The days blurred together.
Morning came with the gray, filtered light of a seemingly endless winter, followed by long, quiet afternoons and evenings that settled over the house like velvet.
The cycle repeated until time lost its meaning, becoming one continuous stretch of exhaustion and anxious waiting.
Jane sometimes fell asleep in the velvet chair, her head tilted uncomfortably against its back while one hand remained stretched toward the edge of Morwenna's bed.
Elara visited at regular intervals, bringing cups of tea that often went cold before Jane touched them. She would sit beside her in a heavy silence that required no words, keeping her company as she watched over her daughter.
Cinder never left his place beside the bed, except to eat the small bowls of meat Tilly brought him with her head bowed. He ate quickly before returning to his vigil, his amber eyes never fully closing even when exhaustion threatened to overcome him.
Meanwhile, the work in the library continued without pause. Books were read, notes were taken, and volumes of leather and parchment were set aside in growing stacks. Whenever one pile was cleared, another took its place.
Letters were sent to every corner of Britain and beyond, seeking help from anyone who might know something useful. Replies gradually arrived, but the information they contained was limited. Still, they were answers, and the family had little else to hold on to.
On the third night, Morwenna whimpered.
The sound was louder and more strained than before. Jane was on her feet before it had even faded, leaning over the bed to press a hand against her daughter's cheek and check her temperature.
"Baby, I'm here. Maman is here."
Morwenna's eyes moved rapidly beneath her closed lids. Her lips parted as though she wanted to say something, but no sound came out.
Then, just as suddenly as the distress had begun, she settled down again. Her breathing grew steady, and the tension in her small face eased as she slipped back into a deep, heavy sleep.
Jane remained bent over the bed for a long time, her heart still racing as she watched her daughter breathe.
On the fourth day, Morwenna finally opened her eyes.
Jane had been dozing in the chair, her head tilted to one side and her hand resting on the wool blanket. Beside the bed, Cinder's ears suddenly pricked up, and his entire body tensed. He let out a small, high-pitched whine, jolting Jane awake.
Green eyes met hers. They were hazy and unfocused, but they were open.
"Maman."
The word came out as little more than a whisper, faint and hoarse, but Jane heard it.
She leaned over the bed at once, cupping her daughter's face in both hands. Morwenna's skin was still far too pale, but it felt warmer than it had the day before.
"I'm here, baby. I'm here."
Morwenna blinked slowly, her gaze wandering around the room as though she were trying to remember where she was. She looked at the vaulted ceiling, the window, and the low fire burning in the hearth before finally noticing Cinder.
Her hand lifted, trembling with the effort, and reached for his russet fur.
"Cinder."
The fox immediately pressed his head into her palm. His whole body trembled as he struggled to remain still, while his tail gave a single, frantic wag against the sheets.
Morwenna looked back at Jane.
"Hurt."
"I know, baby. I know."
"Stayed awake."
Jane's throat tightened until she could barely speak. Tears blurred her vision as she gently stroked Morwenna's cheek.
"You did. You stayed awake. You were so brave, sweetheart."
Morwenna's eyes slowly drifted shut again. She had barely enough strength to speak, and even those few words had exhausted her. Her hand remained resting against Cinder's fur as she slipped back into sleep.
Jane stayed beside her, one hand resting on her daughter's cheek. This time, she let the tears fall without trying to stop them.
....
The Floo roared to life just past noon.
Celestine was in the entrance hall when the flames flared green. She had been passing through on her way back to the library with a fresh cup of tea when a figure stepped out of the emerald fire. The tea sloshed in its cup, spilling a few drops over the rim and onto her fingers, but she barely noticed the sting.
Roxane Evans wasn't a tall woman, standing at perhaps 172 centimetres. Her dark brown hair was pinned into an elegant twist, and her green eyes held the weight of centuries.
Her face remained smooth and unlined, that of a woman in her early forties, giving no hint of her true age. She wore simple traveling robes of deep indigo, without jewelry or any other sign of her former position as Evans Matriarch. After brushing a fleck of ash from her sleeve, she looked up.
Celestine's cup stopped halfway to her lips.
"Mother."
Roxane's gaze moved past her daughter, sweeping through the entrance hall with practiced efficiency.
"I came as soon as I received your owl." Her eyes returned to Celestine's face, taking in the shadows beneath her eyes, the tension around her mouth, and the strain in her posture. "Where is she?"
. . .
Jane looked up when the nursery door opened.
The woman who entered seemed like a stranger at first glance. No, not a stranger. Those green eyes were unmistakable. They were the same eyes that looked back at Jane from every mirror, shone from Morwenna's face, and had been passed down through the LeFay line for generations.
"Grand-mère."
The word came out smaller than she intended, carrying a vulnerability she hadn't meant to reveal. The moment she said it, Jane felt six years old again, small and frightened, yet certain that everything would be all right because this woman was here.
Roxane crossed the room with quick, purposeful strides. She first examined Morwenna, taking in her pale face, snowy white hair, and small hand resting against Cinder's fur. Then she turned to Jane, noticing the hollows beneath her eyes and the way she clung to the arm of her chair. Her hands rested limply in her lap, her fingers curled as though she had forgotten how to close them.
