Grey light filtered through the gap in the curtains. Nimue lay still for a moment, her green eyes tracing the patterns of the ceiling.
The cottage was low and slanted, with white-washed timber beams running across the plaster like ancient ribs. The air in the room was cool and carried the faint, lingering scent of dry wood and salt.
Outside, she could hear the sea. It was different from the rustle of the farm fields or the quick, babbling river at Thornwell. This was a long, slow breath, a deep pull and a heavy release, sounding like something massive and patient waking up beneath the cliffs.
Cinder shifted at the foot of her bed, his ears flicking toward the window. He didn't get up. He simply let his tail thump once against the heavy quilt and closed his eyes again, his nose tucked into his fur.
Nimue slipped out of bed, her toes curling against the cold floorboards. Her trainers waited by the door, still crusted with dried grey mud from yesterday. She stepped into them without tying the laces and pushed the curtain aside.
The harbour lay beyond the glass. Masts crowded together in a forest of lines and rigging, hulls packed tight along the stone wall. The water stretched flat and grey beneath a sky the colour of worn pearl, the horizon so faint it seemed imagined.
She pulled her shirt over her head. The cotton was wrinkled from the long journey yesterday, but she didn't mind. She found her shorts, stepped into them, and padded toward the kitchen with her laces still untied.
Jane was already at the stove. She had her hair tied back with a silk ribbon, and her sleeves were rolled past her elbows. A heavy iron pan sizzled on the burner, filling the small kitchen with the rich scent of frying eggs, yellow butter, and a spicy herb Nimue couldn't name.
"You are up early, ma petite," Jane said. She didn't look around, her hand moving the spatula in small, precise arcs. Her English was clear, but the vowels remained soft and rounded, carrying the music of her home.
Nimue climbed onto a wooden chair. The timber was worn smooth by decades of use, the seat hollowed out into a comfortable curve. "The sea's sound woke me."
"It will do that," Jane agreed. "The ocean doesn't care for sleeping in."
Jack came in from the front room, his boots thudding softly. He had a French newspaper folded under his arm; the paper was thin, and the ink smelled sharp and fresh. The white streak in his black hair caught the morning light as he leaned against the doorframe. "The boulangerie opens at eight," he said, checking his watch. "The fish market opens even earlier."
"We are going before it gets too crowded," Jane said, sliding an egg onto a plate.
Saoirse appeared in the doorway a moment later. Her hair was loose and messy, and her green eyes were still half-closed with sleep. She was wearing one of Jack's old white shirts over her trousers, the collar crooked and the sleeves bunched at her wrists. "I'm staying here."
Jack raised his eyebrows. "You aren't coming to see the port?"
"I'm going to sit on that bench outside and watch boats for three hours. Maybe four." She shuffled toward the counter and poured herself a mug of tea. "Someone has to guard the cottage, don't they?"
"From what, exactly?" Jane asked, a small smile playing on her lips.
"From nothing. Which is the point."
Nimue watched her aunt carry the cup to the front room, where the light through the window fell across the stone floor in a long, yellow rectangle. Saoirse dropped onto the wooden bench outside, her feet propped up and her face turned toward the harbour.
Jane put a plate in front of Nimue. It held eggs, soft and folded, and a thick slice of crusty bread with butter already melting into the crumb. "Eat."
Nimue ate. The bread was different from the soft loaves at the farm. It was denser and the crust was harder, with tiny salt crystals still clinging to the underside. She broke a small piece off for Cinder, who had appeared under the table with his nose pointed at her knee. He took the offering from her fingers with soft, careful lips and settled back down on the rug.
Jack stood by the door, his back to them as he tied his sturdy walking shoes. Jane was already washing the pan, the water running hard and fast into the stone sink.
"Ready," Nimue said, swallowing the last of her breakfast.
The market was at the far end of the harbour, where the stone buildings pressed close together and the street narrowed into a cobblestone path that cars couldn't fit through. They walked down from the cottage, passing shuttered windows and ancient walls stained yellow with salt and moss.
A man was hosing down his boat's deck, the water running across the wooden planks and splashing into the dark harbour water below. He looked up when they passed, nodded once to Jack, and went back to his work.
Nimue kept her hand firmly in Jane's. Jack walked on her other side, the wicker basket already hooked over his arm.
