The Christmas market smelled of cinnamon and burnt sugar. Even now, that memory remains vivid in my mind.
Tante Margaux had taken me to see the lights. While she and Elodie stopped at a stall selling silver bracelets, I wandered a few steps away. I found myself staring at a necklace I didn't particularly want, simply because I needed somewhere to rest my eyes.
That was when I felt someone watching me.
It wasn't the casual glance of a passerby. It was a heavy, deliberate stare that seemed to settle on my skin with the weight of a hand. When I turned, I saw a little girl standing barely three steps away.
Her hair was white. Not the golden or silver blonde common in my family, nor the dull gray of old age, but a pure, startling white, like fresh snow covering a barn roof in the middle of winter. Her eyes were an equally unusual shade of green, so vivid they almost seemed impossible beneath the dim market lights. She wore a puffy blue coat that made her look like a little drifting cloud.
She stared at me without blinking for a long moment.
Then she walked toward me, stopped right in front of me, and tilted her head.
She told me I was beautiful.
Then she asked if I could be hers.
I had absolutely no idea how to respond.
People had called me beautiful before. Tante Margaux's friends often said it when they visited, using the careless tone adults adopted when they assumed children were not listening. Maman said it too, but her words carried the particular, unconditional warmth of a mother's affection.
This was different from either.
The little girl simply stated it as a fact before asking such a profound question, looking at me as though she already knew what my answer would be.
Then she patted her own chest, apparently reassuring herself of something, and told me not to worry. She said she could take care of others because she had Cinder.
I had no idea who or what Cinder was. Perhaps a dog, or maybe a sibling. But that didn't seem to matter.
The way she said it, with such absolute certainty, made me want to laugh. A small sound escaped before I could stop it. It was more of a caught breath than an actual laugh, but she didn't even flinch.
She simply waited.
I reached out and pinched her cheek because I didn't know what else to do with my hands. Her skin was cold from the winter air and soft beneath my fingers, yet she made no attempt to pull away. She continued looking at me with those steady, unblinking green eyes, watching me as though I were something she had already decided to keep.
I told her she was far too cute.
She didn't seem particularly interested in that. All she cared about was whether I would say yes.
That was when I really began to look at her.
Until then, I had only seen a small girl in a blue coat. Now I found myself studying her face. Her white hair was natural. I could see that it grew directly from her scalp, and even her eyelashes were so pale that they were almost invisible until the market lights caught them.
Her eyes were even more remarkable up close. They reminded me of the lake near our house in summer, when the sunlight struck the water at just the right angle and made it look like something from a storybook.
I asked her if she was an Evans.
She gave a single, certain nod.
Then she turned and pointed toward a woman with reddish hair and the same green eyes. I realized that the woman was her mother. She had frozen mid-step, one hand pressed against her mouth, standing beside a man with dark hair marked by a white streak.
Behind them, another woman was laughing. It was a loud, bright laugh that carried across the market, bouncing off the wooden chalets and sending a few pigeons fluttering into the air.
I looked back at the little girl.
She stood there with a patience that was neither nervous nor hopeful. She was simply waiting for me to answer, as though she had asked me the time and expected a straightforward reply.
I didn't say yes, but I didn't say no either.
I thought she was charming and unusual. As the noise of the market swelled around us and Tante Margaux began wearing the expression she always had whenever something entertaining happened, I found myself thinking that I had never met a child quite like her.
At the time, I believed that was all there was to it.
. . .
The dinner happened because Tante Margaux knew her mother, Jane Evans.
The restaurant was small and warm, filled with the smell of garlic butter and grilled fish. Nimue sat beside me and introduced herself as though it were something I should have already known. Then she asked if she could call me big sister.
I said yes because I didn't know how to refuse a face like hers.
She watched me eat. Not with occasional glances, but with a steady gaze that followed my fork from my plate to my mouth and back again. She asked if I had finished my fish, then told me I was too thin and should eat more.
I found myself laughing quite a lot that evening.
I told her she was strange, and she simply replied that she knew before returning to her bread.
Then she pushed her bread toward me, offering me the larger half.
Nobody had ever offered me the larger half of anything before, so I accepted it.
She nodded as though I had just confirmed a suspicion, then continued watching me. When she eventually pushed her entire bread plate toward me, I began to understand that she wasn't simply being polite.
She genuinely wanted me to have more because, in her mind, I belonged to her now. And since I belonged to her, she had to take care of me.
That was how she seemed to think.
At the end of the meal, she wrapped both arms around my waist and pressed her face against my coat. She held on tightly, as though she were afraid I might disappear. Then she looked up at me with those steady green eyes and asked if we could play together again tomorrow.
