April arrived in the way Morwenna noticed most things, not through announcements but through small changes. The air softened first, no longer biting at her cheeks when she stepped outside.
Then came the smell of damp soil and something green pushing up beneath the earth. She did not yet have words for the scent, but she knew it meant something was alive. The paths she walked each morning changed from frozen ground to thick mud, then to firmer earth, until thin blades of grass began appearing along the edges.
Morwenna visited the snowdrops every morning. Her small boots left shallow prints in the soft earth as she crossed the garden, her snowy white hair catching the pale spring light. The flowers had multiplied since the day before.
Seven.
Nine.
Twelve.
They dotted the dark soil like little stars, scattered across the ground as though they had fallen from the sky and decided to stay.
Her green eyes searched the patch. She counted on her fingers, her brow furrowing as the numbers became harder to keep track of. Four slipped away, and five refused to stay in place. Still, the exact number mattered less than what she knew for certain. There were more than yesterday. The patch had grown while she slept. She had left the flowers alone, and they had answered by multiplying.
"Growing," she announced.
Lucien was crouched beside the herb bed, gently brushing his long fingers over the rosemary and thyme that had survived the winter through sheer stubbornness. Fresh green shoots had begun to appear at their roots. He looked up at her, his expression soft.
"Yes," he said, his voice carrying its usual gentle lilt.
"Like me."
He rose and crossed the damp grass before crouching beside her. His warmth took some of the chill from the morning air.
"Like you."
Morwenna looked at the flowers again, then lowered her gaze to her hands. She turned them over, studying the faint lines across her palms with a curious tilt of her head.
"More me," she said. "Tomorrow."
Lucien paused, watching her as the wind stirred the bare branches overhead. He took her little hands in his, his skin warm against hers.
« Oui. More of you tomorrow. »
She accepted this without question, as though it were simply another truth about the world.
Lucien smiled and led her farther into the glass enclosure.
" Différentes plantes, ma petite. They each have their own way of being. "
. . .
The manor grew busier with each passing day.
Tilly hurried through the halls with long lists clutched in his small hands, appearing in one doorway after another as he checked the preparations. His ears trembled almost constantly, and his eyes darted from one detail to the next. He muttered to himself as he counted supplies, corrected his lists, and started over whenever he found something amiss.
One morning, Morwenna found him in the kitchen, standing over a flour-dusted counter covered with sketches of fox-shaped cakes. The room was warm, filled with the smell of yeast and sweet butter.
She climbed onto her stool, its wooden legs scraping softly against the stone floor.
"Little miss!" Tilly straightened at once, his large eyes widening. "Tilly needs help."
Morwenna studied the drawings with serious concentration. One fox was round and soft, another had sharp angles and a stern expression, while the last had too many legs and a shape she could not quite make sense of.
"This." She tapped the round one.
"Excellent choice!" Tilly nodded enthusiastically and reached for his quill, which looked almost too large for him. "Tilly thought so as well."
"What colour?"
"Purple, violet, and white. Just as the little miss said."
"Yes."
She stayed to watch him work.
Flour drifted into the air as Tilly measured the ingredients, settling over the counter and dusting his nose. He added things Morwenna did not recognise, including silver-speckled herbs that shimmered in the light and golden liquid from narrow glass vials. The spoon he used was old, its handle worn smooth by years of use.
"Can I?"
Tilly hesitated, his eyes moving between Morwenna and the bowl as his ears twitched. After a moment, he handed her the heavy spoon.
She gripped it with both hands and began to stir. The thick mixture resisted her efforts, and soon her arms began to ache. She kept going anyway, jaw set and small muscles trembling with the effort.
"Very good," Tilly encouraged her. "Very good indeed."
When her movements began to slow, he gently took the spoon back and patted her hand.
"Tilly will remember. The little miss helped."
Morwenna nodded then slid down from her stool and went to find Cinder.
. . .
The Floo flared to life in the middle of the week.
Morwenna was standing in the entrance hall when emerald flames burst from the fireplace. She stepped back, one hand resting on Cinder's head. Beside her, the fox flattened his ears as they watched the green fire twist and rise towards the mantel.
Raphaël stepped out first. Tall and dark-haired, with the familiar Evans green eyes and a thoughtful expression, he brushed the soot from his sleeve before noticing Morwenna waiting nearby.
