The farm was nothing like Thornwell. Nimue had figured that out within her first week.
Thornwell had been a proper village, with sturdy stone houses gathered around a village green and an oak tree older than anyone's memory. It had streets where people waved and called to one another by name, a place where everyone seemed to know their neighbors and where familiar faces appeared around every corner.
The farm was an entirely different world. The nearest neighbor lived a ten-minute ride away on the tricycle, down a long lane that turned into thick, sticky mud whenever it rained. The sky seemed larger here, stretching endlessly above the fields, as though someone had taken the roof off the world and left the horizon completely exposed.
She liked both places, but for different reasons.
London had been a blur of gray streets, busy shops, and Hermione's rapid-fire voice. Thornwell had given her the old oak, the river, and Andrew's quiet patience. Here, there was Bess the Highland cow, Margaret's booming laughter, and Rosie's freckled face appearing every morning to ask if she wanted to see the chickens.
August brought steady, dry heat that turned the distant air into a shimmering haze. The edges of the grass grew golden, and the sunlight made Nimue's white hair almost disappear against the brightness, its strands shimmering like spun glass.
She often ran barefoot across the yard. After the third time Jane had found her shoes abandoned in the grass, her mother had mostly given up reminding her to wear them. The dirt felt warm and soft beneath her toes, and fine, tawny dust gathered around her ankles.
She collected eggs with Rosie before breakfast, holding the warm, smooth shells carefully in her small hands. In the afternoons, she helped Margaret pick beans, her fingers turning a deep earthy green as she worked, her basket growing heavier with every handful. She climbed the apple tree by the fence until her knees were scraped and her palms stung from the rough bark.
In the evenings, she sat on the porch with Cinder in her lap, watching the swallows swoop and dive across the fields. Their wings caught the last rays of sunlight as they swept through the air in wide, graceful arcs.
The days gradually blended together. Before long, Nimue had stopped counting them.
. . . .
One afternoon, around three o'clock, the sun began its slow descent toward the hills. The light had turned thick and golden, spilling across the landscape like honey.
Nimue sat on a fence rail with her legs swinging, her heels knocking rhythmically against the wood. Cinder sprawled in the grass below, his tongue hanging out as his ears turned toward every rustle in the surrounding brush.
Rosie stood beside her, a piece of straw caught in her messy ponytail. Her cheeks were flushed from the afternoon heat.
Molly and Beth came up the lane together. Molly was the taller of the two, with hay-colored hair and a laugh that carried easily across the fields. Beth was smaller and quieter. She usually watched whatever was happening with wide, attentive eyes before deciding whether to say anything.
They lived at the second farm, the one with the sprawling orchard and the two girls who were always playing on the rope swing.
"Are you coming?" Molly called, already turning toward the far field.
Nimue jumped down from the fence. Her feet landed with a soft thump, and the impact traveled up her legs. Cinder scrambled to his feet and trotted after her, his russet tail held high.
The sheep had gathered in the lower pasture, forming a shifting mass of white against the green grass. They were not the sharp-horned sort. These were fat, woolly creatures with pink noses and sleepy, sideways-set eyes. Most lifted their heads as the girls approached, their mouths still working on the grass, before returning to their grazing.
Rosie climbed over the fence first and dropped onto the other side with a muffled thud.
"They won't bite. They are just stupid."
Molly laughed as she followed, swinging herself over with an easy movement. Beth was more careful, testing each wooden rail before climbing across. Nimue went last, gripping the sun-warmed wood while her trainers scraped against the top rail.
The sheep gradually moved away from them, their woolly bodies shifting together like a slow-moving wave.
"Don't run," Beth cautioned. Her voice was quiet, but firm. "They get nervous if you run."
Nimue walked slowly, her heart beating a little faster as she approached the flock. She reached toward a ewe with a distinctive black patch over one eye.
The sheep took a step back, then stopped. Its nose twitched as it sniffed the air. Nimue held still, her fingers only a few inches away from its thick fleece.
"Talk to it," Rosie suggested. "Keep it calm."
Without thinking, Nimue spoke in Parseltongue.
The words came out as a soft, rhythmic hiss. She was telling the sheep to stay still. Its ear flicked, but it didn't move again, seeming content to remain where it was.
"Was that a different language?" Molly asked, tilting her head.
Nimue finally touched the sheep's fleece. It was thick and greasy with lanolin, much warmer than she had expected.
"Yes."
"What language?"
Nimue didn't have an easy lie ready.
"A family one."
Molly accepted the answer with a nod, apparently satisfied. Her attention soon wandered elsewhere, while Beth had already moved toward a lamb that had strayed from its mother.
They played in the pasture for a while as the shadows grew longer. Rosie showed them how to approach a sheep without frightening it, explaining that they had to move slowly and avoid staring directly into its eyes.