There was nothing uncertain about the way she asked. She wasn't really asking whether I wanted to. She was simply confirming the details of our next meeting.
I looked toward Tante Margaux.
I didn't understand exactly why, but I found myself desperately wanting her to agree.
I barely knew this strange little girl who spoke with the authority of a tiny empress, yet I stood there waiting for an answer as though nothing else mattered.
Tante met my gaze for a brief moment before giving me a small nod.
Jane seemed to have understood the situation before either of us had said anything. She reached for a scrap of paper, wrote down her address, and handed it to my aunt.
The arrangement fell into place without any real effort, almost as though it had been decided long before we had ever met at the market.
Only then did I finally give Nimue my answer.
She nodded once, looking thoroughly satisfied, and released me before returning to her family. As they began to leave, she glanced over her shoulder one last time. We both raised our hands in a silent goodbye.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the little stone from the market still in my pocket. I rolled it between my fingers, feeling its smooth, cold surface.
I didn't understand what had happened.
A little girl had walked up to me and asked if I could be hers, as though I were a doll in a shop window or something she could simply claim.
It should have seemed strange.
And it did.
But not in a way that made me want to stay away.
I thought about her bright green eyes and the way she never seemed to blink. Eventually, I fell asleep.
. . .
The next morning, I woke before my parents and dressed quickly in a cream jumper and the blue ribbon my grandmother had given me.
I stood in front of the mirror for a while, checking my reflection without quite understanding why I was being so particular about my appearance.
Tante Margaux drove me to the building.
It was an old place, its facade worn and quiet. The stairwell creaked beneath our footsteps as we climbed to the fourth floor.
I had expected something grander.
The way Jane spoke, and the name Evans itself, had always seemed wrapped in the quiet weight of old money. But when the door opened, that impression disappeared almost immediately.
Jane stood there to greet us with a calm warmth before stepping aside to let me in.
The apartment was small. Much smaller than I had imagined.
A sagging sofa occupied most of the sitting room, and the kitchen table was covered in deep knife marks.
It was only then that I noticed her.
Nimue stood just beyond the doorway to the hall, watching me.
Her white hair was tangled and unbrushed, and there was a faint stain on the front of her shirt, as though she had spilled something during breakfast and never bothered to change. She looked exactly as she had the day before, as if she had spent the entire morning doing nothing but waiting for me.
She called me big sister.
I said her name, and a smile spread across my face before I could stop it. I hadn't meant to smile so openly, but it happened anyway.
She immediately grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hallway before I could even finish greeting her mother. Her fingers were small and cold around mine, but I didn't pull away.
Her bedroom was a mess. Clothes were scattered around, and a green canvas bag lay open on the rug, its contents spilling out. I would later learn about the Cold Light Stone hidden beneath her pillow and the strange chill it brought to the room. But for now, she simply led me to the stripped mattress, sat me on its edge, and disappeared.
She returned carrying a tray. Her arms trembled slightly under its weight, and she walked with the concentrated determination of someone who was afraid of spilling anything. There was tea for me, milk for her, and three biscuits arranged on a plate.
She placed the tray between us as though it were the most important task she had ever undertaken.
I told her she didn't have to do all that.
She simply replied that she wanted to.
Then she climbed onto the bed beside me, sitting close enough that our shoulders almost touched. She took a bite of her biscuit and began talking.
She told me about Tilly, the house-elf who made biscuits and cried when Nimue left. She spoke about a village in England with a five-hundred-year-old oak tree, and a boy named Andrew who had shown her a hollow tree with initials carved into its bark. There was also Hermione, a girl she had met in London who talked too quickly and cried when Nimue left.
Then came the stories about a farm, where she had ridden a Highland cow named Bess, and Normandy, where she had learned to clean mussels with a sharp knife. She told me about skiing in the Alps and sitting in hot springs while snow fell around her. She even mentioned an old woman with green eyes just like hers, who had given her hot chocolate topped with thick cream.
She talked for a long time, her voice steady and unhurried, as though she were reading from a book she had memorized. She didn't ask me any questions. She simply wanted me to listen.
So I did.
At some point, her shoulder pressed against my arm. Then her head followed.
Before long, she was leaning against me, talking directly into my shoulder. With every new story, her weight seemed to grow heavier, until she eventually stopped in the middle of a sentence about a gray cat and a woodstove.
When I looked down, I found that she had climbed into my lap. She sat with her back against my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin.
She was heavy and small, and very warm.
I told her she was heavy.
She insisted she was small.
I said she could be both, but she didn't move, and I made no attempt to push her away.