« Bonjour, petite. »
She looked up at him, recognising him without difficulty.
"Raph."
His expression warmed. "You remember me. That is good."
"Yes."
He crossed the hall and crouched in front of her, studying her face with quiet attention. Morwenna remained still, meeting his gaze with her own steady green eyes.
"You have grown quite a bit."
"Yes."
Raphaël reached inside his cloak and took out a small book, which he offered to her. Its cover was made of soft blue leather, with a silver serpent pressed into the surface. Tiny garnet eyes glinted red in the light.
"It is for you. From the château."
Morwenna accepted it with both hands, feeling the cool, smooth leather beneath her fingers. The pages were blank, thick and pale, with a faint scent of parchment and something older.
"For writing," he explained. "When you learn to write."
She closed the book and held it against her chest.
"Thank you."
Raphaël briefly touched her hair before stepping aside as the flames surged again.
Luelle emerged from the fireplace laughing, the green light reflected in her eyes.
Her cloak sat crookedly on her shoulders, and her hair had become slightly tangled during the journey. The moment she spotted Morwenna, her whole face lit up.
"There you are! Mon Dieu, I missed you!"
She crossed the hall in a few quick steps and lifted Morwenna straight into her arms. Startled, Cinder hopped aside, his tail brushing against a suit of armour. Morwenna found herself pressed against her aunt's shoulder as Luelle hugged her tightly.
"I missed you," Luelle said, her voice thick with emotion. "So much."
Morwenna patted her back.
"Here."
"Yes, you are here." Luelle drew back to study her face. "You look exactly the same, but completely different. Comment c'est possible (How is that possible)?"
Morwenna thought about it for a moment.
"Growing."
Luelle laughed. "That makes sense. C'est logique (That is logical)."
She set Morwenna down, but kept one hand on her shoulder for a moment longer, as though she needed to reassure herself that her little niece was really there.
Later, Morwenna led Raphaël through the portrait gallery.
Her small footsteps echoed across the stone floor, with Cinder following close behind, his claws clicking softly against the tiles. The portraits watched them pass, their painted eyes following the pair.
Morwenna stopped in front of one.
"This is Edmund."
The painted man adjusted his cravat and raised his chin.
Raphaël inclined his head. "I have heard of you."
"All good things, I trust."
"I haven't decided yet."
Edmund's mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Fair enough."
Morwenna tugged at Raphaël's sleeve. "More."
She led him past familiar faces and strangers alike until she stopped before a portrait of an old woman with white hair and dark eyes.
"My uncle," Morwenna said.
The woman studied Raphaël in silence, her sharp gaze fixed on him.
"Evans," she said at last.
"Yes."
"Your grandmother stood here once. She looked at me the same way."
Raphaël offered no reply.
"She had good bones," the portrait added, her voice crackling like dry paper. "You do as well."
Morwenna tugged his sleeve again. "Come."
Raphaël followed, allowing her to guide him through a history he knew only in part.
. . .
In the greenhouse, Lucien showed Luelle and Morwenna the mimosa plant, whose leaves folded whenever someone touched them.
Warm, damp air filled the glass enclosure, carrying the scent of moss and jasmine. Water dripped somewhere in the corner, its steady patter barely audible beneath their voices.
Luelle reached out and brushed the leaves.
They folded inward, closing over themselves.
She laughed, her eyes widening. "Did you see that?"
"Again," Morwenna said.
Luelle touched them once more, and the same slow ripple passed along the stem as the leaves folded shut.
"Again."
"It needs a moment," Luelle said, her lips curving in amusement.
She leaned closer and whispered to the plant in Parseltongue, the soft, hissing sounds slipping between the leaves. Nothing happened. The mimosa remained stubbornly still.
Luelle frowned. "It doesn't like me."
"Perhaps it is tired," she added gently after a moment. "Plants need rest too."
Morwenna tested another leaf. This one stayed open. She looked at Lucien, waiting for an explanation.
"Different plants," he said, his melodic voice carrying through the glass enclosure. "Different ways of being."
She nodded and moved along the stem, testing each leaf in turn and carefully noting which ones folded and which remained open.
. . .
That evening, Jane sat at the piano.
