Early February brought a hard frost that clung to the windows well past midday, covering the glass in sheets of silver.
Morwenna woke to a world edged in white.
Fern-like patterns spread across the nursery windows, delicate as embroidery beneath the pale morning light. This frost wasn't hers. It belonged to the weather, the long winter night, and the frozen ground outside. It was nothing like the sharp cold her magic produced when she was frightened or upset.
She climbed out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the thick rug, and padded over to the window. Cinder followed close behind, his russet fur standing out against the pale floorboards. He leaped onto the windowsill and pressed his pink nose against the cold glass.
Morwenna placed her palm against the pane.
The cold bit into her skin, making her draw a sharp breath. It crept up her arm, numbing her fingers and moving towards her elbow. She kept her hand against the glass and began to count, just as Seraphina had taught her during their quiet lessons.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
She pulled her hand away. Her palm tingled, and the skin had turned a dull red.
Nothing happened.
No new frost formed beneath her touch. Only the faint, damp outline of her palm remained, and even that soon disappeared as the glass chilled again. She turned her hand over, studying the lines in her palm before looking back at the frozen patterns on the window.
Behind her, the heavy wooden door creaked open.
"You are awake early, little one," Seraphina said.
Morwenna turned to face her. "The frost is real today."
"Yes. Winter is still here. It isn't ready to leave just yet."
"My frost isn't here."
Seraphina crossed the room, her long robes brushing softly against the floor. She knelt beside Morwenna and took her cold hands between her own, gently warming her fingers.
"Your frost will come when it needs to. This belongs to the world, so it's a different kind of cold."
Morwenna thought about that, her brow furrowing.
"The world's frost is pretty."
"Yes, it is."
Morwenna looked at her grandmother for a moment before asking, "Can we have breakfast now?"
Seraphina smiled. "Of course."
Breakfast was a bowl of thick porridge with golden honey drizzled over the top.
Morwenna ate slowly, stirring the honey into the oats with her silver spoon. Jane sat across from her with a letter in one hand, her tea untouched beside her. Steam curled above the cup before fading into the air. The fire warmed the room while grey winter light filtered through the frosted windows.
When Morwenna finished, she picked up her empty bowl and carried it to the kitchen counter.
It had become a habit over the past week, one she had formed without anyone asking her to do it.
Tilly accepted the bowl with both hands, his large, bat-like ears twitching as he moved.
"Thank you, little miss," he said brightly.
Morwenna gave him a solemn nod before returning to the table.
She reached for the juice jug. It was made of thick glass and heavy for her small hands, so she used both to steady it. Slowly, she tipped the jug and poured orange juice into her cup. The level rose to the brim without a single drop spilling onto the tablecloth.
Morwenna inspected the full cup, then looked at her hands and gave herself a small, satisfied nod.
Jane watched over the edge of her letter, pride brightening her expression.
"You did that perfectly, ma chérie."
Morwenna looked at the cup again. "Yes."
She climbed back into her chair and drank in small sips. Cinder emerged from beneath the table and settled against her feet, his warmth passing through her thick woollen socks.
Jane finally put down the letter.
"It's from Grand-mère Celestine."
Morwenna looked up with interest. "What does it say?"
"She sends you her love. Elle demande comment tu vas (She asks how you are)."
"I'm better."
"I will tell her that."
Morwenna nodded, satisfied, and finished her juice.
....
In the library, Aldric sat surrounded by stacks of books that had nearly swallowed his workspace.
The polished mahogany table was buried beneath them. Open volumes lay across closed ones, their yellowed pages held open with slips of parchment.
Loose sheets covered the remaining space, filled with complex diagrams: circles layered over one another, intersecting lines, and ancient symbols drawn from traditions most modern wizards no longer studied.
He was searching for runes.
Not the kind used in ordinary charms or taught in elementary lessons at Hogwarts. These were older, more permanent runes, designed to be inscribed into the body rather than carved into stone.
His quill moved slowly across a fresh sheet of parchment as he copied a diagram from a text so fragile that its pages threatened to crumble beneath his fingers.
The rune looked deceptively simple. Three lines met at a single point in the centre. It was a protective rune, one that formed the foundation of the entire sequence. Every Keith child received it as their first mark.
Aldric set down his quill and rubbed his tired eyes. The tiny script had begun to strain his vision.
The fire burned steadily in the hearth, filling the library with warmth and the familiar scent of old leather and dust. Beyond the tall windows, grey daylight caught the motes drifting through the still air.
He reached for another book.
This one was newer, dating back only about two centuries. It contained the detailed notes of a Keith ancestor who had experimented with different combinations of runes to suit children with varying magical temperaments.
Aldric turned to a page covered in annotations. Three distinct sets had been circled in dark ink.
The first was the traditional array, consisting of seven runes. It caused little pain and had a long record of success. Its main advantage was its reliability: it worked for any Keith child, regardless of their particular magical inheritance.
The second was experimental. Twelve runes had been arranged specifically for children with multiple inheritances. The design promised better channelling of volatile magic, but the notes warned of a significant cost.