My hand moved before I could think about it, settling lightly against her back. I was careful with my touch, almost as though I were holding something fragile that might break if I pressed too hard.
She shifted sideways, resting her ear over my heart. Her white hair tickled my chin, and I could feel her slow, even breathing through my jumper.
I kept my hand on her back.
She wasn't asleep. She was simply listening.
After a long while, she said without looking up that I was more beautiful than the mountains.
I had no idea what to do with a compliment like that.
So I said nothing and simply held her.
We stayed that way for a long time as the gray winter light slowly shifted across the cracked ceiling. I could hear the apartment settling around us and the faint sounds of Jane moving about in the kitchen.
Nimue's breathing gradually slowed. Then her hand found mine, and she held it tightly.
When Jane finally appeared at the doorway to tell us that lunch was ready, her voice was soft. She didn't tell Nimue to get up. Instead, she waited for a moment before returning to the kitchen.
Nimue didn't move immediately. She remained with her ear against my chest, as though she were trying to memorize the sound of my heartbeat.
Eventually, she slowly unfolded herself, climbed off my lap, and held out her hand.
Her fingers were warm now.
"Come," she said.
I took her hand, and we walked to the kitchen together.
. . .
The days blurred together after that.
I don't remember ever making a conscious decision to visit again. I simply kept going.
Tante Margaux would ask if I wanted to see Nimue, and I would already be putting on my coat before she finished speaking.
I began visiting the apartment every few mornings. After the third visit, I stopped bothering to knock. I would simply open the door and walk inside.
Nimue was always waiting by the window or standing near the entrance, her small hand reaching for mine, her fingers always a little cold.
We played cards, and she cheated, though I don't think she did it on purpose. She simply didn't understand the concept of losing as something that could apply to her. When I won the second round, she stared at the cards as if they had personally betrayed her, then declared herself the winner anyway and moved on.
We went to the gardens, where she ran ahead with her white hair streaming behind her. She fed the ducks and watched the old men playing boules with intense concentration. She would ask me to push her on the swings, then complain that I wasn't pushing her high enough.
We read together, too. I read La Belle et la Bête aloud while she traced the illustrations with her finger. She asked why Beauty wasn't afraid of the Beast, and I told her it was because Beauty could see what was inside him. She looked up at me with those steady green eyes and said she could see what was inside me, too.
My throat tightened as I asked what she saw. She told me she saw something soft and bright. I turned the page and continued reading, though my voice was much quieter after that.
There were other things I noticed over those weeks, little details you gradually become aware of when you spend enough time in a place. I noticed that she always came right to the door when I arrived, and that whenever I read to her, she went perfectly still.
It wasn't the stillness of someone who was bored, but of someone giving the story her full attention. I noticed that she divided things in half without thinking, always giving me the larger portion, and seemed completely unaware that she was doing it.
I also realized that I had started remembering where the cups were kept, that the third stair from the top creaked, and that Cinder always slept on the left side of the sofa.
I had picked up these little details without even trying, the way you naturally learn about a place you keep returning to. Nimue noticed things about me, too. She picked up on habits I had never realized I had.
On my sixth visit, she pointed out that I always came in the morning and never in the afternoon. I blinked, surprised that she had noticed, because I had never paid attention to it myself. But she said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Watching me was simply something she did.
The frost changed something between us. She showed it to me one rainy afternoon when we were staying indoors. Holding out her left palm, she let the cold bloom across her skin without closing her eyes or whispering a spell. It spread into a snowflake, growing and turning as it caught the light, its beauty entirely out of place against the gray December afternoon.
The frost shimmered silver as it slowly spun in her hand. I reached out and touched its edge. The cold was real, dry and sharp, and unmistakably hers. Even after I pulled my finger away, I could still feel it lingering on my skin.
I asked if it hurt her, but she shook her head. It was hers, she explained. Then she closed her hand, and the frost disappeared. She told me not to tell anyone because it wasn't for everyone. I promised I wouldn't say a word, and I meant it. I have never told anyone, even now.
Whenever I think back to that moment, I remember the way she put it. She hadn't called it a secret. She had simply said it wasn't for everyone. It was as though she had considered the entire world and decided that I was the one she wanted to share it with. I understood how much that meant, even then, and I have held on to it ever since.
I bought the ribbon one morning when Tante Margaux and I were visiting a market. I hadn't been thinking about Nimue in particular, but when I spotted a pale blue silk ribbon, I stopped. I bought it, telling myself that the color would suit her and that she would like it.
That afternoon, I tied it into her hair with rather clumsy fingers. The bow came out crooked, with one loop noticeably larger than the other.