The last light of day filtered through the glass room, the orange horizon slowly fading to grey. In the corner, the piano's dark wood gleamed softly in the fading light.
The door opened.
"Maman."
Jane turned towards her daughter, her green eyes catching the dim light.
« Ma chérie. »
Morwenna climbed onto the seat beside her, looking from the ivory keys to Jane's slender hands.
"What is it?"
"A piano."
"What does it do?"
Jane pressed a key. A single note rang out, clear and gentle, filling the quiet room.
Morwenna's eyes widened. "Again."
Jane played a simple scale, letting the notes rise and fall. The sound spread through the room, lingering against the glass walls.
When she stopped, Morwenna reached out and pressed a key herself.
The note rang out louder than she expected. She flinched.
"That was you," Jane said gently.
Morwenna tried again, pressing the key more carefully this time. The sound lingered before slowly fading.
"Mine."
"Yes."
She pressed several more keys, slowly putting together a sequence that was not quite a melody but belonged entirely to her. She listened closely, tilting her head whenever the notes overlapped, as though searching for something hidden among the sounds.
At last, she stopped and looked at Jane's hands resting on the keys.
"Mama play."
Jane lifted her fingers briefly before lowering them again. A simple, old melody filled the room, one her own mother had once played for her. The familiar tune flowed gently from the piano, settling around them.
Morwenna leaned against her as she listened. Cinder curled up at their feet, his small body tucked into a ball of fur. Outside, the garden grew dark, and their reflections appeared faintly in the glass.
When the last note faded, Morwenna spoke softly.
"More tomorrow."
"More tomorrow."
. . .
In the morning room, Celestine sat with her tea.
Through the open doorway, she watched Jane move along the hall. Her daughter's steps had grown slower than before, sometimes pausing at thresholds as though she were taking a moment to gather her thoughts. Celestine's tea remained untouched, its warmth gradually fading against the porcelain.
Jane stopped at windows more often now. She lingered in rooms she would once have passed through without a second thought. As she went by Morwenna, she reached out to touch her daughter's white hair, her attention resting on the child for a moment longer than necessary.
Her thumb moved absently along the edge of the ring on her right little finger.
Celestine noticed every change.
She said nothing. She simply watched.
....
Two days before her birthday, Jane found Morwenna in the portrait gallery.
She had been searching for nearly twenty minutes. The nursery was empty, its lavender-scented blankets rumpled and still holding the faint warmth of a small body.
In the library, Aldric sat alone with his head bent over a heavy tome, his black hair and white streak catching the light.
The garden was quiet, the snowdrops swaying in the cool breeze, but there was no white-haired child among them.
Jane hurried from room to room, her heartbeat growing faster with every empty doorway. Her palms felt damp, and she found herself brushing against the corridor wall as she passed.
Then she saw Morwenna.
The little girl stood before the portrait of the old woman, her back straight and her small hands folded neatly in front of her. She seemed unusually composed for a child of her age, her pure white hair standing out against the dim shadows of the gallery.
Jane stopped just outside the entrance, remaining half-hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain.
The old woman spoke first, her voice soft and crackling, worn thin by time.
"You have her look."
Morwenna didn't answer. She simply watched the painted eyes.
"The green, that's Evans. The white, that was here long before. It returns to this house now and then."
Morwenna reached up and touched a lock of her hair, considering it.
"Yes," the portrait said quietly. "Yours."
Silence settled over the gallery. The portrait waited, its painted features still, while Morwenna stood quietly before it.
Then she asked in a clear voice, "Does it hurt?"
Something softened in the old woman's expression, a gentleness showing through the layers of oil and varnish.
"Growing? Sometimes."
Morwenna shook her head slightly, her green eyes wide.
"No. After. When I'm three."
Jane pressed her hand against the stone wall. Its cool surface steadied her, but her breath caught in her throat. The gallery seemed to grow colder around her.
The portrait studied Morwenna for a long moment.
"I can't see what happens when you turn three," she said at last. "That lies beyond the frame."
Her gaze softened.
"But I can see who stands before me. And she isn't easily frightened."
Morwenna thought about this before giving a firm nod and turning around.
She spotted Jane at once but showed no surprise.
"Maman."