Molly decided to try riding one. She climbed onto its back, but the sheep took only a few steps before she slipped off and landed in the grass with her legs in the air.
"Ugh!"
Beth burst out laughing. The sound was so sudden and genuine that even she seemed surprised by it.
Nimue decided she wanted to try too.
She chose a sheep with a brown face and particularly thick fleece. Carefully, she swung one leg over its back and gripped the wool with both hands. The sheep took three cautious steps before stopping. It turned its head to look at her as though it couldn't understand why anyone would bother climbing onto its back.
"Make it move!" Rosie urged. "Give it a little kick with your heels."
Nimue gently nudged its woolly sides with her heels.
The sheep started walking again. It wasn't exactly running, but its stubborn, plodding pace bounced her up and down. She held on tightly, her knees pressing against its sides and her fingers buried in the thick fleece.
"Race you!" Molly shouted.
She had already climbed onto another sheep, kicking her heels as she laughed.
Beth found a third, while Rosie picked a fourth. The girls lined up at one end of the pasture, each sitting on a sheep that looked entirely unimpressed by its new passenger.
"Go!" Molly yelled.
Nimue's sheep took two steps before stopping to eat a patch of clover.
She gave it another gentle kick. It moved forward, taking three more steps before stopping again.
Molly was already halfway across the field, her sheep moving at a reluctant trot. Beth's had turned in a useless circle, while Rosie's refused to move at all.
Nimue leaned forward until her lips were close to the sheep's ear.
"Walk," she hissed in Parseltongue.
The sheep lifted its head. Its eyes seemed to sharpen as it began moving again. It wasn't particularly fast, but at least it kept going.
Nimue crossed the field in last place, her white hair flying behind her.
Molly had already climbed down and was bent over with her hands on her knees, laughing so hard that she could barely catch her breath. Beth had given up and was sitting in the grass, brushing dirt from her skirt. Rosie was still trying to persuade her sheep to move.
"That was terrible!" Molly gasped between laughs, wiping tears from her eyes.
"Again," Nimue declared, her expression full of determination.
They raced four more times.
Nimue never managed to win, but her sheep gradually stopped pausing to eat the grass. By the fourth race, it walked the entire distance without stopping once, responding each time to the low hisses of her voice.
"See? You made it listen," Beth observed, watching the sheep with interest.
Nimue patted the sheep's woolly head, though the animal barely seemed to notice. The sun sank lower, turning the golden light orange before purple shadows began to gather along the edges of the sky. The air cooled quickly as the day's heat faded. Cinder had given up following the girls and settled beside the fence, his ears flattened and his expression thoroughly offended by the presence of so much livestock.
"We have to go," Beth said, glancing at the darkening sky.
Molly groaned, her energy finally beginning to run out. "One more."
"Your mum will kill you."
"It would be worth it."
Despite her protest, Molly climbed back over the fence. Beth followed, while Rosie gave Nimue a quick wave before running towards the lane. Nimue stayed behind for a moment, watching the sheep settle back into their grazing as twilight crept over the pasture. The brown-faced sheep lifted its head and looked at her. She gave it a small wave, and it soon lowered its head to eat again.
When she climbed over the fence, Cinder pressed against her legs, his tail wagging. "Good sheep," she told him.
He sneezed in response, shaking his head.
. . .
The cottage door was open when she returned. Warm light spilled across the stone steps, yellow and inviting against the deepening blue of the evening. The smell of frying onions drifted from the kitchen, rich and savory enough to make her mouth water. Jane sat at the table with an open book in front of her. She looked up as Nimue came inside.
« Tu as de l'herbe dans les cheveux. » (You have grass in your hair.)
Jane's eyes twinkled as she spoke.
"We rode sheep."
Jane raised her eyebrows. "Rode them?"
"They don't go very fast."
"I imagine they don't."
Nimue climbed onto the wooden bench, letting her legs dangle over the edge. "Molly won every time. Her sheep wasn't as stubborn as mine."
"Did you have fun, ma chérie?"
"Yes."
Jane closed her book. "Then it's time for a bath. Dinner afterward."
Nimue glanced towards the kitchen. Jack stood at the stove with his back to her, something sizzling in the pan and sending up a cloud of steam. Beside him, Saoirse chopped vegetables, her knife moving in a steady rhythm against the wooden board.
"What is for dinner?"
"Meat, potatoes, and gravy."
Nimue's stomach gave a loud growl.
Jane smiled. "Bath first." She gestured towards the hallway.
The bathwater was hot. Jane had poured water from the kettle into the iron tub until steam rose from its surface, carrying the scent of lavender soap. Nimue settled into the water with her knees drawn up, watching the dirt from the pasture drift away in gray ribbons.
"You will have to wash your hair twice," Jane said, leaning over the tub with her sleeves rolled up. "There's still grass in it."