She immediately pointed out that I had made an ugly bow. My face grew warm, and I offered to tie it again. But she refused. It was hers, she said, and she was keeping it exactly as it was.
She wore it for the rest of the day, the uneven bow bouncing against her white hair whenever she moved. I watched her and felt something strange in my stomach, something warm and fond that I could easily bear.
. . .
She liked being in contact with me, whether that meant holding my hand or resting her head in my lap. At first, I found it a little strange, but I gradually grew used to it. Before long, I had even started expecting it.
One afternoon, she fell asleep on the sofa with her head resting on my knees. Cinder curled up along the back of the sofa, his chin settling on my shoulder. I stayed there for more than an hour without moving because I didn't want to wake her.
When Jane appeared in the doorway and offered to carry Nimue to bed, I shook my head and told her she was fine where she was.
She was, and so was I.
Sitting there with a sleeping child on my lap, a fox resting against my shoulder, and a fire slowly dying in the hearth, I felt something I couldn't quite name. It wasn't exactly happiness, but something gentler, something that made my chest feel strangely tight. I didn't try to understand it. I simply stayed where I was.
. . .
The thirty-first of December arrived colder than any day before it. Tante Margaux and Elodie had gone off to their own celebrations, so that evening it was just Maman, Papa, and me walking to the Keiths' apartment.
I knocked, and Nimue opened the door. She was wearing an oversized sweater, and her white hair caught the light as she looked up at me. For a long moment, she simply stared before telling me I was beautiful.
I told her she was beautiful, too. She immediately looked down at her clothes, checking whether I really meant it.
I did.
The adults talked about their plans for the evening at Le Meurice, but I barely listened. Nimue had already taken my hand and led me to her room, as she usually did whenever I arrived. Before long, we were all heading downstairs and climbing into a car.
The hotel was magnificent, filled with gold, crystal, and marble. Our parents had arranged connecting rooms, and Nimue made certain that the door between them stayed open.
Dinner was long and pleasant. We ate in a private room while a small ensemble played in the corner. Nimue sat beside me and quietly pushed the larger half of her bread roll onto my side of the plate without even looking. I ate it without comment. Maman noticed, as she seemed to notice everything, but she said nothing.
After dinner, Papa suggested dancing. Maman and Papa went onto the dance floor together, while Jane and Jack settled on a sofa near the window, their shoulders touching. Saoirse wandered over to the bar.
Nimue came up to me and held out her hand. She barely reached my shoulder, so the invitation was rather ridiculous, but I took her hands anyway.
We began turning slowly. She kept looking down at her feet, so I told her to look at me instead. When she finally raised her head, the chandelier light caught in her green eyes. For a moment, I forgot to breathe.
She tripped over her own feet before we had even found a proper rhythm. I caught her by the arms to steady her, and she leaned against me for a moment, completely unbothered, as though stumbling were simply part of dancing.
I guided her again, more slowly this time. We turned in a small circle, a little awkwardly but without stopping, until she grew dizzy and rested her forehead against my chest. She told me I danced well.
I told her that at least she hadn't stepped on my feet.
Later, we went up to the rooftop terrace, where the city stretched out beneath us, dark and glittering. Maman gave Nimue a cup of hot chocolate, and before she had even taken a sip, Nimue held it out to me.
I told her it was hers, but she insisted that we could share. So I took a sip and handed it back.
When the countdown began, Nimue found my hand in the darkness. I didn't look down at our joined hands. I watched her face instead, tilted toward the sky. The fireworks reflected in her green eyes, while flashes of silver, gold, and blue danced across her white hair.
She turned to me and wished me a happy new year. I wished her the same. I meant it.
Then she leaned against me, and I slipped an arm around her shoulders without thinking.
After the fireworks, she fell asleep on a sofa in her bedroom with her head in my lap. Her mother came to carry her to bed, but even in her sleep, Nimue's fingers tightened around mine. I told Jane I would stay a little longer, and she left us alone.
I don't remember when I fell asleep. I only remember the warmth of Nimue's weight against me and the soft sound of her breathing.
When I woke, it was the morning of January first. Pale gray light filtered through the curtains, and I found myself in bed beside her.
Nimue was still asleep, her white hair spread across the pillow and her mouth slightly open. I watched her for a while. When she finally opened her eyes, she caught me looking at her immediately.
Heat crept up to my ears. I glanced at the ceiling, then back at her.
She was smiling that wide smile again, and something fluttered in my chest like a trapped bird.
She wished me good morning, her voice still thick with sleep, then pointed out that my ears were red. That only made them burn hotter.
She giggled and nuzzled against my shoulder, telling me I was cute. Then she lifted her head and kissed my cheek.