Jane crossed the gallery and dropped to her knees, pulling her daughter into a tight embrace. Morwenna leaned against her without hesitation, her little body warm and solid against Jane's chest.
"What did you ask her, ma petite?" Jane asked quietly.
"If it hurts," Morwenna replied, her voice muffled against Jane's shoulder.
Jane held her a little tighter. Morwenna smelled of fresh air and milk, a familiar scent that made Jane want to keep her in her arms forever.
"And what did she say?"
"She said I'm not afraid."
Jane leaned back just enough to look at her daughter's face, searching those green eyes for any sign that she was hiding her fear.
"Are you?"
Morwenna frowned slightly, giving the question the same careful consideration she gave everything else.
"No," she said at last. "Maman here. Dada here. Gran-ma. Gran-da. Gran-père. Raph. Luelle. Saoirse. Cinder."
She counted them on her fingers, lost track halfway through, then started again with a furrowed brow.
"All here."
Jane felt her chest tighten, then soften. She drew Morwenna close again and held her as the light in the gallery faded into the grey of late afternoon.
. . .
That night, Jane sat alone in the study.
The fire had burned down to embers, casting a low orange glow across the room. The baby-blue journal lay open in her lap, its thick, pale pages still blank. She hadn't written in it for three days. The silver serpent on its cover gleamed faintly in the firelight.
Jack found her there.
He didn't speak at first. He crossed the room and sat opposite her, the firelight catching the white streaks in his black hair. His leather chair creaked softly beneath him as he settled back and waited for her to speak.
"She asked the portrait if it would hurt."
Jack's jaw tightened slightly. "What did it say?"
"That it didn't know. But that Morwenna isn't afraid."
Jack turned his gaze towards the fire, watching the embers pulse with a steady orange glow.
"Is she right?"
Jane followed his gaze. The embers glowed steadily, their shifting light the only movement in the room.
"Morwenna said she isn't afraid," she replied. "Because we are all here."
Jack reached across the space between them and took her hand. His grip was warm and firm, giving her something solid to hold on to.
They sat in silence for a long time.
"I have stopped fighting it," Jane said eventually, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Fighting what?" Jack asked, his voice low and steady.
"The ritual. The runes. The pain." She let out a slow breath. "I can't stop any of it. I can only be there for her. That's what everything has been leading to."
Jack didn't interrupt. His thumb moved gently against the back of her hand, a quiet, reassuring rhythm.
"I will be there," she continued. "Three metres away. Watching. She will see me. That's what matters."
The fire shifted as a log settled deeper into the ash. Somewhere in the hall, the clock continued ticking, marking the passing seconds.
Jane lowered her gaze to their joined hands.
"She asked the portrait," she repeated. "She knew I wouldn't answer."
Jack squeezed her hand.
"She is sharper than the both of us."
Jane let out a quiet breath that almost became a laugh.
"She is."
....
The day before Morwenna's birthday, the manor descended into cheerful chaos.
Tilly hurried between the kitchen and the great hall, his ink-stained fingers clutching rustling parchment lists. His large ears twitched with every hurried step across the stone floors, and he seemed to be everywhere at once, checking decorations, counting supplies, and making sure nothing had been forgotten.
Cinder had retreated beneath a velvet settee in the morning room, where he sat in the dusty shadows with his ears flattened and amber eyes fixed on the commotion.
Saoirse was making matters worse. She kept quietly rearranging the silver decorations Tilly had just finished placing, then watched him discover the changes and start all over again.
In the middle of it all, Morwenna sat on the great hall floor, her white hair standing out against the bustle around her.
Her bestiary lay open in her lap, its heavy pages smelling of old ink and leather. After a while, Cinder crept out from beneath the settee and settled beside her, pressing his warm body against her leg as though he had finally found somewhere safe from the chaos.
Morwenna watched everything: the constant movement, the overlapping voices, and the occasional flicker of household magic. She made no attempt to join in, simply observing with her steady green eyes.
Luelle dropped down beside her, her skirts spreading around her with a soft rustle.
« C'est fou (It's madness), » she remarked, watching the commotion.
Morwenna glanced at her aunt and noticed a smudge of purple icing on her cheek.
"Yes."
"They are all running about. I don't even know what they are doing anymore."
"Yes."
Luelle sighed and leaned back on her hands, following a floating banner with her eyes.
