Saoirse had been saying it all morning. Every time Nimue passed through the kitchen, every time she sat down to rest her legs, and every time she so much as looked at the chair by the window, the older woman found a reason to chime in. Saoirse moved with a brisk energy, the white streak in her dark hair catchng the light as she bustled between the stove and the larder.
"You need to move," Saoirse insisted. "Walk somewhere. Do something."
Nimue stood in the doorway with her hands buried in the pockets of her blue shorts. Cinder pressed his warm weight against her leg, his ears swivelling toward the sound of Saoirse's voice. The fox seemed as restless as the woman, his tail twitching in small, nervous arcs.
"I'm moving," Nimue replied quietly.
"From the bedroom to the kitchen isn't moving." Saoirse pointed a wooden spoon at her for emphasis, a small puff of flour drifting from the tip. "Go see Margaret. She said you could come up. See the animals. Do something with your hands."
Nimue looked out the window. The morning light was gold, and the shadows were still long across the grass, which had finally dried from the dew. Bess stood at the fence, her head lifted expectantly toward the main house. The cow's dark eyes seemed to be watching the horizon, waiting for the day to truly begin.
Nimue pulled her trainers on, tugging the laces until they held firm against her ankles.
"Stay," she told Cinder.
The fox's ears flattened at the command. He let out a soft, huffing breath.
"I will come back," she promised.
He sat down heavily on the rug, the woven fibres scratching under his paws, but his amber eyes followed her all the way to the door.
. . .
The path to the main house ran along the fence line before cutting through a field of long grass. Nimue walked it alone. Jack had offered to come, and Jane had offered too, but she had said no. She needed to see if she could do this by herself, without someone reaching out a hand every time she stumbled.
Her legs still felt heavy from the days of stiffness, and the muscles in her calves pulled with each step. But the movement was easier now. Her arms swung loose at her sides, and her back was straight. The grass brushed against her knees, wet with the lingering morning moisture that soaked into the hem of her shorts. She didn't mind the dampness. The air smelled of hay and earth and something sweet drifting from the orchard, a scent that made her lungs feel clear.
The main house appeared ahead, larger than their own cottage, with a barn set back from the road and a chicken coop near the fence. A dog barked once from somewhere behind the barn, a sharp, hollow sound that quieted just as quickly.
Margaret was on the porch, her wide hat pulled low to shield her eyes from the climbing sun. She looked up when Nimue came through the gate.
"Well, look at you," she said, setting down a bucket of water that splashed slightly against the wooden slats. "Out and about at last."
Nimue stopped at the bottom of the steps. "Saoirse said I should move."
"Saoirse sounds like a sensible woman."
"She's loud."
Margaret laughed, a sound that seemed to rumble from her whole body. "Loud can be sensible too. You come to see the animals?"
Nimue nodded, her white hair shifting over her shoulders.
A door banged somewhere inside the house, followed by the sound of feet pounding on wooden floors. A girl appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. She was perhaps seven or eight years old, with brown hair pulled back in a loose tail and a face full of freckles that danced across her nose. Her eyes went wide when she spotted Nimue.
"Grandma, is that the girl from the other house?"
"That's Nimue," Margaret said. "Nimue, this is my granddaughter, Rosie."
Rosie came down the steps two at a time and stopped a few feet away. She stared at Nimue's white hair with unabashed curiosity, her gaze flickering down to Nimue's green eyes. "You are from London?"
"No."
"Where then?"
"A place. Far away."
Rosie seemed to accept that without further question, her interest already shifting. "Do you want to see the chickens? I have to collect the eggs."
Nimue looked at Margaret, who gave a small nod. "Go on. Rosie can show you the ropes."
The chicken coop sat at the edge of the yard, a low wooden building with a wire run attached. The air smelled of straw, dust, and something sharp and earthy. A few hens scratched at the ground near the fence, their heads bobbing with each peck as they searched for grain.
Rosie opened the small door and ducked inside. "You have to be quiet. They get nervous if you move too fast."
Nimue followed her into the dim, warm space. The straw crunched under her trainers, and the air was thick with the quiet clucking of birds. Nesting boxes ran along one wall, and in three of them, eggs sat pale and smooth against the yellow straw.
"You take that one." Rosie pointed to a nest near the end. "The brown one. She's broody, but she won't peck if you are quick."
Nimue crouched down, her knees protesting slightly at the bend. The hen in the box watched her with a dark, round eye, its head tilting. Nimue held her hand out slowly, letting the bird see her movement. The hen clucked once, a low, vibrating sound, then settled back into the straw. When Nimue reached in and took the egg, it felt remarkably warm in her palm.
"Good," Rosie said, her voice a hushed whisper. "You're not scared of them."
Nimue looked at the egg. The shell was smooth and brown, still faintly damp. She held it carefully, both hands cupped around it as if she were protecting something fragile and ancient.
"They feel different from the shop ones," Rosie noted, already reaching into another nest. "Warmer. Realer."
Nimue turned the egg over in her hands. It did feel warmer.
