The light was fading into a soft, hazy gloom when Nimue stepped out onto the porch.
The sun had already dropped behind the rolling hills, leaving the sky a deep, bruised purple at the edges where the horizon met the land. The field was grey now, the long grass swaying in a slow, rhythmic wind that carried the scent of cooling earth. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once. It was a sharp, lonely sound that vanished into the silence just as abruptly as it had started.
She sat in the wooden chair, feeling the rough splintered grain of the weathered timber beneath her small fingers. Cinder was curled in her lap, a warm, comforting weight against her stomach. The fox's ears swivelled at every tiny sound, catching the creak of the house settling for the night, the dry rustle of leaves skittering across the dirt, and the distant, lowing call of Bess the cow from the far field.
Nimue looked up at the vast expanse above. The first stars were beginning to show, faint and scattered like spilled salt on a dark tablecloth. She started to count them. Seven. Then nine. Then she lost her place and had to start over, her green eyes tracing the growing silver points as they sharpened in the deepening dark.
The door opened behind her, throwing a rectangle of golden light across the porch boards.
"Nimue."
It was her father's voice. She turned her head and saw him standing in the doorway, his tall frame nearly filling the space. His silhouette was dark and sharp against the warm kitchen light spilling out from behind him, highlighting the distinct white streak in his black hair.
"Come help me pack."
She frowned, her brow furrowing in the dim light. "Pack what?"
He didn't answer. He was grinning, the expression visible even in the heavy shadows of the doorway.
She let out a little huff, and Cinder's ears twitched at the sudden vibration. She lifted the fox off her lap, set him gently on the seat of the chair, and padded inside on bare feet.
The bedroom was small and smelled of lavender and old wood, the bed still unmade from her afternoon nap. Jack had opened the wardrobe and pulled out a canvas bag, the same forest-green one she had used for the journey from London. It lay open on the mattress, empty and waiting.
Nimue stood in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. "What are we packing, Papa?"
Jack pulled a heavy wool blanket from the top shelf. "Things."
"What things?"
He folded the blanket with practiced ease, his large hands moving efficiently, and set it into the bottom of the bag. "Things we need."
She let out another huff, louder this time to ensure he heard her clearly.
Jack glanced at her, his grin widening. "Patience, little one."
"I have patience."
"You are huffing."
"Because you aren't answering me."
He reached into the wardrobe again and brought out a rolled bundle of dark green canvas, tied tightly with thick leather straps. She hadn't seen it before.
"What is that?"
He set it beside the bag on the bed. "A tarp."
"What is a tarp?"
"Something you put on the ground so you don't get wet."
She looked at the rolled canvas. It looked much heavier than it appeared. She thought of the forest and the damp earth. The way the dew clung to the grass in the early hours was always so cold.
"Why would we need to stay dry?"
Jack didn't answer. He was already turning back to the wardrobe, his focus elsewhere as he rummaged through the lower shelves.
Nimue stepped into the room, the cool floorboards smooth under her feet. She watched him pull out a small metal pot, the kind you could hold in one hand, fitted with a thin wire handle that clinked against the rim.
"What is that for?"
"A pot."
"For what?"
"Cooking."
"We are going to cook in the forest."
Jack's shoulders moved. He was laughing, though the sound was quiet, a low rumble in his chest.
She huffed again.
Saoirse appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, leaning her shoulder against the frame to watch them. Her black hair, marked by that same stark white streak, was pulled back from her face.
Nimue was on her knees on the floor now, trying to fold a smaller blanket the way Jack had shown her. The edges wouldn't line up, and the thick, stubborn wool kept slipping through her small fingers.
"You two are a mess," Saoirse said, her tone amused.
"We are packing," Nimue insisted, refusing to look up from her struggle with the fabric.
"I can see that." Saoirse stepped into the room and surveyed the growing pile. Her green eyes drifted over the bag, the tarp, and the pot, and her eyebrows went up. "You are really doing it, then."
Jack shrugged. "She wants to see the forest."
Saoirse crouched down beside Nimue. Her hands reached for the blanket, refolding it in three quick, efficient moves until the edges lined up perfectly. She set it in the bag. "What else do you need?"
