Elara was the first to depart. She stepped into the hearth, her satchel heavy over her shoulder and her rough wool traveling cloak fastened securely at her throat with a silver clasp. Before she reached for the powder, she paused, her hand resting briefly on the silver metal as she looked at Jane.
"The boy has lived in a vacuum, Jane," Elara said. "Do not give him everything at once. He will think it is a trap."
Jane tilted her head, considering the words.
"Give him the room and the bed," Elara continued. "Give him the silence. Let him find his own voice before we add ours to the air."
She turned her gaze toward Morwenna. "You have the bracelet?"
Morwenna lifted her wrist, letting the silver catch the light from the fire. The metal felt cool against her skin. "It is holding."
Elara nodded once. "I will write if the records confirm the timeline. Until then, maintain the current schedule."
The powder she tossed was gritty, and the flames flared a sudden, brilliant green. With a roar that echoed for a second through the room, the fire swallowed her whole before the hearth went still and gray.
Viviane lingered just long enough to finish her tea, setting the porcelain cup down on the saucer with a soft, final click. She looked over at Jane, her expression softening behind her professional mask.
"The contracts are filed," she said. "I shall process the duplicates once I have returned home."
Jane stepped forward and hugged her, the scent of lavender and old paper clinging to Viviane's clothes. Viviane held on for a beat longer than usual, her hand pressing briefly against Jane's back before she stepped away. She reached out and touched Morwenna's cheek.
"Take care of your mother."
Morwenna nodded silently.
Viviane looked back at Jane one last time, her eyes lingering on her friend. "Take care of him. And Jane... repose-toi un peu."
Then she stepped into the hearth. The flames flared green, a sudden flash of light that lit the room before she was gone.
. . .
Morwenna stood in the doorway and stared into the quiet bedroom where Fleur had slept. The room felt hollow now, the air still and smelling faintly of cedar. Cinder pressed a warm, heavy weight against her leg, a small comfort in the sudden stillness of the house.
"Mom?" she called out.
Jane turned away from the window, where she had been watching the gardens move in the breeze. "Yes?"
"Harry's room. Which one is it?"
A small, weary smile touched Jane's lips. "Come. I will show you."
The corridor was quiet in this wing of the house, the air cooler than in the main hall. The portraits were sparse here, their gold frames tarnished by time, and the carpet beneath their feet felt older and more worn.
The painted faces of Keith children from centuries past watched them pass, their eyes following Morwenna with a silent, eerie curiosity. Jane stopped in front of an open door, resting her hand against the dark wood of the frame.
"This one," she said, the vowels rounding softly.
Morwenna stepped inside to look. The room faced east, toward the sprawling gardens and the distant treeline, though the light coming through the window was flat and diffuse under the overcast sky. The walls were a pale cream, the paint clean but aged.
The floor was polished oak, with a thick rug woven in deep shades of blue and green lying in the center. A single bed stood against the wall, its mattress bare and smelling of dry cotton. There was a wardrobe in the corner, a small desk near the window, and empty shelves waiting to be filled with the things a child might collect.
Jane said softly, "We never used it. Your room was always in the nursery, and we thought you would move here when you were older, but you never wanted to leave your nook."
She paused, looking around the space. "It has been waiting. We did not know who would use it, but it has always been ready."
Morwenna walked inside, the floorboards creaking slightly under her weight. She ran her fingers along the empty shelves, feeling the faint, gritty texture of dust.
"He will need more than this."
Jane nodded in agreement, her eyes tracking Morwenna's movements. "That's why we are here."
They worked through the morning to make the space habitable. Jane summoned fresh linens from the laundry, bringing soft cotton sheets in pale blue and a heavy blanket of dark green wool.
Morwenna carried pillows from the storage room, three of them stacked precariously against her chin. She dropped them onto the bed and fluffed them until they looked plump and inviting.
Jane opened the wardrobe to find it empty. She gave her wand a light, fluid flick, and a row of wooden hangers appeared on the rail with a series of soft clicks.
"He will need clothes," she said. "We will buy them when he arrives. It's better to let him choose for himself, to have something that's truly his."
Morwenna pulled the desk drawer open to find it empty, then left it slightly ajar. They placed a small lamp on the desk with a pale yellow shade, the cord trailing neatly to the wall.
Jane cast a spell to ensure the light stayed steady, without any of the flickering common to older fixtures in the house. Morwenna found a small, soft rug in storage—a deep, dark green that felt like moss—and rolled it across the floor beside the bed.
Then she stepped back to survey their progress, her hands on her hips.
"He needs a plant," she decided.
Jane raised an eyebrow, a faint look of amusement crossing her face. "A plant?"
"Neville says plants help. They make a room feel alive. They give you something to look after."
Jane considered that for a moment, then nodded. "We shall select a cutting from the greenhouse; something easy to care for. A fern, perhaps. Something that doesn't need much care."
Jane stood at the window, looking out at the lush greenery of the garden. A bird landed on the sill, its feathers ruffled by the wind, peering in for a moment before darting away.