"And you are just sitting here, perfectly calm."
Morwenna turned a page. The serpent in the illustration remained curled into a tight spiral, still fast asleep.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"Yes," Luelle replied, her French accent softening the word. "Tomorrow, you turn three."
Morwenna tilted her head back to look at the high ceiling. Coloured streamers drifted overhead, catching the afternoon sunlight from the tall windows.
"And after?"
Luelle paused, studying the serious little face beside her.
"After, you will still be you," she said at last. "Just three years old."
Morwenna accepted this without hesitation. She nodded once and turned another page.
Luelle watched her for a while, taking in her delicate hands, pale hair, and green eyes that seemed to notice far more than most children her age.
"You are a strange child," she murmured, affection warming her voice.
"Yes."
Luelle smiled and rested her shoulder lightly against Morwenna's. They remained there together, aunt and child, while the rest of the manor carried on around them in a seemingly endless cycle of hurried footsteps and last-minute preparations.
. . .
That evening, Jane found Morwenna in the nursery.
Her daughter lay tucked into bed, the covers pulled neatly to her chin. Cinder had settled beneath the blankets at her feet, a warm, furry weight beneath the covers. Morwenna held the carved wooden serpent in one small hand, its smooth surface pressed firmly against her palm.
On the bedside table, the little silver bell caught the soft glow of the hearth.
Jane sat on the edge of the bed, making the mattress dip slightly beneath her weight. The room smelled of lavender and woodsmoke.
"Tomorrow," Morwenna said.
Jane looked down at her.
"Tomorrow, I'm three."
"Yes."
"And then more of me comes."
For a moment, Jane's breath caught. The coming ritual weighed heavily on her, but she kept her voice steady.
"Yes."
Morwenna considered this carefully, then reached out and took her mother's hand. Her fingers were small but surprisingly strong.
"Mamam will be there."
Jane closed her hand around Morwenna's.
"Always."
Morwenna nodded and closed her eyes, her long lashes casting shadows across her cheeks.
Jane stayed beside her until her breathing grew slow and even. The fire murmured in the hearth, and a log popped, sending a brief shower of sparks up the chimney. At the foot of the bed, Cinder's tail twitched once before settling again.
Jane bent down and pressed a long kiss to her daughter's forehead. The skin beneath her lips was warm and soft, so wonderfully real that the thought of what awaited them made her chest ache.
She rose and walked towards the door, but stopped with one hand resting against the frame.
For a moment, she simply looked back.
White hair spread across the pillow. Green eyes hidden beneath closed lids. One small hand curled firmly around the carved serpent.
She lingered longer than she intended.
The firelight caught the silver warding bracelet around Morwenna's left wrist. Its fine Old French script glimmered faintly against her pale skin, a reminder of Elara's protection and the love woven into its enchantments.
Only then did Jane turn away, drawing the door almost closed behind her.
. . .
By then, the manor had grown quiet.
The day's frantic preparations were finished, leaving an expectant stillness in their wake. The decorations hung in place, motionless in the dim light, and the fox-shaped cake waited under cover in the cold kitchen.
Celestine sat beside the fire in the morning room, a book open in her lap. She hadn't turned a page in some time. Firelight moved across the silver strands in her hair as she stared into the flames.
Lucien stood by the window, bringing a quiet warmth to the room simply by being there. He gazed out at the garden, where the rising moon had begun to silver the edges of the trees.
Raphaël sat in a corner, reading beneath the light of a single lamp, his thumb holding his place in the book. Luelle had fallen asleep on the settee, breathing deeply and evenly, with a faint dusting of flour still clinging to her clothes from her time in the kitchen.
Aldric and Seraphina had already retired for the night. Saoirse was somewhere else in the manor, unusually quiet for once.
Jack sat beside Jane and slipped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him without thinking, resting her head against his chest and drawing comfort from his familiar presence.
Three days until the ritual window opened.
One day until their daughter turned three.
The fire crackled softly in the grate. Somewhere deep in the manor, the clock continued its steady, inevitable ticking.
Jane closed her eyes and listened to the sounds around her: the quiet breathing, the occasional shift of someone settling more comfortably, and the familiar presence of everyone gathered beneath the same roof.
For tonight, they were all here.