"Rope," Jack said. "The waterproof matches. The small axe."
Saoirse nodded and disappeared back into the hall, her footsteps light on the wood.
Nimue sat back on her heels, her eyes wide. "An axe?"
"For firewood."
She looked at her hands. They were still faintly scratched from the brambles they had encountered today. Now they were going to chop wood.
Jack pulled a coil of rope from the wardrobe. It was thin and brown, feeling stiff and slightly abrasive. He set it in the bag.
"What is that for?"
"Tying things."
"What things?"
"Things that need tying, Morwenna."
She stared at him, but he was merely grinning again, his eyes bright with a secret.
Saoirse came back with a small wooden box and a leather sheath, setting them both on the bed. "The matches are in the box. The axe is in the sheath. Don't let her touch it, Jack."
"I'm not going to touch it," Nimue said defensively, sticking her chin out.
"Good." Saoirse looked at the bag. "Food?"
Jack nodded toward the kitchen. "Jane is handling that."
Nimue looked at the contents of the bag. The blanket, the tarp, the pot, the rope, the matches, and the axe. It was almost full. She thought of the forest and the way the deep shadows pooled beneath the trees. There was a stream she wanted to find, and now they would be cooking in the woods and staying dry and tying things that needed tying.
She didn't say anything more. She just watched the preparations with growing intensity.
It took another twenty minutes to finish. Jack added a small saw, a canteen, and a bundle of something wrapped in wax paper that he said was for starting fires. Saoirse brought in two more blankets and a folded groundsheet.
Nimue helped where she could. She carried the rope from the bed to the bag, held the canteen while Jack rearranged the tarp to make more room, and handed him the matches when he asked for them.
By the end, her arms were tired and her knees were sore from kneeling on the hard floor. The bag sat on the bed, bulging at the sides with the leather straps straining against the heavy contents.
"We are going to need a bigger bag," Saoirse noted.
"We will manage." Jack pulled the straps tight and buckled them shut. "It's only for one or two night."
Nimue looked at the bag. Night in the forest. She still didn't say anything, her mind racing with the possibilities of what lay beyond the tree line.
The sitting room was warm and inviting when they came in. The fire had been lit, the flames dancing low behind the iron grate and casting flickering orange light across the walls. Jane was on the sofa with a book open in her lap, her green eyes reflecting the hearth fire. On the low table in front of her sat a teapot, three delicate cups, and a large, green object.
Nimue stopped in the doorway. It was round and striped, a dark green with lighter, pale lines running from top to bottom. It sat on a thick wooden board, looking heavy and entirely out of place among the porcelain cups.
"What is that, Mama?"
Jane set her book aside. "A watermelon."
Nimue walked closer and touched the rind. It was cool and smooth, much harder than she had expected it to feel. "What is a watermelon?"
"A fruit," Jane said, her French accent softening the vowels. "It grows on vines. It's mostly water, which is why it's called a watermelon."
Nimue looked at it curiously. She had seen pictures of fruit before, like apples and oranges and bananas. She had eaten apples and oranges, but she had never seen anything quite like this. "How do you eat it?"
Jane picked up a sharp knife from the table and cut into the melon. The rind split with a sharp, resonant crack, and the inside was revealed to be a brilliant, vibrant red, dotted with small black seeds. Sweet juice ran down the blade and pooled on the wooden board.
Nimue's eyes went wide at the colour.
"You eat the red part," Jane explained, cutting a thick slice and putting it on a small plate. "Not the rind. And try not to eat the seeds."
She handed the plate to Nimue. The slice was curved, thick at the green edge and thin at the red point, the flesh wet and glistening in the firelight. Nimue picked it up, feeling the sticky juice run down her fingers.
She bit into it.
The flavour was incredibly sweet and cold, bursting in her mouth with a refreshing crunch. It tasted like summer, like something she had never tasted before but somehow recognised deep down. She took another bite, and a drop of juice dripped onto her chin.
"Good?" Jane asked.
Nimue nodded vigorously, her mouth too full of the cool fruit to speak.
Saoirse dropped onto the sofa beside Jane, reaching for a slice of her own. "I haven't had watermelon in years."