Nimue dunked her head beneath the water. The heat tingled pleasantly against her scalp, and for a moment, everything beyond the tub became muffled. She surfaced with a gasp, water streaming down her face and over her eyes.
Jane laughed, poured shampoo into her palm, and worked it through Nimue's hair. Her fingers moved firmly against the girl's scalp as she washed away the remaining dirt.
"Tell me about the sheep."
Nimue was happy to oblige. She told Jane about the brown-faced sheep, Molly falling off, and Beth's rare laughter. She described their races and how her own sheep kept stopping to eat whenever it found something interesting. She carried on talking until the water began to cool and Jane finally pulled the plug. The water gurgled as it drained from the tub.
"All right, out you go."
Nimue stood, water running down her legs. Jane wrapped her in a warm towel and helped her dry off.
"Go and get dressed. Dinner is almost ready."
The bedroom was dim and quiet, with long shadows stretching across the floor. Nimue pulled on a clean shirt and shorts that smelled faintly of the lavender stored in the cupboard. Her hair was still damp, and droplets ran down her back, leaving dark patches on the fabric. She barely noticed the chill as she hurried back towards the kitchen.
The smell of gravy had grown stronger. Jack was still at the stove, stirring the pan with a spoon, while Saoirse finished setting the table.
"Come and sit down," Jane said as she smoothed her hair back.
Nimue climbed into her chair. Her plate was already waiting, piled with meat and potatoes covered in rich gravy, with a generous spoonful of bright green peas on the side. She picked up her fork just as Jack took the seat across from her. His face was still warm from standing over the stove.
"Sounds like you had a good day?"
"We rode sheep."
Jack glanced at Jane, who merely shrugged.
"It was Rosie's idea," Nimue explained, already eyeing her dinner. "Molly won."
Jack cut into his meat. "I have never ridden a sheep."
"They are very slow."
"That sounds about right."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, with only the occasional clink of cutlery against porcelain. The gravy was thick and savory, and the meat came apart easily beneath Nimue's fork. She finished everything on her plate before reaching for another helping of potatoes.
Saoirse passed her the bowl, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You are eating as if you ran a marathon."
"We raced four times."
"On sheep."
"Yes."
Saoirse shook her head, though she couldn't hide her smile.
A sharp tapping at the window interrupted their conversation. A barn owl perched on the sill, its mottled gray feathers ruffled slightly as it turned its head from side to side. Jack pushed back his chair and opened the window. A gust of cool evening air swept into the kitchen as the owl hopped inside and held out its leg.
Jack carefully untied the letter. The owl gave itself a quick shake, ruffling its feathers, then flew back out into the night.
"Who is it from?" Jane asked.
Her voice had taken on a more serious tone.
"Father."
Jack unfolded the parchment. The paper rustled in the quiet kitchen as his eyes moved quickly across the page. His expression remained unchanged, but Nimue noticed the slight shift in his shoulders, the way they suddenly grew tense.
"Read it aloud," Saoirse said, setting down her fork.
Jack cleared his throat and began to read.
---
"Jack, Jane, Saoirse,
Something arrived at the manor door three days ago. Tilly found it early in the morning: a stone and a box, sitting on the doorstep.
There was no owl, and none of the wards had been triggered. They were simply there, as though they had always been there and we had somehow failed to notice them until that moment.
The stone is the one Saoirse wrote about, the one from the hermitage. The Cold Light stone. It's never warm. I held it for an hour, and my hand went numb, but the stone remained freezing.
I told it where you were. I told it you were travelling and wouldn't be home for a year. I gave it the farm's address. Then the stone and the box disappeared.
I think they will find you. I think they are already on their way. Didn't Saoirse say the monks claimed the stone travelled through the earth, not the air? Perhaps that's true. Perhaps it travels through something else entirely.
As for the box, I opened it. Inside was a small glass vial containing a gray liquid. It was neither silver nor white, but the color of ash after heavy rain.
I don't know whether it's an essence or something else. I have sealed the vial inside the box again and left it with the stone. If the stone goes to you, the box will go with it.
There's more. I found something in the library, a text written in Cymraeg and dated to the seventh century. The author was a druid named Brangaine. She wrote about a phoenix the druids called Phoenix Cineris Gelu. The Ash Phoenix. It doesn't burn. It preserves.
When it dies, it crumbles into silver-gray ash that is cold to the touch. From that ash, a new phoenix rises, not from heat, but from the first frost of winter or when snow falls upon the mound where it fell.
Sometimes, a keeper of the blood can call it back into being through ritual and will. Its feathers are the color of slate and winter skies, and its eyes resemble frozen lakes. When it flies, it leaves a trail of cold ash that settles like snow.