"You look terrible," Roxane said.
Jane almost laughed. The sound caught somewhere between her chest and throat before emerging as something wet and broken.
"Thank you."
Roxane knelt beside the bed with effortless grace. She placed two fingers against Morwenna's throat, feeling the steady beat of her pulse. Her eyes half-closed as she remained perfectly still, extending her magic to examine the child's core. After a moment, she placed her palm flat against Morwenna's chest, directly over her heart.
The child stirred, her eyelids fluttering open.
Green met green.
Morwenna blinked up at the unfamiliar face. The woman looked older than Maman and Grand-ma, but she had the same eyes and sharp bone structure. Morwenna studied her for a moment, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.
"Maman?"
"No, little one." Roxane's voice softened, her French accent lingering in the vowels. "I'm your great-grandmother. Your maman's grandmother."
Morwenna considered this, her eyes moving over Roxane's face as she examined the similarities. Then she lifted a hand and gently touched Roxane's cheek with one delicate finger.
"Same eyes."
Roxane smiled. It was a small gesture, but it transformed her face, softening the sharpness of her features.
"Yes. The same eyes."
She returned to examining Morwenna, checking her pulse and breathing before tracing the flow of magic through her core. She asked a series of quiet questions, checking whether anything hurt and whether Morwenna could feel certain sensations. Morwenna answered in her usual precise manner, her voice growing stronger with each word.
When Roxane had finished, she sat back on her heels and turned to Jane.
"No physical trauma. Her core is stable. She needs rest, food, and time. Nothing more."
Jane's shoulders finally sagged. She pressed a hand over her mouth as her eyes began to sting with fresh tears.
Roxane rose and crossed to her, then gently took Jane's face between her hands, just as she must have done countless times when Jane was little. Her palms were warm and carried the faint scent of lavender and old parchment.
It was a familiar scent from Jane's childhood, one she remembered from the times she had fallen and scraped her knees, and from every moment when she had needed someone to comfort her and put her world back together.
"You did well," Roxane said. "You kept her alive. That's what matters."
The tears spilled over, running down Jane's cheeks and dripping from her chin. She made no sound as she sat trembling beneath her grandmother's hands, finally allowing herself to fall apart.
Roxane held her face gently, letting her cry without asking her to be strong.
. . .
That evening, after Morwenna had eaten and fallen asleep again, the Evans family gathered in a small sitting room off the library. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and old books.
Celestine sat beside the fire, while Lucien stood near the window, his silhouette dark against the glass.
Raphaël and Luelle shared a settee, both looking exhausted after days of searching through books. Jane sat between her godmother and her mother, too tired to support herself without leaning against someone.
Across from them, Roxane settled into a chair and studied the faces of her family, taking in the strain that had settled over them all.
"The Keith library is extensive," she began, "but it isn't the only place where we might find answers."
Luelle straightened, interest brightening her green eyes.
"The Evans archives?"
"Of course. The main collection is substantial, but the deeper archives hold far more." Roxane spoke quietly, though her words carried the authority of someone who knew exactly what those archives contained.
She turned to Raphaël and Luelle. "You two need to return home and guard the house. Search those books. As the family librarian, I authorize you to access the collection."
Everyone in the room understood the significance of her words.
When an Evans Matriarch stepped down, she became the keeper of the family's deepest knowledge and took up the role of librarian. Roxane had held that position for decades, safeguarding texts that predated the Evans name itself.
"The Hive," Celestine said, understanding where her mother was leading them.
"Yes. It contains records of phoenix manifestations from every corner of the magical world, including those associated with cold. I have catalogued them myself."
Raphaël leaned forward.
"Grand-mère, you have seen those records?"
"I catalogued them. That was my job, before..." Roxane waved a hand vaguely. "Before I decided I would rather sleep than work."
Luelle's lips twitched, almost forming a smile.
Celestine nodded. "The library recognizes its keeper. The Hive won't fully open to anyone else."
Raphaël exchanged a glance with Luelle, and she nodded in return.
"We can do that," he said.
"When you get home, contact the Flamels," Roxane continued. "Nicholas and Perenelle. They are clan, from the brother's line after the split. Tell them about Morwenna's case and ask whether their records contain anything similar."
Lucien turned from the window, his voice carrying its usual melodic calm.
"Ah, Nicholas is close to Dumbledore."
The room fell silent, but Roxane's expression remained unchanged.
"I know. That's why you tell them twice. Once for the records, and once because they deserve to know what is happening in the world." She paused, her gaze sharpening.
"And tell them about the Potter boy, too. Lily's son. They may not have heard about him, or they may have heard only what Dumbledore wants them to hear."
Jane's fingers tightened around the arm of her chair.
Roxane noticed and turned toward her.
"We don't know what Nicholas already knows, nor what he intends to do with the information. But he is clan, and he has a right to know. Besides, his archives might hold something that could help both children."