One passage described a child of mixed blood who had undergone the ritual. The results had been successful, but the process had been far from gentle.
The third set combined elements of both.
It retained seven protective runes from the traditional array and added three carefully chosen channelling runes from the experimental design, making ten in total. On paper, the combination was expected to cause only moderate pain. Its structure appeared balanced, with each rune serving a specific purpose.
There was one problem.
No one had ever tested it on a living subject.
The ancestor's notes claimed that the underlying design was sound. Each rune had been proven reliable on its own, though the combination hadn't been used for generations. Whether they would work as well together remained unknown.
Aldric studied the page, his gaze moving between the three arrangements.
Protection. Channelling. Balance.
He began adding his own notes in the margins, comparing the advantages and drawbacks of each option. He weighed the expected pain against the time needed for recovery and the risk of rejection.
The traditional array was safe, but perhaps too general for Morwenna. The experimental one might suit her needs better, but its cost was troubling. The hybrid offered a possible middle ground, yet its reliability remained untested.
He couldn't afford to choose carelessly.
The library remained quiet as the hours passed, and Aldric continued his research without noticing how much time had gone by.
At some point, Tilly appeared with a tray of fresh tea. Aldric only noticed the elf when a china cup touched the table beside his elbow. He glanced up, gave Tilly an absent nod, and returned to his notes.
. . .
Saoirse found Morwenna waiting in the hallway shortly after breakfast.
The child already had her heavy cloak on and stood beside the door, ready to go.
"Creature meadow," Saoirse said. "Come along."
Morwenna needed no further encouragement. She adjusted the clasp of her forest-green cloak and shifted her feet inside her heavy boots, which thudded against the stone floor. Then she took Cinder's carrying pouch from its hook on the wall. It was empty, but she liked having its familiar weight against her hip.
They crossed the garden together.
The snow from the previous week had begun to melt, leaving uneven patches of white among dark mud and flattened yellow grass. The air was still cold, though damper and less biting than it had been earlier that morning. Small clouds of breath escaped Morwenna's mouth as she carefully stepped around the deeper puddles, her boots squelching in the wet earth.
At the edge of the meadow, Saoirse stopped.
Morwenna looked across the field.
There was nothing unusual to see. Only grey winter grass and the bare branches of trees at the far end.
"They are there," Saoirse said quietly, looking towards a spot in the distance.
Morwenna narrowed her eyes. "Where?"
"Over there. Three of them today."
Morwenna tilted her head and searched the empty field.
At first, she noticed nothing.
Then she felt it.
It wasn't the warmth of a fire or the gentle touch of sunlight on her skin. It was something deeper, a presence that seemed to press against the world around it.
She raised a small finger and pointed towards a cluster of trees.
"There."
Her eyes still couldn't find anything. There was no shape or movement for her to follow, nothing she could see at all.
Yet she knew something was there.
Saoirse looked down at her, genuine surprise and admiration crossing her face. "That's exactly where they are."
Morwenna kept pointing, staring at the same patch of empty air. The warmth remained, quiet and steady, as though whatever was there had all the time in the world to wait for her to notice it.
Her gaze followed a subtle shift in the presence, something she seemed to sense rather than see.
"They feel like Cinder," she said slowly. "But bigger."
Saoirse watched her closely. Morwenna hadn't even blinked.
"Anything else?"
Morwenna concentrated harder, her little face tightening as she tried to understand what she was feeling. The warmth remained calm and steady, like a slow heartbeat.
"No."
"That's enough for today."
They stayed at the edge of the meadow for a while. Morwenna continued sensing the unseen creatures while the wind stirred the bare branches above them. Somewhere in the distance, a lone bird called.
Eventually, she lowered her hand and tucked it inside her cloak.
"Can we go closer?"
"No. They would leave."
"Why?"
"They don't like strangers," Saoirse explained.
Morwenna looked towards the trees again. The presence was still there, quiet and patient.
She nodded to herself.
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Saoirse agreed.
.....
That evening, Morwenna told the family about the meadow during dinner.
"I felt them," she said clearly. Sitting between Jane and Jack, she had her chair pulled close to the table so she could reach her plate. "In the meadow. Saoirse said they were there, and I felt them."
Jack set his fork down with a soft clink against the porcelain. "Felt them how?"
"Warm. Like Cinder. But bigger." She glanced at Saoirse. "There were three."
Saoirse nodded, her expression serious. "Three. She pointed to exactly where they were standing in the grass."
Aldric and Seraphina exchanged a brief look across the table.
Jane noticed their silence and glanced between them, but before she could ask anything, Morwenna returned to her meal, apparently unaware that she had given the adults something to worry about. She ate her potatoes one piece at a time, carefully dipping each into the gravy.
After dinner, she went to the library with Aldric.
He settled into his usual chair with a book, while Morwenna sat on a cushion nearby with her bestiary open across her lap. She had turned to the illustration of the great serpent, and her little finger followed the curves of its painted body as she whispered in Parseltongue, her voice low and sibilant.
Aldric watched her over the top of his book but didn't interrupt.
