The sitting room was filled with the afternoon's warmth when they stepped through the door. Jane was already settled on the sofa, her legs tucked neatly under her and a ceramic plate balanced precariously on her knee. Saoirse was lounging beside her, her feet propped up on the low table and her eyes half-closed in a state of post-meal bliss. Both of them were occupied with large slices of the apple pie.
"You ate without us," Jack said, his tone suggesting he was only half-joking.
Saoirse opened a single eye to look at him. "You were slow. The pie wasn't."
Jane shifted her position on the cushions to make room for them. "How were the neighbors? How were the deliveries?"
Jack took a seat on the arm of the sofa, letting out a long breath. Morwenna climbed onto the cushion beside her aunt, feeling the exhaustion from the tricycle ride deep in her legs. Jane broke off a piece of the buttery crust and handed it to her daughter.
"One of them wasn't home. We left the pie on the front step," Jack explained.
"Margaret let us keep the tricycle," Morwenna added. Her voice was still small and quiet, carrying the excitement of the ride, the rush of the wind, and the warmth of the sun on her face.
Saoirse opened both eyes this time. "She actually gave it to you?"
"She lent it to us. For as long as we remain here."
Saoirse looked at her brother, her mouth curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You always wanted one of those machines."
"I had one once. When I was young."
"And you crashed it," Saoirse reminded him. "Straight into the garden fence."
"The fence was placed too close to the path."
Jane laughed. It was a small, quick sound that brightened the room. She handed the plate to Morwenna. "Eat. Before the rest of it vanishes."
Morwenna took the pie into her hands. The crust was flaky and golden, and the filling was still pleasantly warm. She ate in small, methodical bites, her eyes fixed on the window. She watched the light shifting over the field beyond the fence. Jack took the seat beside her, balancing his own plate on his knee. Saoirse closed her eyes again, and the room settled into a comfortable silence.
Jane eventually set her empty plate down on the low table. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her fingers pressed together until the knuckles went white. Morwenna watched her mother's face closely. She had seen that specific look before. It was the expression Jane wore before saying something she had been rehearsing in her head.
"Two days ago, Maman sent a package. It came with the hair supplies for Hermione."
Morwenna stopped chewing immediately. The piece of pie was forgotten in her hand.
"The essences. They found at the Hive. Phoenix Glacialis and Phoenix Vacui." Jane's voice remained steady, but the words were chosen with immense care. "The Evans family was able to track them down through some old favors. People owed them. They traded."
"They are here. We have both of them."
"Tomorrow," Jane continued, "we will perform the matching ritual and the straightening again. We will do it the Evans way."
Morwenna knew exactly what those words meant. It would be the same as the times before. It would be like the room in the manor with the cold stone altar and the runes etched into the floor.
"Will it be the same? You painting the marks on me?"
Jane gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yes. It will be the same."
She was quiet for a long moment. Her hands remained folded in her lap, her fingers pressed tightly together. Morwenna watched them. She saw the way her mother's knuckles had turned a stark white against the dark fabric of her trousers. She saw her mother's thumbs pressing deep into her palms as if she were trying to hold something inside herself that wanted to escape. Jane's face stayed calm. It was always calm now in moments like this. It was a different kind of stillness than the one she had possessed before. It was quieter and deeper. It sat right at the surface, like a thin layer of ice covering deep, rushing water.
"Baby, you are fine, right?"
The words didn't sound quite right to her ears.
Morwenna heard the way her mother's voice lifted at the very end of the sentence. It sounded like she was asking a question she already knew the answer to. It reminded Morwenna of the way adults spoke when they offered a cup of bitter medicine and asked if it tasted bad, even when the acrid smell alone told them everything they needed to know.
She looked at her mother's hands again. She saw the white knuckles and the fingers pressed together in a tight line. She noticed the way Jane's shoulders had lifted just a fraction, as if she were bracing her body for a sudden blow.
She didn't answer with words.
She finished the very last of her apple pie. The crust had gone dry and the filling was cool on her tongue. She licked the sweet, sticky crumbs from her fingers one by one, taking her time with the movement. She eventually set the ceramic plate back on the wooden table with a soft click. The sound felt small and lonely in the quiet room.
Then she slid off the sofa. Her legs felt heavy. They were still weighted from the long tricycle ride.
She walked the short distance across the rug to where her mother sat.
Jane's arms opened wide before Morwenna even reached her side. They always opened for her.
