are just beyond the fence. She could see the individual leaves and the branches. She saw the shadows pooling beneath them. A bird called from somewhere deep in the green.
She turned around. Her bag's resting on the bed. Her leather pouch's at her waist. The silver locket's warm against her chest.
She began to unpack her things.
. . .
The light's fading into twilight when they finally finished. The sun's low, and the shadows are long. The field's turning from gold to green and then to a deep grey. Thomas was in the sitting room. His boots are off, and his feet are resting on the rug. Jack's at the stove, the flames appearing high. The smell of frying onions filled the small kitchen. Saoirse's busy cutting vegetables. Her knife was fast and even, sounding just as it had in London.
Jane's beside her, her hands deep in the dough. Her arms are white with flour up to the elbows.
Nimue stood in the doorway. She had been outside, walking the field's edge. She had kept her hand on the fence and her eyes on the forest. She had come back because the light's going and the air's cooling. Her stomach's empty.
She climbed onto a wooden chair at the table. The wood's worn, and the surface's scarred with old marks.
Jack looked at her over his shoulder. "Hungry?"
"Yes."
He offered a smile. It's a small thing, quick and bright, but it's there.
They ate at the table. The four of them and Thomas sat together. The plates are close together on the small surface, and the candles are guttering in their holders. The stew was thick and savory. The bread was fresh, and the butter's melting into the warm cracks. Nimue ate until her stomach was full and her eyelids are heavy. The voices around her became a low, comforting hum she couldn't follow.
Jane looked at her. "Bath. Then bed."
She didn't argue.
The bath's an iron tub, deep and heavy. The water's heated on the kitchen stove. Jane poured it in bucket by bucket. Steam rose into the air, and the room filled with a pleasant warmth. Nimue sat in the water with her knees drawn up to her chest. Her white hair floated around her. Jane washed her back, her arms, and her feet.
When Nimue's clean, Jane wrapped her in a large towel and walked her to the small bedroom. The sheets felt cool against her skin, and the blanket was soft. Cinder's already on the bed. He's curled at the foot, his eyes half-closed.
Nimue climbed in. Jane pulled the blanket up to her chin. She smoothed the hair back from her daughter's face with a gentle hand.
"Sleep," she said.
Nimue closed her eyes. She heard Jane's footsteps on the wood as she left. She heard the door closing and the voices in the sitting room. They are low and warm. She heard the wind in the trees and the creak of the house settling for the night. She heard the distant sound of an animal calling from the field.
She slept.