The farm was nothing like Thornwell; Nimue figured that out within her first week. Thornwell had been a proper village, with sturdy stone houses huddled around a green and an oak tree older than any memory. It had streets where people waved and called out to one another by name, a place of shared boundaries and familiar faces.
The farm was a different world entirely. The nearest neighbour required a ten-minute tricycle ride down a long lane that dissolved into thick, cloying mud whenever it rained. The sky felt larger here, wider and more imposing, as if someone had peeled the roof off the world and left the horizon bare.
She liked both places, but she liked them for different reasons.
London had been a blur of grey streets, busy shops, and the frantic, Hermione's fast-paced voice. Thornwell had been the oak, the river, and Andrew's quiet patience. This farm offered Bess the Highland cow, Margaret's booming laugh, and Rosie's freckled face asking if she wanted to see the chickens every single morning.
August burned with a steady, dry heat that turned the air into a shimmering haze. The grass turned gold at the edges, and Nimue's white hair bleached until it was almost invisible under the sun, shimmering like spun glass. She ran barefoot across the yard because Jane stopped telling her to put on shoes after the third time she forgot them in the grass. The dirt felt warm and yielding between her toes, the dust coating her ankles in a fine, tawny powder.
She collected eggs with Rosie before breakfast, the shells warm and smooth in her small hands. She helped Margaret pick beans in the afternoon heat, her fingers stained a deep, earthy green and her basket heavy on her arm. She climbed the apple tree by the fence until her knees were scraped and her palms felt raw and stinging.
In the evenings, she sat on the porch with Cinder in her lap and watched the swallows dive in great, sweeping arcs across the field, their wings catching the last of the light. The days melted into one another, and Nimue eventually stopped counting them.
. . .
At three o'clock one afternoon, the sun began its slow, heavy slide toward the hills. The light turned thick and golden, pouring over the landscape like honey. Nimue sat on the fence rail with her legs swinging, her heels thudding rhythmically against the wood. Cinder sprawled in the grass below, his tongue hanging out and his ears tracking every rustle in the brush. Rosie stood beside her, a piece of straw caught in her messy ponytail and her face flushed from the heat.
Molly and Beth came up the lane together. Molly was the taller of the pair, with hay-coloured hair and a laugh that carried clearly across the fields. Beth was smaller and quieter, always watching the world with wide, steady eyes before she decided to speak. They lived at the second farm, the one with the sprawling orchard and the two girls who were always swinging on a rope.
"Are you coming?" Molly called out, already turning toward the far field.
Nimue jumped down from the fence, the impact vibrating through her legs. Cinder scrambled to his feet and trotted after her, his tail a russet plume.
The sheep were gathered in the lower pasture, a shifting mass of white against the vibrant green. They weren't the sharp-horned variety; they were fat and woolly with pink noses and sleepy, horizontal eyes. Most of them lifted their heads as the girls approached, their mouths working on stalks of grass, then went back to the serious business of grazing.
Rosie climbed the fence first, dropping onto the other side with a muffled thud. "They won't bite. They are just stupid."
Molly laughed and followed, her movements easy and athletic. Beth went more carefully, testing each wooden rail for sturdiness before she swung her leg over. Nimue was the last to cross, her fingers gripping the sun-warmed wood while her trainers scraped against the top rail. The sheep moved away from them in a slow, undulating wave, a sea of dirty wool.
"Don't run," Beth cautioned, her voice low. "They get nervous if you run."
Nimue walked slowly, her heart thumping against her ribs. She reached her hand toward a ewe that had a distinctive black spot over its eye. The sheep took a single step back, then stopped. Its nose twitched, sniffing the air. Nimue stood perfectly still, her fingers only inches away from the thick, matted wool.
"Talk to it," Rosie suggested. "Keep it quiet."
Nimue spoke in Parseltongue without a second thought. The sound emerged soft and sibilant, a low, rhythmic hiss that meant stay. The sheep's ear flicked, but it didn't move. It seemed anchored to the spot by the sound.
"Was that a different language?" Molly asked, tilting her head.
Nimue's hand finally touched the wool. It felt thick, greasy with lanolin, and much warmer than she had expected. "Yes."
"What language?"
She didn't have a convenient lie ready. "A family one."
Molly nodded as if that were explanation enough, her attention already drifting. Beth was already moving toward a lamb that had wandered away from its mother.