Morwenna climbed onto her mother's lap. Her knees found the familiar, warm space between Jane's thighs. It was the place where she had fit since she was small enough to be carried everywhere. She settled her back firmly against Jane's chest. She could feel the sharp shape of her mother's ribs through the soft wool of the jumper.
She felt the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Jane's breathing. Her mother's arms came around her, folding over her stomach. Morwenna could feel the warmth of Jane's palms through the thin fabric of her clothes.
But Jane's fingers were different. They were icy cold against her skin.
Morwenna reached down and took one of those cold hands into her own small palms. She wrapped her fingers around her mother's fingers, trying to warm them the same way Jane had warmed hers so many times in the manor.
"Mama. I can do it."
Jane's arms remained perfectly still around her. Her breath was slow and shallow. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically against Morwenna's back.
"I want to be healthy. I want to stay with you."
The words came out small, but they were the truth. They were the truest things she knew how to say. She wanted to stop hearing the way her mother whispered her name at night. She heard it when Jane thought she was deep in sleep, the syllables always stretched thin as if they might break into pieces.
The girl had heard them many times before. She knew the words the adults didn't say out loud. She knew the things they whispered in the hallways when they thought she was distracted by her play or her books. She had learned how to be perfectly still in the dark. She made her breathing slow and even until she was so quiet that sometimes the adults forgot she was even there.
"She is so small."
"The second maturity. If we can't."
"She has to survive it. She has to."
Morwenna knew the fear they carried with them. She heard the way they said her name, as if the sound itself might shatter if they spoke too loudly.
She heard it in Jack's voice when he thought she wasn't listening. She heard it in the way Saoirse laughed far too quickly at nothing at all. She heard it in Jane's voice most of all. Her mother's voice had changed after the treatment in the bath. It was much softer now. It held something new and strange. It was something that made Morwenna want to hold Jane's hand and never let it go.
She understood that something significant would happen when she turned five. She knew the next ritual was approaching.
It was the reason her grandmother sent packages from France. It was the reason Saoirse climbed distant mountains to find the women who understood the cold light. It was the reason her father had started reading heavy books in languages she didn't recognize.
She knew about the bad thing that happened to children who shared her condition. She had heard that many children die young. She didn't know what that meant in the way adults meant it, but she knew it meant going to a place where she couldn't come back from. She knew it meant leaving everyone behind. She knew it meant her mother's hands would be cold forever because there would be no one left to warm them.
She leaned forward, pressing her face firmly against her mother's chest. Her ear found the steady, sure thumping of Jane's heart. She nuzzled into the soft wool of the jumper. The fabric felt a little scratchy against her cheek. She breathed in the familiar scent of lavender soap and tea.
The heartbeat was steady. It was the one thing in the room that wasn't waiting for something terrible to happen.
"Mama, I'm brave. I can."
She said it the same way she had said it before the first ritual, back when Jane had first told her about the runes and the blood. She said it because it was the truth. She was scared. She was always a little scared now in the quiet moments when there was nothing to do but wait. But she was also brave. She had been brave before during the rituals. She could be brave again.
Jane's arms tightened around her.
It wasn't a gentle tightening. It was sudden and fierce. It was the kind of hold that said I can't let you go. It said I won't let you go. It felt as if Morwenna were the only thing keeping Jane from falling.
Morwenna felt her mother's chin rest on top of her head. She felt the warmth of Jane's breath against her white hair. She felt the sudden shudder that ran through her mother's body. It was the one Jane tried to hide from her. It was the one that meant she was holding back a great weight.
They stayed like that for a long time. The room was perfectly quiet. The light through the window had shifted as the afternoon faded into something softer, something closer to evening. The shadows on the wooden floor had grown much longer. They reached toward the edges of the room as if they were looking for a place to hide.
Saoirse was staring out the window at the darkening field. Her face was as still as stone. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her eyes were fixed on something far away that Morwenna couldn't see. She wasn't blinking or moving. She was just sitting there, watching the light leave the sky.
Jack was looking down at his own hands where they rested on his knees. They were still. They were the same hands that had carried her up from the bath chamber and that had held her against his chest while she slept.
They were the hands that would hold her again when she needed them.
No one spoke. The room was entirely quiet.
Morwenna closed her eyes. She listened to her mother's heartbeat, steady beneath her ear. She felt the warmth of Jane's arms around her, the press of her chin on her hair, and the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing.
She pressed closer to her mother's chest. The heartbeat was steady. The arms around her were warm.
Tomorrow, she would be brave.