Jane nodded slowly, absorbing her grandmother's words.
Roxane rose from her chair and looked around the room.
"That's enough for tonight. Rest. Tomorrow, we work."
....
The manor gradually settled into a quieter routine.
Peaceful wasn't quite the right word. The grief still lingered, and the pain remained close to the surface. But the frantic urgency of those first few days had begun to fade.
The library was still cluttered with books and scattered notes, though the work now proceeded at a slower, more deliberate pace.
Aldric and Seraphina took turns searching through the archives, while Saoirse worked in short, intense bursts.
Jack returned to the library every day, turning pages and searching for anything that might explain Morwenna's unusual magical manifestation.
Jane remained in the nursery, and Roxane stayed with her.
Roxane appeared at all hours, checking Morwenna's pulse, adjusting her blankets, and sitting beside Jane in comfortable silence.
Sometimes, she told them old stories about Evans women who had survived hardships far worse than anyone could imagine.
Jane listened quietly, and Morwenna listened too, her eyes fixed on her great-grandmother's face as she spoke.
Morwenna began waking more frequently. Her appetite slowly returned, and she could sit up against her pillows while Jane fed her broth and honey. As her strength returned, so did her questions, always delivered in her quiet, precise manner.
"The ritual didn't go the way we planned," Jane explained one afternoon. "Your magic fought against the heat, and we are trying to understand why."
Morwenna thought about this, her brow furrowing. She raised a hand and pressed it against the center of her chest.
"Cold inside."
Jane's throat tightened. "I know, baby."
"It's mine."
Jane looked at her daughter. "What is yours?"
"The cold." Morwenna pressed her palm more firmly against her chest. "It's mine. Not the bath cold. Not the frost on the window. The cold inside."
She tapped her sternum twice with two fingers. "Here. It lives here."
Jane remembered the frost that had spread across the nursery window when Morwenna was two, appearing beneath her small palm.
She remembered the glass cracking during her daughter's fever and the unnatural cold that had poured from her little body when she could no longer contain it.
"The heat wasn't yours," Jane said slowly.
Morwenna shook her head. "The heat was wrong. It didn't belong. It tried to push my cold away, and my cold pushed back."
She looked directly at Jane, her green eyes clear and serious. "That's why it hurt. They fought."
Jane sat very still.
Her daughter was three years old. Only three.
Yet she had just explained something that Aldric and Celestine had been struggling to understand ever since the ritual went wrong.
"Baby, do you still feel the cold now?"
Morwenna considered the question, keeping her hand against her chest.
"It's quieter. Smaller. Like it's sleeping."
She paused, then added, "It will wake up when it needs to."
Jane took her daughter's hand and held it gently, unable to find the right words.
The cold belonged to Morwenna. It had always been hers. They simply hadn't understood what that meant until now.
. . .
The days gradually found their rhythm.
Morning: Jane woke in the chair and helped Morwenna with breakfast. Aldric or Seraphina would arrive with news from the library, bringing whatever information they had uncovered.
Roxane brought fresh tea and sat with them while the gray light outside slowly brightened.
Afternoon: Morwenna slept, and Jane often dozed in her chair nearby. Cinder kept watch at the bedside, his amber eyes opening whenever Morwenna's breathing changed and relaxing again once it returned to normal.
In the corner, Roxane read through ancient texts piled beside her, recording her findings in a small leather journal. The steady scratch of her quill was the only sound in the room.
Evening: Jack came to visit. He sat on the edge of the bed and read aloud from Morwenna's bestiary, his voice steady despite the dark shadows beneath his eyes.
Roxane watched him with her ancient green eyes but said nothing. When he finished reading, he often remained beside his daughter for a while, simply watching her breathe. Eventually, he would kiss her forehead and return to the library.
Night: Jane stayed beside Morwenna. The fire crackled softly, and Cinder's breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm.
Sometimes Roxane came to check Morwenna's pulse, lay another blanket over Jane's shoulders, or sit quietly beside them until the clock struck an hour Jane no longer bothered to count.
Around them, the manor creaked and settled as the night deepened.
It wasn't healing, not yet. The pain remained too fresh, the wounds too raw to touch without bringing everything back. But they had found something they could hold on to, a routine that gave shape to the days and helped them endure what had happened.
In the library, the work continued. Books were read and set aside, only for new stacks to take their place.
Letters went out, and replies came back. Most offered little useful information, but each one was examined in the hope that it might contain something they had missed.
Aldric's voice, rough with exhaustion, occasionally called for another text. Seraphina answered quietly, passing him whatever he needed.
Saoirse threw herself into the research whenever she could, then fell silent for long stretches as the weight of their situation caught up with her. Jack remained at his father's side, turning pages and searching for an answer that still refused to reveal itself.
In the nursery, the routine held steady. Morning gave way to afternoon, afternoon to evening, and evening to night.
Each day folded into the next until time began to lose its sharp edges. The hours became more familiar, the silences less unbearable, and the waiting a little easier to bear.
Slowly, one day at a time, the manor learned to breathe again.
===
There's image below