The day following their foray into the woods unfolded with a heavy, languid grace.
Nimue didn't wake until the sun was already high, casting bright, insistent streaks of light across her duvet that made the dust motes dance in the air. She stayed pinned to the mattress for a long while, her small frame sinking into the soft feathers. Her legs still hummed with a dull, persistent ache, and her palms were mapped with faint red scratches where the climbing tree's rough bark had left its mark.
Cinder remained a warm, heavy weight against her side, his fur ruffling with every slow, rhythmic breath. Neither of them seemed inclined to move, content to drift in the golden warmth of the late morning.
When she finally wandered into the kitchen, her bare feet padding softly on the wood, the house was draped in a comfortable, drowsy silence. Jane sat at the table, her head bowed over a thick, leather-bound book, her red hair catching the light. Jack occupied the armchair in the corner with his eyes closed and his hands folded peacefully over his stomach. Saoirse was stretched out on the sofa, her feet propped up on the armrest as she cradled a steaming mug of tea, the scent of damp herbs clinging to her.
The room remained quiet for a long time, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the occasional turn of a page. They shared thick slices of bread slathered in yellow butter, sipping tea and simply existing in the stillness. Saoirse didn't look restless; she didn't pace the floorboards or tap her fingers against the porcelain of her cup. She simply sat, her gaze fixed on the window as she watched the long grass of the field sway in the breeze.
"You aren't bored?" Nimue asked, her voice sounding loud and startling in the quiet.
Saoirse shifted her gaze from the window, a calm expression on her face. "No."
"But you travel all the time."
"I do."
"Don't you want to be going somewhere else?"
Saoirse was quiet for a moment, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'm here, little monster. That's somewhere."
Nimue considered the words, turning them over in her mind. They didn't quite make sense to her, yet they felt true in a way she couldn't explain. She eventually retreated to her room to lie back down, the cool sheets inviting her back. Cinder padded along behind her, his claws clicking on the floor before they both surrendered to the pull of sleep once more.
The following morning brought a return to their routine. The grass was silver with a heavy coating of dew under a vast, cloudless sky as Saoirse led them through their morning paces. Arms reached high for the sun, bodies leaned left then right, before folding forward in a slow, controlled roll that made Nimue's hair brush the damp earth. Her muscles seemed to remember the shapes now. Her legs didn't protest quite as loudly when she stretched, and her arms lifted without the usual stiff resistance of the previous days.
When they finished the final movement, Saoirse gave a short, sharp nod of approval. "It's better."
Breakfast was a sprawling, greasy affair that filled the kitchen with the scent of salt and smoke. The table was crowded with plates of crisp bacon, soft poached eggs, and a thick, salty slice of ham that Jack had finished in a heavy pan that was still sizzling on the stove. Jane moved between them with quiet efficiency, pouring tea that smelled of bergamot and dark earth. Nimue ate with a singular focus, finishing two slices of heavily buttered toast before reaching for a third.
Jack reached for a final rasher of bacon, his fingers nimble. "Margaret mentioned the apples are ready for the picking."
Jane nodded her agreement as she set the teapot down. "We ought to lend a hand today. She has a fair few trees to get through."
"How many?" Nimue asked around a mouthful of toast.
"More than you could count in an afternoon," Saoirse said, leaning against the counter. "She has been tending to them for thirty years."
Nimue thought of the orchard behind the big house, imagining the branches drooping toward the grass under the weight of the fruit and the tall wooden ladders leaning against the mossy trunks.
"Can I climb?"
"If the ladder is steady," Jack said, looking her in the eye, "and provided you don't go wandering too high into the canopy."
Nimue finished her breakfast and drank her milk until the glass was empty, leaving a white ring at the bottom. Her stomach was full, and her legs felt ready for the task ahead.
The walk to the main house was pleasant, the path dry and the grass holding the growing heat of the morning sun. Cinder galloped ahead through the wildflowers before doubling back to check on them, his tail a constant, wagging blur of russet.
They found Margaret in the heart of the orchard, her apron pockets bulging and a wicker basket hooked over her arm. Rosie was already there, perched on a low-hanging branch as she reached for a piece of fruit.
"Good timing, you lot," Margaret called out, wiping her brow. "The trees are absolutely groaning with it."