The fish stalls were closest to the water. The catch was laid out on beds of crushed ice that glittered in the morning light. The fish had clear eyes and scales that caught the sun like polished silver. A woman behind the stall had her sleeves rolled to the elbow, her hands stained a deep red from the cold and the work. She looked at Nimue, then at Jane, and finally at Jack.
"Vous voulez du poisson?" (Do you want some fish?) Her voice was low and a little rough. "Frais. Pris ce matin." (Fresh. Caught this morning.)
Jane looked over the selection with a practiced eye. "Deux filets de cabillaud. Et les crevettes. Une demi-douzaine." (Two cod fillets. And the prawns. Half a dozen.)
The woman nodded and reached for the fish. She wrapped them in thick brown paper, folded the edges tight, and set them into Jack's basket. The prawns went into a separate bag, the paper already turning dark with moisture.
"Merci," Jane said.
The woman gave a short, sharp nod. She was already looking toward the next customer in the queue.
The vegetable stall was further in, where the street widened and the sun finally reached the ground. A man with a magnificent grey moustache was stacking tomatoes in a perfect pyramid. His hands moved with a steady, quiet rhythm.
"Les tomates, s'il vous plaît. Six. Et les oignons, trois." (The tomatoes, please. Six. And the onions, three.)
He chose the produce with care, turning each tomato before adding it to the basket. When he handed them over, he looked down at Nimue. "Elle parle français?" (Does she speak French?)
"Oui," Jane replied.
The man's moustache twitched as he smiled. "Alors. Elle peut choisir la prochaine." (Then. She can choose the next one.)
He held out a bright red tomato toward Nimue. She took it, feeling the skin smooth and the flesh firm under her fingers. She held it up to the light, inspected the deep colour, and placed it carefully in the basket.
"Bien," he said.
She picked three more. She examined each one the same way, turning it in her hand before deciding it was worthy. The man didn't rush her; he simply watched with an amused expression. When she finished, he nodded once and turned to the next person in line.
The bread stall was at the end of the market. The smell of yeast and warm flour was so thick there that it felt as though it sat on Nimue's tongue. The woman behind the counter had flour dusted across her blue apron and a long, pale scar on her forearm.
"Une baguette. Et une fougasse." (A baguette. And a fougasse) Jane pointed at the flat bread studded with green olives, its surface scored and golden.
The woman wrapped them in thin brown paper, the baguette tucked under her arm while she tied the string with a quick flick of her wrist. She handed the warm package to Nimue. "Tiens." (Here.)
Nimue held it against her chest. The bread was still warm, and she could feel the heat radiating through the paper.
The basket was full by the time they turned back toward the cottage. Jack had it hooked over his arm, the weight of the fish and vegetables pulling at his shoulder. Nimue walked beside Jane, the bread still pressed against her shirt like a warm treasure.
"Did you like the market, Nimue?" Jane asked.
Nimue thought about the fish stalls, the glittering ice, and the man with the moustache. "The man let me pick the tomatoes."
"Because you listened. You watched him. That matters to people who work with their hands."
They kept walking. The harbour was busy now; boats were rocking in the swell and a man was shouting something from a distant deck. Gulls turned overhead, their shadows sliding across the cobblestones like dark ghosts.
Saoirse was exactly where they had left her. She had pulled the bench into the sun and had her feet propped on an old wooden crate, her face tilted toward the sky. She didn't open her eyes when they came up the path. "Took you long enough. I almost withered away."
"You were supposed to be watching the cottage," Jack said, though there was no heat in his voice.
"I was. Nothing happened. It's very safe." She cracked one eye open. "Did you get the good bread?"
Jane lifted the bag from Nimue's hands. "Fougasse."
Saoirse sat up so fast that the crate wobbled. "Give it here then."
The kitchen was small and cozy. The stove took up most of one wall, with a copper pot hanging above it, its bottom black from years of use. Jane set the basket on the table and began to unpack the treasures. Nimue stood on a chair to watch the process.
"What are we making, Mama?"
"Fish for tonight. But first—" Jane pulled out a smaller basket from under the counter. It was already lined with clean wax paper. "The neighbours."