Morwenna was completely absorbed in the illustration. Cinder sat beside her on the floor, his large ears angled towards the strange whispers.
When she finished, she looked up and caught Aldric watching her.
"Gran-da."
"Little one."
"I was talking to the serpent."
"I heard you."
"It's still sleeping," she said matter-of-factly.
"Yes. You told me that before."
"It's still sleeping now."
"Some serpents sleep for a very long time, Morwenna."
"How long?"
"Years. Decades. Some even sleep for centuries."
Morwenna considered this, tilting her head slightly. "That's a very long nap."
"It is."
Apparently satisfied, she closed the heavy book. Its cover landed against the pages with a soft thump, and she rested it in her lap while watching the flames dance in the fireplace.
"Gran-da."
"Yes?"
"When I'm big, will I have a bestiary of my own?"
"You will have many books. More than you can count."
"More than this library?"
Aldric smiled faintly, the corners of his eyes creasing. "Perhaps not more than the entire library. But you will have plenty of your own."
Morwenna seemed content with that answer. She slid off the cushion, patted Cinder's flank, and headed for the door.
"Goodnight, Gran-da."
"Goodnight, little one."
Cinder followed close behind her as she disappeared into the hall.
. . .
Later, after Morwenna had been tucked into bed, the family gathered in the morning room.
The fire had burned low, and its flickering light stretched shadows across the walls. Jane held a cup of tea between both hands, though the drink had long since gone cold. Jack sat beside her, his expression tense.
Jane broke the silence first.
"She felt them. The thestrals. She pointed to exactly where they were standing."
"She did," Saoirse confirmed, leaning against the mantel. "She couldn't see them, but she knew where they were."
"That isn't normal. Even for us."
"No," Aldric agreed. "It isn't."
Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What does it mean?"
Aldric took a moment to consider his answer. The fire crackled softly as the last logs settled in the grate.
"Her perception may be developing more quickly now. The fever might have accelerated it, or this may simply be part of her natural growth."
"Is that good or bad?" Jack asked.
"Neither. It's something we need to understand."
Aldric turned towards Jane, his expression serious.
"It suggests that she is sensitive to things beyond ordinary physical perception. That could be important when we perform her blood ritual."
Jane placed her cup on the low table. "We already agreed on the approach. Gentle, slow, with as few runes as possible."
"Yes."
"Then what are we still deciding?"
Aldric reached for the papers he had brought from the library and spread them across the table.
"Which runes to use. They don't all serve the same purpose. Some provide protection, some channel magic, and others stabilise it."
He tapped the diagrams. "I have narrowed the options down to three sets."
Jack leaned closer. "Show her."
Aldric went through the designs again, explaining each in the same calm, measured manner. The traditional set. The experimental arrangement they had already ruled out. And finally, the hybrid.
Jane studied the diagrams. The symbols themselves meant little to her, but the numbers were easy enough to understand.
Ten runes.
Moderate pain.
"Moderate," she repeated softly. The word left a bitter taste in her mouth. "That's a neat way of describing a child being hurt. Compared to what?"
Aldric hesitated before answering. "Compared to the more extreme arrays, and to what an older child might endure. This set would cause more discomfort than the traditional one, but the traditional set doesn't account for all her lineages."
"The Veela. The Lethifold," Jane murmured.
She traced one of the symbols with her fingernail. "And the pain? Will it truly be moderate?"
"She will feel it," Aldric said carefully. "She will know that something is happening. But with ten runes in a single session, the pain should remain bearable. More like deep numbness and a dull ache than anything sharp."
Jane nodded, but her shoulders remained tense.
After a moment, she asked in a much quieter voice, "When it happens, where will I be?"
Aldric met her eyes. "In the same room, a few metres away. Close enough to see her clearly, but far enough not to interfere with the magic."
"I can't hold her?"
"No. The ritual field will keep her body still. It's safer that way."
Jane stared into the fire, its embers reflected in her eyes. Then she lowered her gaze to her hands.
"I have to watch," she murmured, "while she goes through something I can't share with her."
Jack reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. She held on tightly.
Saoirse straightened from the mantel. "It isn't as bad as it sounds, Jane. Not at her age. The first ritual is mild, and you will be there. She will be able to see you."
"She will see me," Jane replied. "But she won't be able to reach me."
"She will know you are there. That matters, too."
Jane looked at her sister-in-law, at the silver streaks in her hair and the quiet certainty in her expression.
"You went through it."
"Nine times."
"Did it help?"
Saoirse fell silent for a moment, considering the years behind her.
"Yes. More than anything else."
Jane nodded slowly and leaned against Jack, drawing what comfort she could from his presence.
Aldric began gathering the papers, stacking the diagrams neatly before setting them aside.
"We don't have to decide tonight. We will keep watching her and learn what we can before April."
Jane nodded again but said nothing.
The conversation gradually died away. With no decision to make that night and no further answers to be found, they eventually left the morning room and went to bed, each carrying the same concern with them: how to prepare Morwenna for what lay ahead without asking more of her than she could bear.