"It isn't common in England," Jane said. "Margaret brought it over earlier. She said her son grew it in a greenhouse."
Jack took a slice and sat in the armchair. His boots were off, and his feet rested comfortably on the rug.
They ate in silence for a while as the fire crackled softly in the hearth and the juice ran down their fingers. Nimue ate two slices, then a third, until her stomach felt full and cold in the best possible way.
Saoirse leaned her head back against the sofa cushions. "We are going to be sore tomorrow, carrying all that gear up."
"We will manage," Jack said again, his voice steady.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
Nimue licked the sweet juice from her fingers and looked at the bag by the door. The forest was waiting. The stream was waiting. The source was waiting. She didn't know what they would find, and her father wouldn't tell her.
That was the point of looking, after all.
She reached for one last slice.
. . .
Nimue woke to a pale, grey light and a restlessness she couldn't quite name.
She lay still for a moment, staring up at the dark wooden ceiling. The room was quiet, and Cinder was still a warm ball of fur at her feet, his breathing slow and steady. But something felt different. The air felt tighter, like the heavy moment before a storm, even though the sky outside the window was pale and perfectly still.
She sat up, and Cinder lifted his head, his ears swivelling toward her as he woke. His tail thumped once against the blanket in greeting.
She dressed quickly, pulling on her blue shorts and the white shirt with the little fox on it. She put on her trainers, and the laces held on the first try, which felt like a good omen.
When she came into the sitting room, the bags were already waiting on the floor. There were two of them: the green canvas bag from last night, bulging at the sides, and a smaller leather one she hadn't seen before. They sat by the door like waiting animals.
Jane was at the table, and Saoirse was beside her with a steaming cup of tea in her hands. They both looked up when Nimue entered the room.
"Morning, chérie," Jane said. Her voice was soft, but there was something underneath it, a quiet sense of readiness.
Nimue looked at the bags again. "We are going."
"We are going." Jane gestured to the chair. "Sit. Eat."
The plate in front of her wasn't just toast or porridge. It was eggs, fried until the yolks were orange and runny, and bacon that was crisp and dark at the edges. There was a slice of bread, thick and heavily buttered. It was a real breakfast, the kind meant for a long journey.
Nimue picked up her fork and began to eat, the savoury smell of the bacon making her stomach rumble.
The front door opened, and Jack came in from outside. His boots were dusty, and his hair was damp at the temples from the morning mist. He nodded at Jane. "Margaret knows. I told her we would be gone a day or two. She said to help ourselves to the apples when we get back."
Saoirse snorted into her tea. "She isn't worried about us stealing apples."
"She isn't worried about anything." Jack sat down and reached for a piece of the buttered bread. "She's been here fifty years. She's seen everything."
They ate their meal with a purposeful efficiency. The eggs were hot and the bacon was perfectly crisp. Nimue ate everything on her plate and drank the milk Jane poured for her. Her stomach was full, but the restlessness was still there.
She pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. "I need my bag."
Jane nodded. "Go then."
Nimue walked to her room, her step light and springy. The floorboards didn't even creak under her feet. She pulled her green canvas bag from the wardrobe. It was already packed with her clothes, her toothbrush, and her book. She hadn't unpacked much since they had left London.
She slung the strap over her shoulder. The bag was heavy, the strap digging into her collarbone, but she didn't care.
The path to the forest started at the very edge of the field where the managed grass met the wild weeds. Jack led the way, carrying the big green bag over his shoulder. Jane walked behind him with the leather one in her hand, while Saoirse carried a woven basket filled with food, a spare blanket tucked under her arm.
Nimue walked between them, her own bag bumping against her hip with every step.
The grass was tall here, brushing against her knees and leaving bits of pollen on her shorts. The sun was higher now, the light turning from soft gold to a brilliant, piercing white. The air smelled of drying hay and warm earth, and something greener as they neared the shadow of the trees.
Saoirse started humming a wordless tune, something that Nimue hadn't heard before. The melody rose and fell, weaving through the sounds of the insects in the field. Nimue didn't ask what it was. She just listened to the rhythm of their footsteps.