. . .
The next day, the light through the windows appeared pale and flat. The sun was high in the sky, and the shadows on the floor were short. Morwenna had eaten her breakfast, rested as she was told, and walked to the fence and back to clear her head. Now she stood in the center of the house, in the middle room that served as the transition between the sitting room and the kitchen.
The wooden table sat in the center of the space. It wasn't a ritual altar. It was just a table, worn and scarred from years of meals and work. But it was the correct height and the correct shape. It was the place where they would do the work.
Jane had cleared the room of everything else. The chairs were pushed firmly against the walls. The rug had been rolled back to reveal the bare floor. The wood was pale and the grain was clearly visible in the morning light. Jane had covered the table with a white cloth, clean and folded precisely at the edges. Two ceramic bowls sat on top of it.
The first bowl held the base liquid. Morwenna recognized it instantly. It was the same clear, golden substance from the manor, catching the light and reflecting it against the ceiling. The second bowl remained empty.
Jane stood beside the table, her red hair pulled back and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hands were steady. Saoirse stood by the window, and Jack remained by the door. They were watching with the same intensity they had shown at the manor. They stayed close enough to see everything, but far enough away that they wouldn't interfere with the magic.
Morwenna walked to the table. She climbed onto the surface, the white cloth feeling cool under her legs and the wood feeling solid beneath her. She lay back, resting her arms at her sides and fixing her eyes on the wooden ceiling.
Jane picked up the first bowl. She dipped the brush into the liquid, the bristles soaking up the gold. She held it poised over Morwenna's chest.
"This is the first. The Glacial. we will see if it fits."
Morwenna gave a small nod. Her hands were flat against the cloth, and her fingers were perfectly still.
Jane began to paint the symbols. The brush moved down Morwenna's sternum. The liquid felt warm at first, then cool, and finally bitingly cold. The sensation spread through her chest and into her limbs. It wasn't the aggressive cold of the rituals that fought her. This was different. This was the cold of a silent winter morning, of frost forming on a windowpane, and of breath turning into white clouds in the air.
"Nous appelons le froid qui préserve," Jane said. Her voice was low and steady, filling the small room. "Le gel qui garde, la glace qui protège. Que ce sang trouve sa place."
(We call the cold that preserves. The frost that keeps, the ice that protects. Let this blood find its place.)
The cold deepened within her. Morwenna could feel it settling into her bones and her blood. It wasn't like the heat of her first bath or the violent war between fire and frost. It was something settling into place, something finally finding its proper shape.
Her breath began to mist in front of her face. The air in the room grew cold, turning sharper than it had any right to be. Jack's breath became visible in the air. Saoirse's did as well.
On Morwenna's skin, frost began to bloom.
It wasn't the frost of her own magic, those silver crystals she could call from her palm. This was different. This was the cold of a silent winter morning, of frost forming on a windowpane, and of breath turning into white clouds in the air.
Jane didn't stop her work. Her voice didn't waver for a second.
"Qu'elle porte ce froid sans se briser. Qu'elle soit dure comme le givre, légère comme la neige."
(Let her carry this cold without breaking. Let her be hard as frost, light as snow.)
Morwenna's body went completely still. The cold was everywhere now. It lived in her bones, in her blood, and in the dark space behind her eyes. She saw a world of white. She saw massive, frozen mountains. She saw a bird with feathers made of silver and frost, its wings spread wide against a sky the color of a winter dawn.
She blinked once. The bird vanished.
The cold settled into her chest. It didn't leave her. It sat beside the cold that belonged to her and beside the fire that belonged to her. It was quiet and waiting.
Jane's hand touched her cheek. "Morwenna."
The girl opened her eyes. The ceiling was still above her, the wood appearing dark and grained. Her mother's face hovered over her, pale and with bright eyes.
"How do you feel?"
Morwenna took a moment to think about the sensation. Her body felt heavy. Her arms ached with the same dull throb she remembered from the first ritual and the long days of healing that followed. But the cold was there. It wasn't fighting her magic. It was just existing.
Jane looked at her daughter's face. She looked at the girl's hands, noting that the frost was already beginning to fade and the crystals were melting into the skin. She looked over at the others.
Jack was watching intently. His hands were at his sides and his face was still. But his eyes were moving rapidly, taking in the room and the way the light fell.
"It worked," he said. It wasn't a question.
Jane gave a nod. She picked up the second bowl.
The base liquid was the same, catching the gold of the light. Jane held the brush over it, her hand remaining steady.