There were four cottages along the narrow lane. Jane had counted them yesterday after they arrived. One was empty, its shutters closed tight and the garden gone to weeds. The other three had people living in them. Nimue had seen an old woman watering her window boxes, a man with a dog who walked past their gate twice, and a woman who hung laundry in the morning and brought it in before the sun set.
Jack put the bread in the basket. He included a fresh loaf for each house, wrapped in paper with the string tied into a neat bow. Jane added a jar of golden honey from the farm and a small box of the buttery biscuits Tilly had packed before they left England.
"We are going. You carry the honey, Nimue."
Nimue took the small bag. The glass jars clinked softly against each other when she moved.
The first cottage had blue shutters and a stone path with grass growing between the cracks. The old woman opened the door before they even knocked, her hand resting on the frame as if she had been waiting. She was small, her shoulders curved and her hair the colour of ash.
"Bonjour," Jane said. "Nous sommes les locataires de la maison au bout. Nous voulions dire bonjour." (Hello. We are the tenants from the house at the end. We wanted to say hello.)
The woman looked at the basket, then at Jane, and then finally at Nimue. Her eyes were pale, the colour of the sky after a heavy rain.
"Vous êtes anglais." (You are English.)
" Oui. Nous restons quelques semaines." (Yes. We are staying for a few weeks.)
The woman's gaze moved to Nimue's white hair. It lingered there for a moment—not staring, but observing with a strange intensity. "Elle ressemble à quelqu'un." (She looks like someone.)
Jane didn't answer that. She simply held out the basket with a steady hand.
The woman took it, her hands thin and her knuckles swollen with age. She looked at the bread, the honey, and the biscuits. "C'est gentil." (That's kind.)
She closed the door without another word. Nimue heard her footsteps move away, slow and steady on the stone floor inside.
The second cottage was further down the lane, where the path turned toward the cliff. The man with the dog was in the yard, his back to them as he worked with a coil of heavy rope. The dog—something brown and grey with a white muzzle—lifted its head and gave a soft "woof" when they stopped at the gate.
The man turned. He had a face creased by the wind, his skin dark and his beard a wiry grey. He looked at the basket.
"La dame du bout a dit que vous étiez là." He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Vous n'avez pas à faire ça." (The lady from the end said you were here. You don't have to do that.)
"Nous voulions," Jane said. "C'est ce qu'on fait." (We wanted to. It's what we do.)
He took the basket and set it on the stone step. He looked at Nimue for a long moment, his eyes narrowed as if trying to remember a face, and then he crouched down to her level.
"Tu as quel âge, petite?" (How old are you, little one?)
"Four."
He nodded slowly. "Quatre. Mon petit-fils a quatre ans. Il est à l'école aujourd'hui." (Four. My grandson is four. He is at school today.) He stood up and gave a small nod. "Merci."
The dog wagged its tail once against the dirt and went back to lying in the sun.
The third cottage sat at the very end of the lane, where the path turned to dirt and the hedge grew wild. The woman with the laundry was on her step, a wicker basket of damp clothes beside her. She was young, her hair pulled back into a messy knot and her face already red from the morning sun.
"Ah," she said, wiping a stray hair from her forehead. "Vous êtes ceux de la maison bleue." (You are the ones from the blue house.)
"Yes." Jane held out the basket. "Pour vous remercier de nous avoir laissés tranquilles." (To thank you for leaving us in peace.)
The woman laughed. It was a good, hearty laugh that started deep in her chest. "On n'a pas fait grand-chose." (We didn't do much.)
She took the basket, lifted the bread out, and took a deep breath of its scent. "Ah, de la fougasse. C'est la boulangère du port?" (Ah, fougasse. It's from the baker at the port?)
"Yes."
"Elle fait les meilleures." She set the bread back down carefully. "Vous restez longtemps?" (She makes the best. Are you staying long?)
"Jusqu'à la fin du mois." (Until the end of the month)
"Alors. Peut-être qu'on se verra." She looked at Nimue, her eyes brightening. "Ta fille?" (So. Perhaps we will see each other. Your daughter?)
"Yes."
"Elle a les cheveux clairs. Comme ma mère." (She has light hair. Like my mother.)
She didn't wait for an answer. She picked up her laundry basket and went inside, the door closing with a soft click behind her.