They collected four more. Rosie carried them in her apron, which she had folded into a makeshift pouch. Nimue held hers in both hands, walking slowly because she didn't want to drop it. Each step was deliberate, her focus entirely on the weight in her palms.
After the eggs, Rosie led her to the garden. It was a patch of ground behind the house, fenced with wire to keep the chickens out. Rows of vegetables ran the length of it: beans climbing poles, carrots with feathery tops, and cabbages with leaves like pale green bowls catching the light.
"My mum says I have to pick the beans before they get tough." Rosie knelt at the edge of the row and pulled a long green pod from the vine. "You want to help?"
Nimue knelt beside her. The soil was dark and cool, packed hard between the rows. She reached for a pod and pulled. It came away with a satisfying snap as the stem broke clean.
"Not the fat ones," Rosie corrected. "Those are for seed. The skinny ones, like this." She held up a slender pod, bright green and firm. "They are tender. Good for dinner."
Nimue worked down the row, checking each pod before she pulled it. Her legs ached from the crouching, and her fingers were damp with dew, but the movement felt good. It was something to do, something that wasn't lying on the sofa or sitting at the table counting the hours until she could sleep again.
"You are quiet," Rosie observed after a while, her hands never stopping.
Nimue looked at her. "I'm watching."
"Watching what?"
"How you pick them. Which ones are right."
Rosie nodded slowly. "My granddad used to say that. He said quiet people see things other people miss." She pulled another pod and tossed it into the basket. "He died last winter."
"I'm sorry," Nimue said.
Rosie shrugged, though her face tightened a little. "He was sick for a long time. Grandma says he isn't hurting anymore."
They picked beans in silence for a while. The sun climbed higher, warming the back of Nimue's neck and making her white hair feel hot to the touch. Her knees were dark with dirt, and her fingers were stained green from the stems.
When the basket was full, Rosie stood and stretched her arms toward the sky. "We have to take these to the kitchen. My mum's making pie."
Nimue thought of the pies they had delivered previously. "Apple?"
"Apple. And some with blackberries, if we have enough." Rosie looked at the bramble patch at the far end of the garden. "We might need more. Do you want to pick?"
Nimue looked at the brambles. The branches were thick with thorns, and the berries looked dark and heavy, glistening in the heat. "Your hands will get scratched."
"I know." Rosie was already walking toward the patch, her gait bouncy and untroubled. "That's how you know you did something."
The brambles grew along the fence, woven tightly into the wire. The berries hung in clusters, some black and soft, others still red and hard. Rosie showed her how to pull them without crushing the fruit, cupping her hand underneath so they didn't fall into the dirt.
Nimue reached into the tangle of branches. A thorn caught her thumb, and a thin line of red welled up instantly. She pulled her hand back, looked at the blood for a second, and then reached back in. She didn't let the sting stop her.
"That's the way," Rosie said, not looking up from her own handful.
They picked until the bowl was full. Nimue's arms were scratched in a dozen places, and her fingers were purple with juice. But the bowl was heavy with berries, and Rosie was grinning.
"Mum will be happy," she said. "She said she didn't have enough."
They carried the bowl to the kitchen. A woman was at the counter, her hands deep in flour. She had the same brown hair as Rosie, and the same freckles. She looked up when they entered, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Goodness. Look at you two. You are a mess."
"We got a lot," Rosie said, setting the bowl on the table with a dull thud. "Nimue helped."
The woman looked at Nimue's scratched hands and the dirt on her knees. Her face softened into a smile. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."
Nimue shrugged, feeling the heat in her cheeks. "I wanted to."
"Stay for some pie later," the woman suggested. "When it's out of the oven."
Nimue looked toward the door. The path back to the cottage was visible through the window, shimmering slightly in the noon heat. She should go, as she had been gone long enough already. But the kitchen was warm, and the smell of apples and pastry was filling the air. Rosie was already pulling a stool to the counter to watch her mother roll out the dough with a heavy wooden pin.
"One slice," Nimue decided.
They sat on the porch steps when the pie was finished. The slice was thick, the crust was still hot, and the filling ran over the edge of the plate in a sticky, sweet stream. Rosie ate hers with her hands, juice dripping down her chin, while Nimue used a fork to take small, careful bites.
Margaret came out with a cup of tea and sat in the rocking chair, the wood creaking rhythmically. She looked at Nimue's scratched hands. "Rosie get you into the brambles?"
"I wanted to go."
Margaret nodded, rocking slowly. "You're not afraid of a few scratches, then."
Nimue looked at her hands. The scratches were thin red lines, already beginning to close. "No."
"That's a good thing to be. Not afraid of a bit of work." Margaret sipped her tea, the steam rising in a thin curl. "You will come back again, then. Help with the garden. The apples will be ready soon, and we will need hands for the picking."
Nimue thought about the orchard and the trees heavy with fruit. She imagined climbing the ladder and reaching for the high branches, the rough bark under her fingers. "Yes," she said.
Rosie grinned, juice still on her face. "I will show you the big tree. The one at the back. It's got the best apples."