This ash doesn't smother. It nourishes. Fields touched by it remain fertile for a generation, while wounds packed with it don't fester. Seeds buried in it can lie dormant for years, waiting for the right season to take root.
The druids believed it wasn't a creature of air and flame, but one of earth and winter. A spirit of the cold season that had taken the form of a phoenix.
In human bloodlines, its blood manifests as resilience in winter, an instinct for preservation, and an affinity for ash. It allows the body to thrive in the cold and draw frost from the air.
Brangaine's journal describes a girl in her own line who nearly died during her first ritual because the warming potions given to her fought against her nature.
The solution was simple. Brangaine wrote: 'We stopped feeding her fire. We fed her winter. We let her be what she was.' The ritual used frozen ash, water from the first frost, and the silence of deep winter. The girl survived and lived to the age of two hundred.
I will try to locate this phoenix's essence. There must be records somewhere. I will write again when I know more.
Aldric."
---
Jack folded the letter. The kitchen fell silent, leaving only the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. Saoirse slowly set down her fork.
"So that makes four," she said, counting them on her fingers. "Phoenix types. Glacial, Void, Starlight, and now Ash. We have already confirmed two. The stone is on its way, and now we have this."
Jack refolded the parchment, running his thumb along the crease. "We don't have to use all of them."
"No," Jane agreed firmly. "We don't."
Saoirse leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting towards the letter. "So we keep looking?"
Jane shook her head. "We have less than a year before her second maturity. We have already used four months of that window. The two Evans rituals and the two confirmations have taken their toll. Her body needs time to recover between these workings. We should wait at least two months before even considering another ritual."
"Which means," Jack added, looking at Nimue, "we have time for perhaps two more, if we push it."
"We don't need every phoenix that has ever existed," Jane said. "We need the ones that suit her, the ones that will help make her stable. We already have Glacial and Void. The Cold Light stone is coming, though that's a method rather than a bloodline. And now there's the Ash Phoenix, but we don't even have its essence yet."
Jack nodded. "Father will try to find it, but we won't put everything on hold while he searches. We work with what we have."
Saoirse picked up her fork again, though she seemed to have lost her appetite. "So we stop looking?"
"We stop chasing every new lead that comes along," Jane clarified. "We let the stone find its way here. We let Father research the Ash Phoenix. And we don't perform another ritual until her body has had enough time to settle."
Nimue had stopped eating. She watched the adults, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth with a piece of potato balanced on its prongs.
"Maman."
Jane turned towards her, her expression softening. "Yes, sweetheart?"
"Does this mean more tests?"
Jane reached across the table with her palm open. Nimue placed her small hand in hers, feeling the warmth of her mother's skin.
"It means we wait and see. We watch how your body handles what we have already given you."
Nimue lowered her eyes to her plate. The gravy had begun to cool, forming a thin film over its surface.
"The cold is still there. Both of them. They aren't fighting each other."
"I know."
"So it's working."
Jane gently squeezed her hand. "It's working."
Nimue picked up her fork and ate a cold piece of potato.
Saoirse suddenly pushed her chair back and stood. "I'm getting pudding."
"Now?" Jack asked, looking up in surprise.
"Now. We have just spent twenty minutes talking about phoenix blood, ritual windows, and whether my niece is going to survive her own body. I'm having pudding."
Jane sighed, though the corners of her mouth had begun to lift. Some of the tension had finally left her face.
Saoirse opened the refrigerator, and its yellow light spilled across the kitchen floor. She took out a glass bowl filled with pale yellow pudding, its surface trembling slightly beneath a thin layer of caramel. Carrying it to the table, she set it down with a spoon.
"Lemon," she announced. "Margaret's recipe."
Nimue looked from the pudding to her aunt. "Did you save me some?"
Saoirse grinned, her eyes bright. "I saved some for everyone."
She spooned a portion into a small bowl and pushed it towards Nimue. The pudding was cold and sweet, and the thin caramel layer cracked against her teeth with a satisfying snap. Nimue ate slowly, watching the adults as she did.
They were no longer talking about phoenixes. Jack had started telling Saoirse about a fence post that needed fixing, while Jane scraped the last of the gravy from the pan. The clock continued ticking above them.
Nimue finished her portion and set down her spoon.
"Can I have some more?"
Saoirse laughed. "That's my girl."
= = =
There's images below
---
Mini Theater:
Rosie knocks again, a few days later.
Rosie:
Do you want to see the chickens?
Or go and feed the sheep?
I think some company is overdue
I've started talking to the rooster
He just sleeps
Pause.
Rosie (sighs):
It gets a little lonely
Just collecting eggs
Watching the tractor go round...
We used to be best farm buddies
And now we're not
I wish you would tell me why
Do you want to see the chickens?
It doesn't have to be the chickens...
She waits. No answer.
Rosie:
...Okay, bye.