She handed Nimue a small, sturdy basket made of woven willow. "You can handle the low-hangers. Stick to the ones you can reach without needing to climb just yet."
Nimue took the basket, feeling the smooth, cool handle against her palm. The trees were a riot of red and green clusters hidden among the leaves. She reached out and plucked her first apple, the stem snapping with a satisfying, hollow pop.
"Not the green ones," Rosie shouted from her branch, her legs swinging. "Only the red ones. The green ones aren't ready for the bin yet."
Nimue looked at the apple in her hand. It was mostly crimson, though a stubborn patch of green lingered near the top. She tucked it into her basket regardless, liking the weight of it. She moved to the next, finding a deep red one, then another with pale pink stripes, then a small, dark fruit that looked almost purple in the shade of the leaves.
Jack was already halfway up a tall ladder at the next tree, his basket filling rapidly while Jane stood below to catch any strays and arrange them in a large wooden crate. Saoirse stood further off, deep in conversation with Margaret, her own basket still empty as she listened with her hands buried in her pockets.
Nimue's branch grew higher as she worked. She stretched her arm until her fingertips just brushed a plump red apple that hung just out of reach.
"Use the short ladder," Rosie suggested. She was back on the ground now, her own haul completed and her face flushed. "The wooden one by the fence."
Nimue lugged her basket over, the fruit thumping inside. The ladder's rungs were worn smooth by years of use, the wood grey and weathered. She climbed carefully, the first step easy, the second higher, until her waist was level with the heavy, fruit-laden branches. From up here, the orchard opened up; she could see the long, straight rows of trees and the crates piling up with heaps of fruit.
Rosie was already at the next tree, her hair slipping from her messy ponytail as she hooked her basket to the top rung. "You have to twist them, Nimue. Don't just pull at them. Twist."
Nimue tried it, gripping the fruit and giving it a sharp turn. The stem gave way cleanly without tearing the bark.
"Good," Rosie approved.
They worked in a comfortable rhythm while the sun climbed toward its zenith, the air growing thick with the sweet, fermented smell of fallen fruit. Eventually, Margaret brought out a crate of their morning's work. "These are for the eating," she explained, gesturing to the crispest ones. "The ones in the large bins over there are destined for the cider."
Nimue looked at the towering wooden bins that stood near the shed. "What is cider?"
"Apple juice with a bit of a kick," Margaret said with a quick, mischievous wink. "Strictly for the adults, that."
Nimue picked a golden apple from the eating crate, one that seemed to glow in the palm of her hand.
"That's a golden pippin," Margaret told her, watching with a smile. "The best tasting fruit in the whole orchard. Go on then, try it."
Nimue bit in. The skin was thin and the flesh was incredibly crisp, sweet without being cloying. It tasted of summer. She finished the whole thing, tossing the core into the long grass for the birds.
"Good," she declared, wiping her chin.
Margaret let out a bright laugh. "That's the spirit."
As the afternoon wore on, the crates began to overflow with the harvest. Nimue's arms felt heavy and her fingers were coated in a tacky, sweet layer of juice. Saoirse finally started her own picking, moving with a blur of efficiency that saw her basket filled in minutes.
"Show off," Jack teased from his high perch on the ladder.
"Efficient," Saoirse corrected him, her voice light.
She ascended to the highest branches where the fruit was largest, dropping them down into the crates with a precision that never missed the mark. Nimue tried to copy her, aiming a small apple at the crate below. It bounced off the rim and disappeared into the tall grass.
"Try again," Saoirse urged from above.
Nimue took aim once more, squinting one eye, and let go. The apple landed with a soft, muffled thud right in the center of the pile.
"That's it," Saoirse said.
When the final crate was topped off, Margaret wiped her hands on her stained apron. "That's plenty for one day. You have certainly earned your keep."
She sent them off with a heavy basket of apples for their own kitchen. They walked home under the low, golden light of the early evening, the wicker handles digging into Nimue's tired palms. The harvest's scent was thick and sweet in the cooling air.
"You did a grand job today," Jack said, ruffling her hair with a large hand.
Nimue looked down at the mix of red, green, and gold in her basket. She had picked every single one of them. She was exhausted and her arms throbbed, but as she walked, she couldn't help but smile.