"It is not much," she said, her voice dropping.
Morwenna came to stand beside her. "It is more than he has."
Jane turned to her, her eyes bright with an emotion Morwenna could not quite name. It was something between regret and a fierce, protective hope.
"No," Jane said softly. "It is not." She paused, looking back at the quiet, waiting room. "But it will be. Come, let us find that plant you mentioned."
They left the quiet wing of the house behind and walked through the glass doors of the greenhouse. The air here was thick and warm, smelling of damp earth and blooming jasmine. Jane moved with her usual systematic grace, her eyes scanning the rows of terracotta pots as they passed.
"Choose carefully, Morwenna," Jane said, her voice low and steady. "A plant is a silent companion. It should match the energy of the room."
Morwenna stopped in front of a cluster of ferns, their fronds unfurling in delicate, silver-tipped spirals. She reached out to touch a leaf, feeling the cool life of it. "This one? The silver fern?"
Jane stepped closer to inspect the soil. She nodded once, a look of quiet approval in her eyes. "It is resilient. It thrives in the quiet. Yes, I believe he will like the silver."
.
Jack wrote the letter that afternoon, sitting at his heavy desk in the study while the fire crackled low in the grate. The only sound was the steady scratch of his quill across the parchment as he worked, the ink drying dark and matte.
--
To the Head of the Keith Mundane Branch, Thornwell:
We have need of your driver again. Thomas, if he is available. Henry if not. There will be regular trips twice a month: to collect a child from Surrey and bring him to Thornwell, and later to return him.
This will be ongoing. I will explain more when we see you.
For the first trip, I will accompany the driver. We will collect the child on the morning of August fourteenth.
Thank you, as always.
Jack Keith
--
He sealed the letter with dark green wax, the scent of melting resin filling the air. He pressed his signet ring into the warm pool until the design of the Keith crest was crisp and clear. He handed the parchment to a waiting owl and watched from the window as the bird took flight.
The sky was flat and colorless, a heavy ceiling of cloud that seemed to swallow the owl the moment it reached the treeline. Jack remained at the window until the bird was a mere speck, then turned back toward the warmth of the room.
He came to a stop by the hearth, his thumb moving in a slow, rhythmic circle over the signet ring on his finger. He watched the last of the embers die down in the grate, his face composed and unreadable.
"Jane, do we have the small things?" Jack asked. He did not turn around, but his voice carried clearly in the quiet room. "The crackers or the fruit he might like? I am told boys of that age are often hungry."
Jane leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a soft, knowing expression. "The kitchen is stocked, Jack. You simply focus on bringing him through the gate."
A small, dry smile touched the corner of Jack's mouth. "I shall endeavor to be a welcoming sight, then. Though my face is rarely described as such."
. . .
The week passed in a slow, quiet blur.
Vernon went to the school on Monday morning. He signed the necessary forms to withdraw Harry from formal education with a disgruntled scrawl. When he returned, he offered no explanation. He simply set the papers on the table and turned on the television, his attention fixed elsewhere as the flickering light of the screen filled the room.
Petunia took Harry to the shops later that day. She bought him new clothes—not expensive, but brand new and smelling of the store. There were trousers that actually fit his frame without needing a belt to be cinched to its limit, and shirts without holes in the elbows or frayed collars.
She even picked out a dark blue jacket with a hood, the fabric stiff and the sleeves hanging a little too long. She told him he would grow into them, her voice flat and devoid of its usual sharp, cutting edge.
Dudley watched them from the doorway when they got back, the crinkle of the shopping bags loud in the hall. He glared with his usual resentment, his face flushed, but he didn't shove Harry or say a single word. After a moment, he simply turned and went upstairs, his bedroom door closing with a dull thud that echoed through the house.
That evening, Petunia told Harry during dinner that a tutor would come twice a week, with a flexible schedule to keep him on track with his studies. Her voice was level, as if she were reading off a grocery list. Harry nodded, his fork hovering over his plate, not daring to ask questions.
The house felt different after that: quieter and strangely hollow.
Petunia still snapped at him occasionally, telling him to finish his food or to keep his hands clean, but she didn't lock the cupboard anymore. She didn't send him to bed hungry. Vernon didn't look at him much at all; there was no anger in his gaze, only a strange, empty absence that felt like a wall between them.
Harry found himself thinking about the strangers often.
He remembered the woman with red hair and green eyes, the man with dark hair and the striking white streak, and the girl with the stillness in her gaze—the one whose eyes had matched his for that one moment.
A new family. A new place.
He didn't know if it would be better. He had never really thought that far ahead before. The future had always been more of the same gray pattern. Now, it was something else entirely. It was unclear and distant, but it was different.
And different was enough.
On Thursday night, he lay in his bed with the cool pillow against his cheek, the faint, clean scent of soap still lingering in the fabric. He pressed his palm against the wall beside him and felt the cold plaster, solid and real.
Tomorrow, they would come for him.
He closed his eyes and finally slept.