The trees rose ahead of them, dark and close together. The first ones were beeches, their trunks thick and grey, their branches reaching high toward the blue sky. The light changed as they stepped under the canopy, becoming softer and greener, falling in shimmering, dappled patches on the forest floor.
The ground was different here, softer and covered in last year's leaves, brown and crackling like parchment. Nimue's trainers sank into the thick layer of them.
Jack stopped at a small clearing. It wasn't deep in the forest, as she could still see the bright field through the trees if she turned around, but it felt entirely separate from the rest of the world. The trees formed a rough circle, their branches meeting overhead like a vaulted cathedral ceiling. The ground was flat, covered in emerald moss and short grass.
"This is the spot," Jack said, setting his bag down with a heavy, muffled thud. "Saoirse and I found it yesterday."
Saoirse dropped the basket and stretched her arms over her head. "There's a lot of forest out here."
Nimue looked around, her eyes wide. The clearing was quiet, save for a bird calling somewhere high above them, a sound that was sharp and quick. The wind moved through the leaves, a soft and steady rustle. She liked it here.
"Tent first," Jack said.
He pulled the canvas from his bag. It was folded in a complicated way, with the wooden poles strapped to the outside. He laid it on the mossy ground and began to unfold it.
Nimue watched as the canvas spread out. It was a pale, faded green and much larger than she had expected. Jack pulled the poles free and started fitting them together. They clicked into place, one after another, until he held a long metal rod in each hand.
"Help me," he said. "Hold this end, Morwenna."
Nimue took the end of the canvas, finding it much heavier and more stubborn than she had imagined. Jack threaded the first pole through a sleeve in the fabric, then the second. The tent began to take shape, rising from the ground like something slowly waking up from a long sleep.
Saoirse knelt on the other side, hammering wooden pegs into the earth with a heavy, flat rock. The sound was dull and solid against the forest floor.
Nimue held the canvas steady. Her arms ached and her fingers were cold from the damp fabric, but the tent was standing now, its walls pulled tight and the door open like a dark mouth. She stepped back to look at it. It was small, but perhaps big enough for all of them if they didn't mind being very close.
"Good," Jack said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Now the groundsheet."
He spread a thick canvas tarp inside the tent. Nimue helped smooth it out, her knees pressing into the cool, damp earth. The fabric was rough under her hands. Saoirse brought the blankets next, laying them in a neat pile at the back of the tent, followed by the bags and the food basket.
When everything was safely inside, Nimue sat at the entrance and looked out at the clearing. The trees and the green light were perfectly still. A small bird landed on a low branch, looked at her for a moment with a black, bead-like eye, and then flew away.
"We need wood," Jack said. "For the fire."
Nimue stood up immediately, ready to help.
They gathered fallen branches from the edge of the clearing. They looked for dead ones and dry ones, the kind that snapped with a satisfying crack when you bent them. Nimue carried them in her arms, a bundle pressed against her chest. The bark was rough, catching on her white shirt.
Jack built the fire ring using stones from the forest floor. He chose grey and white stones, some flat and some round, arranging them in a careful circle before stacking the wood inside. Saoirse brought out the box of waterproof matches.
The flame caught on the third try. It was small at first, a tiny orange flicker, then grew larger as it reached for the dry wood. Smoke rose in a thin, grey column, disappearing into the canopy of green light above.
Nimue sat on a fallen log near the fire. The warmth reached her face, and the restlessness in her chest finally quieted, replaced by something steadier and more grounded. She looked at the tent, at the fire, at her father crouched by the flames, at her aunt unpacking the basket, and at her mother sitting on the ground with her back against a sturdy tree.
The forest was all around them. They were in it now.
She pulled her knees up to her chest and watched the fire grow.
= = =
I have just uploaded a new "Pictures" chapter in the Aux Volume on Webnovel and in Volume 0 on AO3. If you are curious about how I picture the characters, you can check it out there.
Also, a quick note. The Evans family ages very slowly, even compared to the Keith line or most Olde Ones families. So Great-Grandma Roxane appears to be in her forties, even though she's actually over 280 years old.
The image I used for her is from when she's around 40s? 50s? 60s? Though honestly, she looks more like she's in her twenties. At least… that's how it feels to me.