"The second. The Void."
She dipped the brush into the bowl. The liquid changed instantly. It didn't get darker; it went perfectly clear. It became so transparent that Morwenna could see the very bottom of the bowl and the grain of the wood beneath the ceramic. Jane lifted the brush, the bristles wet with something that looked like it wasn't even there.
She painted the first line down Morwenna's chest.
The cold that followed was entirely different. It wasn't the cold of winter or ice. It wasn't the cold of deep, dark water. It was the cold of places where the light could never reach. It was the cold of absolute silence.
"Nous appelons le vide qui écoute," Jane said. Her voice was lower now, sounding much softer. "Le silence qui garde, l'absence qui protège. Que ce sang trouve sa place."
(We call the void that listens. The silence that keeps, the absence that protects. Let this blood find its place.)
Morwenna's breath stopped. She didn't mean for it to happen, but it just stopped, caught in her chest and held by the silence that was spreading through her body.
The room went quiet. It wasn't the quiet of people choosing not to speak, nor the quiet of an old house settling. It was the quiet of the deep ocean. It was the silence of a forest after a heavy snowfall.
She could no longer hear Jack breathing. She couldn't hear Saoirse moving by the window. She couldn't hear her mother's voice, even though she could see Jane's lips moving through the mist.
This cold wasn't in her bones. It was situated behind them. It lived in the spaces between things, in the gaps where her magic resided, and in the places she hadn't known existed until this moment.
"Qu'elle porte ce vide sans se perdre. Qu'elle soit calme comme l'absence, profonde comme l'oubli."
(Let her carry this void without losing herself. Let her be calm as absence, deep as forgetting.)
Morwenna saw darkness. It wasn't the darkness of the night or of closed eyes. It was the darkness between the stars, the vast spaces where light hadn't yet traveled. She saw a bird there. Its feathers weren't white or silver; they were perfectly clear. It caught light that wasn't there and bent it into colors that Morwenna didn't have names for.
The bird wasn't watching her. It wasn't waiting for anything. It was just there, existing in the space between one breath and the next.
She blinked again. It was gone.
The silence finally lifted. She heard Jack's breathing once more and the sound of Saoirse's feet shifting on the floorboards. She heard the birds calling outside, the wind in the trees, and the familiar creak of the house.
The cold was inside her now. Both of them were there. The Glacial sat in her chest, heavy and still. The Void lived in the spaces between, light and waiting. They didn't fight each other. There was no war.
She looked down at her hands. The frost was there again, appearing thinner this time with smaller crystals. But it wasn't melting away. It was holding its shape.
Jane's hand rested on her cheek. The fingers felt cold.
"Morwenna."
The girl looked at her mother's face. Jane's eyes were bright, and her mouth was pressed together as if she were holding back a sob.
"I'm okay." Her voice came out small and tired. "They are both there. They aren't fighting."
Jane's hand moved to her forehead, the fingers pressing firmly against her skin. "Can you feel them?"
"The Glacial is here." Morwenna touched her own chest. "The Void is..." She paused, searching for the right description. "In the spaces. Where the other magic lives."
Jane looked over at Jack. He remained at the edge of the room with his hands at his sides. His face was just as still as before, but his shoulders had finally dropped. The hard line of his jaw had loosened.
Saoirse moved first. She crossed the wooden floor, her feet making no sound. She looked down at Morwenna, studying the frost on her skin, the half-closed eyes, and the small body that seemed too heavy to move.
"She needs to rest. She needs it now."
Jane lifted her from the table. Morwenna's head fell heavily against her mother's shoulder. Her arms were too weighted to hold on. The cold remained inside her, both parts of it settling into the places where they belonged.
She closed her eyes.
She dreamed of white, jagged mountains and the dark, vast spaces between the stars. She dreamed of birds with feathers of silver and birds that had no feathers at all. She dreamed of her mother's voice speaking words she didn't fully understand. Those words became frost, and the frost became light, and the light was cold, and the cold was finally hers.
When she woke, the light through the window was much lower. The shadows in the room were longer, and the house was perfectly quiet.
She was back in her own bed. The sheets felt cool and the blanket was soft against her chin. Cinder was curled at her feet, his head resting on her ankle and his eyes closed.
She lay still in the silence. The cold was still there. She felt the Glacial in her chest, heavy and still. She felt the Void in the spaces between, light and waiting. They didn't move from their spots. They didn't fight.
She closed her eyes again.