They walked back down the lane together. Nimue's arms were empty now, the honey successfully delivered. The empty bag was folded under Jane's arm. Jack had the big basket back, the fish and vegetables waiting for lunch.
"Did we do good, Mama?" Nimue asked.
Jane's hand touched her white hair. "We did good."
Saoirse was still on the bench. She had the fougasse open on her lap, a piece already torn off and a small pile of olive pits on the step beside her. "Finally. I was about to send a search party into the village."
Jack took the basket inside. Jane followed him. Nimue sat on the step beside her aunt, her legs stretched out and her trainers touching the dry dirt.
"Was it the same?" Saoirse asked.
"What?"
"The neighbours. Did they take the food?"
Nimue thought about the old woman's parchment-thin hands, the man crouching down to look at her, and the young woman's laughter. "Yes. They all took it."
Saoirse tore off another piece of the salty bread and handed it to her. The olive was sharp and oily, and the bread was still warm from the morning.
"Good," Saoirse said. "That is how you do it. You feed them first."
Nimue ate her bread and watched the boats turn in the harbour. The light was higher now, and the shadows on the ground were shorter. Cinder came out of the cottage and lay across her feet, his ears catching the distant sound of the gulls.
Inside, she could hear Jane moving, the knife hitting the wooden board, and Jack's low voice answering something. The smell of butter hit the pan again.
She leaned back against the step, resting her head against the warm wood, and waited for lunch.
. . .
The afternoon heat came in through the window, thick and salt-heavy, pressing against the glass.
Nimue had been lying on her bed for a while, not sleeping, just watching the dust motes move across the ceiling beams. Cinder was on the floor now, his chin resting on her trainers and his ears tracking every sound from outside. A boat engine, low and distant. Gulls arguing over a scrap of fish. The creak of a door opening somewhere down the lane.
She got up, her legs feeling a bit restless. Her shirt stuck to her back, so she pulled it loose and went to the front room.
Saoirse was still on the bench outside, her hat pulled low over her eyes and a glass of dark cider sweating on the step beside her. She didn't move when Nimue came out. "Too hot for running around, little monster."
"I'm not running."
"You are thinking about it. I can hear your brain whirring."
Nimue sat on the step, her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around them. The wood was hot under her thighs. The harbour was quiet now; the boats were still and the market stalls were all folded up. A woman walked along the quay with a bag of bread, her shoes sounding loud on the stone.
"Where is Mama?"
"Down the lane. Talking to the woman with the laundry. Hélène, I think her name is."
Nimue looked toward the end of the lane. The hedge was thick and the wild roses were heavy with hips; the green was so deep it looked almost black in the shadows. She could see the edge of the cottage, the blue door, and the washing line which was now empty.
She stood up.
Saoirse lifted her hat just enough to peek out. "You going down there?"
"Yes."
"Don't stay out too long. You will burn with that fair skin."
Nimue looked at her arms. They were already turning a soft pink. "I will stay in the shade."
Saoirse put her hat back down with a grunt. "Fine."
The lane was quiet. The stones were warm through the soles of her trainers and the air was perfectly still, the only sound coming from the bees working the hedge. A small lizard skittered across the path and vanished into a crack in the wall.
Hélène was in her yard, her back to the lane and her hands moving over something on a wooden table. Jane sat on a chair nearby, her sleeves rolled up and her hair loose. She looked up when Nimue came through the gate.
"Ma chérie. You couldn't rest?"
"Too hot," Nimue said, standing by her mother's knee.
Hélène turned around. She had her hair pulled back and her face was flushed from the sun. A toddler was on a blanket near the door, half-asleep, with a stuffed rabbit tucked under his arm. "C'est ta fille?" (Is she your daughter?)
"Oui," Jane said. Her hand touched Nimue's shoulder. "Nimue."
"Je m'appelle Hélène." The woman wiped her hands on her apron. "Et le petit, c'est Mathis." (My name is Hélène. And the little one, it's Mathis.)
The toddler didn't move. His fingers were loose on the rabbit's ear and his breathing was slow and rhythmic.
Hélène had a large bowl on the table, dark shells piled beside it, and a sharp knife in her hand. Mussels. The shells were black and slick, and the smell was sharp and clean. Her hands moved fast as she scraped something off with the blade, dropping each one into a bucket of fresh water.