Nimue finished her pie. The plate was warm on her lap, her legs ached, and her hands were scratched, but she was tired in the way that came from actually doing something, not from waiting.
She walked back down the path as the sun climbed toward noon. The grass was dry now, and the field was a brilliant gold. Cinder was waiting at the gate, his ears forward and his tail sweeping the ground, raising a tiny cloud of dust.
She picked him up. He was heavy, but she held him anyway, burying her face for a moment in his fur.
"Found eggs," she told him. "And berries. There's a girl. Her name is Rosie."
Cinder's ears swivelled, listening intently to her voice.
Saoirse was on the porch when she returned, arms crossed, watching her approach with a keen gaze. "You were gone a long time."
Nimue set Cinder down and climbed the steps, her legs shaking a little from the exertion. "Pie," she said. "Apple."
Saoirse looked at her scratched hands and the dirt on her shorts. Her mouth did something complicated, a mix of a frown and a smile that softened her sharp features. "You look a state."
"I'm tired."
"That's good." Saoirse held the door open. "Tired is good. Come on. Your mother saved you some lunch."
Nimue went inside. The kitchen smelled of bread and butter. Jane was at the table with Jack beside her, their green eyes and black hair catching the light as they both looked up when she entered. Jack's white streak was stark against his dark hair.
"Did you have a good morning?" Jane asked. Her voice was smooth and clear, carrying that subtle French cadence.
Nimue sat down. Her legs were heavy, and her hands were still sticky from the juice. "Yes."
Jane exchanged a look with Jack. He shrugged and reached for the teapot, the steam huffing from the spout. "Did you promise to go back tomorrow?" She asked.
Nimue stopped chewing. She thought about the porch steps, the warm plate on her lap, and the juice running down Rosie's chin.
"No," she said. "Margaret said the apples will be ready soon. She said she will need help when they are. But not tomorrow." She bit into the bread, the crust crunching between her teeth. "Later."
Jack set his cup down. "Well, if you are free tomorrow, we can go to the forest."
Nimue's hands stilled. She looked at him. "The forest?"
"The one at the edge of the field. You wanted to see it."
Nimue looked toward the window. The trees were dark against the pale sky, with shadows pooling under the branches. She had been watching them since the first day. She had asked to see them twice, and she had been told to wait.
"What will we do there?"
Jack leaned back in his chair. His face was still, but his eyes had that look he got when he was deciding how much to tell her. "What do you think we will do?"
Nimue frowned. Books she had read came to mind, ones filled with forests and paths and things hiding in the shadows. There were the stories Lucien told, too—the spring in France and the Veela who watched from the trees. Even the memory of the creature meadow felt close, a warmth she could feel but not see.
"We will walk," she said slowly. "We will look at the trees. We will find paths." She paused, her brow furrowing deeper. "Maybe there will be things. Animals. Things you can't see unless you know how to look. Maybe there will be a stream. Or a clearing. Or something that was there before the houses. Something old."
Jack didn't move. His face didn't change. But his eyes were very still as he watched her.
"Will we find all of that?" she asked.
He reached across the table and ruffled her hair. His hand was warm, and his fingers caught in the white tangles. "It's a secret."
Nimue's mouth opened in surprise. He was already standing and carrying his cup to the counter with his back to her. Jane was smiling into her tea, and Saoirse was grinning.
Nimue huffed. She picked up her spoon and went back to her soup, her shoulders tight with mock annoyance. But under the table, her foot was tapping with excitement. She scraped the last of the soup from the bowl and reached for another piece of bread.
= = =
I just woke up, haha.
Right after I posted the update notice, the moment my head hit the pillow, I was out. Completely gone. The sleep felt amazing, honestly. I think I even made few islands.
When I woke up, wiped my mouth, and got myself together, I did a bit of polishing on this chapter and posted it. And now… here we are.
I also want to share something that isn't really a spoiler. Just the volume titles for this fic:
Volume 1: Before the Stone — Just born until age 7, after her 3rd magical maturity
Volume 2: The Secret Years — Right after 1st volume until she get the letter
Volume 3: The Mirror of Truth — Philosopher's Stone
Volume 4: The Serpent's Chamber — Chamber of Secrets
Volume 5: The Prisoner's Shadow — Prisoner of Azkaban
Volume 6: The Cup of Ashes — Goblet of Fire
Volume 7: The Phoenix Flight — Order of the Phoenix
Volume 8: The Prince's Secret — Half-Blood Prince
Volume 9: The Graves We Carry — Deathly Hallows
That should cover everything up to the end of the original canon story. I'm still not sure if I will continue beyond that.
I've also planned out the main storyline and rough outlines for Volumes 2, 3, and 4 already. On top of that, I have mapped the plot and tropes for the four of Nimue's love interests.
Yes. Four of them.
Do not ask how it suddenly became four.
Let's just say… certain voices kept insisting I add those girls too.
Well, they are all pretty popular in the fandom. One of them even falls into the rival or enemies to lovers trope, which should be fun.
That's all I have for now. I'm still a bit sleepy. I kept yawning while finishing this chapter and writing this note.
Anyway, see you later. Ciao~