They played in the pasture for a while as the shadows grew long. Rosie showed them how to catch a sheep by walking slow and avoiding direct eye contact. Molly tried to ride one and fell off almost immediately, landing in the grass with her legs in the air and a loud oomph. Beth laughed; it's a rare, quick sound of genuine surprise.
Nimue decided to try as well. She picked a sheep with a brown face and a particularly thick fleece. She swung her leg over its back, gripping the wool with both hands to find purchase. The sheep took three cautious steps, stopped, and looked back at her as if she weren't worth the effort of moving.
"Push it," Rosie urged. "Kick your heels."
Nimue gave a small kick against the woolly flanks. The sheep began to walk faster. It wasn't a run, but a stubborn, plodding gait that bounced her up and down. She held on tight, her knees digging into the woolly sides and her fingers twisted deep into the oily fleece.
"Race you!" Molly shouted. She was already mounted on a different sheep, her heels kicking and her laugh loud in the open air.
Beth found a third, and Rosie took a fourth. They lined up at one end of the pasture while the sheep stood still and entirely unimpressed by the cargo they carried.
"Go!" Molly yelled.
Nimue's sheep took two steps and stopped to eat a patch of clover. She kicked again, but it only took three more steps before stopping once more. Molly was already halfway across the field, her sheep moving at a grudging trot. Beth's sheep had turned in a useless circle, and Rosie's refused to move at all.
Nimue leaned forward, her lips close to the sheep's ear, and spoke in Parseltongue. Walk.
The sheep lifted its head, its eyes clearing. It began to move. It wasn't fast, but it was steady. She crossed the field in last place, her hair flying behind her. Molly was already off her sheep, her hands on her knees as she laughed so hard she could barely breathe. Beth had given up entirely and was sitting in the grass, brushing dirt from her skirt. Rosie was still struggling to get her mount to budge.
"That was terrible," Molly gasped, wiping tears from her eyes.
"Again," Nimue said, her face set in determination.
They raced four more times. Nimue never managed to win, but her sheep stopped pausing to eat grass. By the fourth race, it walked the entire distance without a single break, responding to the low hisses of her voice.
"See? You made it listen," Beth noted, watching the interaction with interest.
Nimue patted the sheep's woolly head, though the animal didn't seem to notice the gesture. The sun dipped lower, turning the gold light into orange and then purple at the edges of the sky. The air cooled rapidly, the heat evaporating into the evening. Cinder had given up on following them and sat by the fence with his ears flat, looking thoroughly offended by the display of domestic livestock.
"We have to go," Beth said, glancing at the darkening sky.
Molly groaned, her energy finally flagging. "One more."
"Your mum will kill you."
"It would be worth it."
Despite her protest, Molly climbed back over the fence. Beth followed her. Rosie gave Nimue a quick wave before running toward the lane. Nimue stayed behind for a moment, watching the sheep settle back into their grazing in the twilight. The brown-faced one lifted its head and looked at her. She waved a small hand. It went back to its meal.
She climbed the fence and felt Cinder press against her legs, his tail wagging. "Good sheep," she told him. He sneezed in response, shaking his head.
The cottage door was open when she returned. Light spilled out onto the stone steps, looking yellow and inviting against the deepening blue of the dusk. Nimue could smell onions frying in the kitchen, a savoury, mouth-watering scent. Jane was at the table with a book open in front of her. She looked up as Nimue entered.
"Tu as de l'herbe dans les cheveux (you have grass in your hair)," Jane said, her eyes twinkling.
"We rode sheep."
Jane's eyebrows rose. "Rode them?"
"They don't go very fast."
"I imagine they don't."
Nimue sat on the wooden bench, her legs dangling. "Molly won every time. Her sheep was less stubborn than mine."
"Did you have fun, ma chérie?"
"Yes."
Jane closed her book. "A bath first. Then dinner."
Nimue looked toward the kitchen. Jack was at the stove with his back to her, and something was sizzling loudly in a pan, sending up a plume of steam. Saoirse was chopping vegetables, her knife moving with practiced, rhythmic speed against the wooden board.
"What is for dinner?"
"Meat, potatoes, and gravy."
Nimue's stomach gave a loud, demanding growl.
"Bath first," Jane insisted, pointedly gesturing toward the hall.
The water was hot, poured from the kettle into the iron tub until steam rose in thick clouds that smelled of lavender soap. Nimue sat in the water with her knees drawn up, watching the dirt from the pasture swirl away in grey ribbons.
"You will have to wash your hair twice," Jane said as she leaned over the tub, her sleeves rolled up. "There is still grass in it."