Nimue came closer, standing on her tiptoes. "What are you doing?"
Hélène looked at Jane, and Jane nodded encouragingly.
"Les moules. On les nettoie." She picked one up, showed Nimue the side, and ran the knife along the shell. "Le barbillon. Il faut l'enlever. Sinon, ça craque sous la dent." (The mussels. We clean them. The beard. It must be removed. Otherwise, it crunches under the teeth.)
She dropped the mussel into the water. It sank, clean and shining.
Nimue watched her do three more. Hélène's hands were quick, her eyes no longer needing to watch her fingers. She talked while she worked, speaking about the tide, the boats coming in this morning, and her husband who was still out on the water.
Jane listened, her head tilted. She asked a question in French about the tide times. Hélène answered, her hands never stopping their steady rhythm.
Nimue picked up a mussel. It was cold and wet, the shell rough against her skin. She turned it over. The beard was brown and fine, growing out from between the tightly closed shells.
"You want to try?" Hélène held out the knife, handle first.
Nimue looked at Jane again. Jane didn't say anything; she simply waited, her expression calm.
Nimue took the knife. The handle was wood, worn smooth by years of use, and her small fingers fitted into the grooves left by Hélène's hand. She held the mussel flat against the table the way she had seen Hélène do it, with the knife edge against the side. She pulled.
Nothing happened. The beard stayed stuck.
"Plus fort." Hélène's hand came over hers, her palm warm and her fingers guiding Nimue's grip. "Comme ça." (Harder. Like that.)
The knife slid. The beard came away in one clean piece. Nimue dropped the mussel into the bucket. It sank to the bottom.
"Bien," Hélène said with a nod.
Nimue did three more. The first one took two tries. The second one came clean. The third she did without thinking, the knife moving, the beard falling, and the shell dropping into the water.
Hélène picked up another handful. "Tu as de la patience. C'est rare à son âge." (You have patience. It's rare at her age.)
Jane said something in French, her voice low and the words too fast for Nimue to catch. Hélène nodded, her face serious for a moment, and then she was smiling again. She talked about the old woman at the end of the lane and how the English came every summer now, changing the town from how it used to be when she was a girl.
Nimue kept working. Her fingers were wet and her arms were sticky with salt water as the shells piled up in the bucket. Mathis shifted on his blanket, his eyes opening for a moment before closing again. Cinder had come through the gate and lay in the shade of the hedge, his ears swivelling at the sound of Hélène's voice.
When the last mussel was clean, Hélène poured the bucket out, the water running across the stones and the shells catching the afternoon light. "Voilà. Pour ce soir." (There. For tonight.)
She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at Nimue's arms, which were quite pink from the sun. She went inside and came back with a glass of water, the moisture beading on the outside. She handed it to Nimue. "Bois. Tu vas brûler." (Drink. You are going to burn.)
Nimue drank. The water was cold.
Hélène sat on the step, her back against the doorframe. "Are you staying long?"
"Until the end of the month," Jane said.
"Alors. Peut-être que tu viendras m'aider encore." Hélène looked at Nimue. "Si tu veux." (So. Perhaps you'll come help me again. If you want.)
Nimue held the cold glass against her chest. "Yes."
Hélène smiled. It was a quick thing, her teeth white and her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Bon."
Mathis woke then, his face crumpling and his hands reaching out. Hélène picked him up and settled him on her hip. "Il faut y aller. Le goûter." (Time to go. Snack time.)
They walked back up the lane together, Jane's hand resting on Nimue's shoulder. The sun was lower now and the shadows were getting longer. When they passed the old woman's cottage, the blue shutters were half-closed against the heat, but the window boxes were still full of red geraniums. The man with the dog was on his step, the dog's head resting on his knee. He raised his hand when they passed, and Jane raised hers back.
Saoirse was still on the bench, her hat over her face and her breathing slow. Jack was in the kitchen, the table set and a bowl of tomatoes on the counter. He looked at Nimue's arms. "You are pink as a prawn."
"I helped with the mussels."
He looked at Jane, who simply shrugged.
"Bath," he said. "Before dinner."
The water was cool, and the soap smelled of lavender. Jane sat on the edge of the tub and poured water over Nimue's shoulders, watching it run down her arms.
"Did you like it?" Jane asked.