Nimue dunked her head under the surface, the heat stinging her scalp pleasantly. The water closed over her ears and muffled the sounds of the house. She came up gasping, water streaming down her face and over her eyes. Jane laughed, poured shampoo into her palm, and worked it through Nimue's hair. Her fingers were firm as she scrubbed at the girl's scalp.
"Tell me about the sheep."
Nimue talked. She told Jane about the brown-faced sheep, about Molly falling off, and about Beth's rare laughter. She described the races and how her sheep kept stopping to eat. She talked until the water grew cool and Jane pulled the plug, the water gurgling as it drained.
"Out you go."
Nimue stood, water dripping down her legs. Jane wrapped her in a towel that felt rough and warm. "Go and get dressed. Dinner is almost ready."
The bedroom was dim and quiet, the shadows stretching across the floor. Nimue pulled on a clean shirt and shorts that smelled of the lavender kept in the cupboard. Her wet hair dripped down her back, leaving dark, damp spots on the fabric, but she didn't mind the chill. The kitchen was thick with the scent of savoury gravy. Jack stood at the stove with a spoon in his hand, while Saoirse set the table with quick, efficient movements.
"Sit down," Jane said, smoothing her own hair.
Nimue climbed into her chair. Her plate held a mound of meat, potatoes soaked in rich gravy, and a generous spoonful of bright green peas. She picked up her fork. Jack sat down across from her, his face warm from the stove.
"Good day, then?"
"We rode sheep."
He looked at Jane, who simply shrugged.
"It was Rosie's idea," Nimue explained, her mouth already watering. "Molly won."
Jack cut into his meat. "I have never ridden a sheep."
"They are very slow."
"That's about right."
They ate in a comfortable silence, the only sound the clinking of cutlery against porcelain. The gravy was thick and salty, and the meat pulled apart with the slightest touch of a fork. Nimue finished everything on her plate and reached for a second helping of potatoes.
Saoirse passed the bowl, her eyes dancing. "You are eating as if you ran a marathon."
"We raced four times."
"On sheep."
"Yes."
Saoirse shook her head, though she was smiling.
A sharp knock came from the window. A barn owl sat on the sill, its feathers a mottled grey and its head turning in sharp jerks. Jack pushed his chair back and opened the glass, letting in a gust of cool night air. The owl hopped inside and held out its leg. Jack untied the letter, and the owl shook itself once, ruffling its feathers, before flying back out into the night.
"Who is it from?" Jane asked, her voice turning serious.
"Father."
He unfolded the parchment, the paper crinkling in the quiet room. His eyes moved rapidly across the page. His expression didn't change, but Nimue noticed a subtle shift in his shoulders, a sudden tension.
"Read it aloud," Saoirse said, setting her fork down.
Jack cleared his throat and began to read.
- - -
"Jack, Jane, Saoirse,
Something arrived at the manor door three days ago. Tilly found it in the morning; a stone and a box, sitting on the step. There was no owl, and no wards were triggered. It's just there, as if it had always been there and we had simply failed to notice it until that moment.
The stone is the one Saoirse wrote about, the one from the hermitage. The Cold Light stone. It's never warm. I held it for an hour and my hand went numb, but the stone stayed freezing. I told it where you are. I told it you were travelling and wouldn't be home for a year. I gave it the farm's address. Then the stone and the box were gone.
I think they will find you. I think they are already on their way. Didn't Saoirse say the monks claimed the stone travels through the earth, not the air? Perhaps that's true. Perhaps it travels through something else entirely.
The box—I opened it. Inside's a small glass vial containing a liquid that's grey. It isn't silver or white, but grey like ash after a heavy rain. I don't know if it's essence or something else. I have sealed it again and left it with the stone. If the stone goes to you, the box will go as well.
There's more. I found something in the library, a text written in Cymráeg and dated to the seventh century. The author was a druid named Brangaine. She wrote about a phoenix the druids called Phoenix Cineris Gelu. The Ash Phoenix. It doesn't burn; it preserves.
When it dies, it crumbles into silver-grey ash that's cold to the touch. From that ash, a new phoenix rises, not from heat, but from the first frost of winter or when snow falls on the mound where it fell. Sometimes, a keeper of the blood can remember it into being through ritual and will. Its feathers are the colour of slate and winter skies. Its eyes are like frozen lakes. When it flies, it leaves a trail of cold ash that settles like snow. This ash doesn't smother; it feeds. Fields touched by it remain fertile for a generation, and wounds packed with it don't fester. Seeds buried in it can wait for years, dormant, until the right season arrives for them to grow.