"She let me use her knife."
"She trusted you."
Nimue looked at her hands. The skin was wrinkled from the water, but the nails were perfectly clean. "She said I have patience."
"You do."
"Is that good?"
Jane dipped the cloth in the water and wiped Nimue's face. "It's very good."
Dinner was late. The light had turned a deep gold and the shadows were long across the floor. Jack had cooked the fish, its skin crisp and the flesh white, with a sauce sharp with lemon. The mussels were in a large bowl, their shells open and the broth dark and fragrant with garlic and wine.
Saoirse ate three pieces of bread, dipping them in the sauce. "This is why I travel. So I can come back to places where people know how to cook."
"You don't cook when you travel," Jane pointed out.
"I don't have to. I just eat what other people make."
Jack reached for the bread. "That isn't travel. That's being a tourist."
"Same thing."
Nimue ate her fish. It was soft, the lemon was sharp, and the skin was salty. She dipped her bread in the mussel broth, watching it soak up the liquid. Cinder sat under the table, his nose pointed at her knee, waiting for a scrap to fall.
When the plates were empty, Jane pushed back from the table. "Let's walk. Before it gets dark."
The path to the beach was at the end of the lane. The stones gave way to sand, the grass thinning as the air opened up.
Nimue stopped at the edge. The sand was pale, the tide was out, and the water was a long way off. The sky was the colour of a mussel shell—purple at the horizon and grey above.
She pulled her trainers off and walked toward the water. The sand was cool under her feet and grew wetter as she went. The surface was firm, and her footprints filled with water behind her.
Jane was behind her, her steps slower. Jack was with Saoirse, their voices low and their words lost in the sound of the water.
The sea pulled back, the sand turned dark, and the air grew cold. Nimue stopped where the last wave had been. The wet sand sucked at her feet.
She looked up.
The stars were coming. Not all of them, just the brightest ones. The sky was still purple and the sea grey, the line between them so faint that she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Jane came up beside her. She didn't say anything. She just stood there with her arms crossed, her face turned toward the water.
Nimue looked at the horizon.
The sea pulled back. The sand shifted under her feet. The stars came out one by one.
There were so many. More than she had seen at the farm. They weren't scattered but thick and layered, the space between them so small that the sky seemed to press down with the weight of its own light.
Jane's hand rested on her shoulder. "It's beautiful."
Nimue didn't answer. She was watching the stars. They were the same stars she had seen in London and in the valley. They didn't change. They didn't care where she was.
The sea pulled back again. The sound was low and constant. It was the same rhythm her grandmother had heard, and the same rhythm Edmund had heard when he was young.
She took a breath. The air was cold, and the water was black now under the white stars.
Jane's hand tightened on her shoulder. "Time to go back."
Nimue looked at the water one more time. The tide was turning, the waves were coming closer, and the sound was deepening as the dark spread.
She turned. Her feet were cold, her shorts were damp, and her shirt was sticking to her back. The lights of the cottage were yellow and the door was still ajar.
They walked back up the sand, past the place where her trainers waited. Saoirse was already at the gate with her arms crossed, her face turned toward the sky.
"Good walk?" she asked.
Nimue stopped beside her. She looked back. The sea was black, the stars were bright, and the horizon was gone.
"Yes," she said. "It was good."
She went inside. The kitchen was warm, the dishes were washed, and the table was wiped clean. Jack was putting the chairs back in their places. Jane was in the front room, folding the blanket she had left on the bench.
Nimue went to her room. Cinder was already on the bed, his eyes half-closed and his tail thumping once when she came in. She pulled off her damp shorts and her shirt, leaving them on the floor. The sheets were cool, the window was open, and the sound of the sea came through.
She lay on her back with her hands on her stomach and her feet cold against Cinder's fur. She closed her eyes. The tide breathed in and out. The cottage settled around her, the wood creaking and the window rattling, while her family's low voices came from the next room.
She slept.
= = =
So, I need your opinion on something.
Do you prefer that I keep the dialogue in French, with the meaning written in parentheses… or should I just write everything directly in English and treat it as if they're speaking French?
If I go with French, it would apply to most of the dialogue since they're currently in France.
Let me know what you think in the comments. I'll hold off on updating the next chapter until I decide on this.
Thanks.