The druids believed it wasn't a creature of air and flame, but one of earth and winter. A spirit of the cold season that had taken the form of a phoenix. Its blood, in human lineages, manifests as winter resilience, a preservation instinct, and an ash affinity. It allows a body to thrive in the cold and draw frost from the air.
Brangaine's journal describes a girl in her own line who nearly died during her first ritual because the warming potions they gave her fought against her nature. The solution was simple. Brangaine writes: 'We stopped feeding her fire. We fed her winter. We let her be what she was.' The ritual used frozen ash, water from the first frost, and deep winter's silence. The girl survived and lived to be two hundred.
I will try to locate this phoenix's essence. There must be records. I will write again when I know more.
Aldric."
- - -
Jack folded the letter. The kitchen fell silent, the only sound being the steady, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. Saoirse set her fork down.
"So that's four," she said, counting on her fingers. "Phoenix types. Glacial, Void, Starlight, and now Ash. We have already confirmed two. The stone's coming, and now we have this."
Jack refolded the parchment, his thumb pressing along the crease. "We don't have to use all of them."
"No," Jane agreed, her voice firm. "We don't."
Saoirse leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant. "So we keep looking?"
Jane shook her head. "We have less than a year before her second maturity. We have already used four months of that window. Two Evans rituals and two confirmations have taken their toll. Her body needs rest between these workings. It must be at least two months before we can even consider another ritual."
"Which means," Jack added, looking at Nimue, "we have time for maybe two more. If we push it."
"We don't need every phoenix that ever existed," Jane said firmly. "We need what fits her. We need what makes her stable. We have Glacial and Void. We have the Cold Light stone coming, which is a method rather than blood. And now we have this Ash Phoenix, though we don't even have the essence for it yet."
Jack nodded. "Father will try to find it, but we won't wait. We work with what we have."
Saoirse picked up her fork again, though her appetite seemed to have vanished. "So we stop the search."
"We stop chasing every new lead that appears," Jane clarified. "We let the stone come. We let Father research the Ash Phoenix. We don't perform another ritual until her body has had sufficient time to settle."
Nimue had stopped eating. She watched the adults, her fork frozen mid-air, a piece of potato still balanced on it. "Mama."
Jane looked at her, her expression softening. "Yes?"
"Does this mean more tests?"
Jane reached across the table, her palm up. Nimue placed her small hand in hers, feeling the warmth of her mother's skin. "It means we wait. We watch. We see how your body handles what we have already given you."
Nimue looked down at her plate. The gravy had gone cold, forming a thin skin. "The cold is still there. Both of them. They aren't fighting each other."
"I know."
"So it's working."
Jane squeezed her fingers gently. "It's working."
Nimue picked up her fork and ate a cold potato. Saoirse pushed her chair back and stood up, her movements sudden. "I'm getting pudding."
"Now?" Jack asked, surprised.
"Now. We just spent twenty minutes talking about phoenix blood and ritual windows and whether my niece is going to survive her own body. I'm eating pudding."
Jane sighed, but she was almost smiling, the tension in her face breaking. Saoirse opened the refrigerator, the yellow light spilling out into the room. She pulled out a glass bowl filled with a pale yellow, wobbly pudding topped with a thin layer of caramel. She set it on the table with a spoon.
"Lemon," she announced. "It's Margaret's recipe."
Nimue looked at the pudding, then at her aunt. "Did you save me some?"
Saoirse grinned, her eyes bright. "I saved everyone some."
She scooped a portion into a bowl and pushed it toward Nimue. The pudding was cold and sweet, the caramel cracking against her teeth with a satisfying snap. Nimue ate it slowly, watching the adults.
They weren't talking about phoenixes anymore; Jack was telling Saoirse about a fence post that needed fixing, and Jane was scraping the last of the gravy from the pan. The clock continued to tick.
Nimue finished her portion and set the spoon down. "Can I have some more?"
Saoirse laughed. "That's my girl."
= = =
Rosie knocks again, a few days later.
Rosie:
Do you want to see the chickens?
Or go and feed the sheep?
I think some company is overdue
I've started talking to the rooster
He just sleeps
Pause.
Rosie (sighs):
It gets a little lonely
Just collecting eggs
Watching the tractor go round...
We used to be best farm buddies
And now we're not
I wish you would tell me why
Do you want to see the chickens?
It doesn't have to be the chickens...
She waits. No answer.
Rosie:
...Okay, bye.