It was quick, barely more than a brush of her lips, but I felt it everywhere.
My face grew hot. I touched the spot where she had kissed me, while she giggled and hid her face. She told me she liked it.
I didn't know what to do. She was a child, and so was I. Things like that were not supposed to mean anything.
But somehow, it felt as though they did.
She asked if I had ever kissed anyone before. I told her I hadn't. She said she hadn't either, before me.
I explained that a kiss on the cheek wasn't a real kiss. A real one was on the mouth. She immediately asked if we could try one.
I told her no, because kissing like that wasn't for children.
She asked if we could do it when we were grown up. I had meant to say no, but somehow the answer that came out was maybe.
She accepted that without hesitation, saying she would wait as though the matter had already been settled.
I didn't correct her. Instead, I pulled her a little closer, tightening my arm around her back as she nuzzled into my neck.
I told myself it was simply sisterly affection.
. . .
The days that followed gradually blurred together. We explored the hotel corridors, discovered the library, and watched the sunset from the windows. Nimue told me I could come and visit her in England.
I said maybe.
She insisted that maybe wasn't enough.
She was right, but I didn't know how to promise her anything more.
On the third, it snowed. We went to the Tuileries, where Nimue watched the snow falling around us and said it was quiet, just like her cold magic.
On the evening of the fourth, she knocked on the connecting door because she couldn't sleep. I brought her into my bed and told her a story until her eyes finally closed and she drifted off.
Then the fifth of January arrived. Until that point, our departure had been little more than a fact sitting quietly in the back of my mind. Now it had become something I could no longer ignore.
We had our last breakfast together. Afterward, the Keiths returned to their apartment to gather their belongings, and we went our separate ways for the day.
The morning of the sixth was cold and gray. We went to the apartment one last time. When I knocked, Nimue opened the door wearing her blue coat. She immediately took my hand and led me to her bedroom.
It was almost empty. The sheets had been removed from the mattress, and her bags were already packed. We sat together on the bare mattress, and she told me she was going to write to me.
I asked if she knew how to write letters. She said her mother would help her, but I had to write back.
I promised I would.
Then she reached into her pouch and took out a smooth gray stone with a white vein running through it. She told me she had found it by the sea and wanted me to keep it so I would remember her.
I closed my fingers around it. It was still warm from being inside her pouch, though the warmth slowly faded in the cold air.
I told her I wouldn't forget her. I meant it.
We stayed there for a while, holding hands without saying anything, until Jane called to tell us it was time to leave.
Outside, the car was waiting. Nimue walked toward me across the cobblestones. Her eyes were dry, but I could see something deep and still behind that familiar green. She told me to write to her.
I said I would.
Then she wrapped her arms around my waist, and I held her tightly, not wanting to let go.
After a moment, she pulled back just enough to look up at me. Her face was very close. I saw her take a breath before rising onto her toes and pressing her lips against my cheek.
When she lowered herself again, she looked straight at me.
I bent forward before I had even made up my mind to do it. My hair fell around us as I pressed my lips to the top of her head, against her white hair. I held the kiss for a second before pulling away and smoothing a stray strand from her face.
Then she said goodbye.
She turned and walked toward the car without looking back. I watched as the door closed and the engine started. When the car finally pulled away, I raised my hand. Through the window, I saw her raise hers in return.
And then she was gone.
I remained on the cobblestones for a long time, until Maman finally told me we should go back inside.
That evening, I placed the stone on my nightstand. But it seemed too far away, so I took it again and slipped it into my coat pocket. Maman didn't ask me anything when she came to say goodnight. Before falling asleep, I reached through the fabric and touched the stone.
. . .
The first day without her was the hardest.
When I woke up, I reached for her without thinking. The other side of the bed was empty and cold. The sheets smelled of lavender, not of her. I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, before finally getting dressed.
I put the stone in my pocket and carried it with me to breakfast.
Maman asked if I had slept well. I said yes. I didn't tell her that I had dreamed of green eyes and white hair.
In the afternoon, I went to my tutor. He talked about French history, the kings and their wars, and I tried to pay attention. But my hand kept slipping into my pocket. The stone was smooth and cool beneath my fingers, and I touched it whenever my tutor wasn't looking.
At dinner, Papa asked if I was feeling well. I told him I was tired.
He didn't press me.
That night, I put the stone under my pillow and fell asleep with one hand resting on it.
. . .
The second day was a little easier.
Not much, but a little.
I went to the Luxembourg Gardens with Maman. The pony track was empty, and the pond was frozen around the edges. I stood where Nimue had once stood and remembered how she had thrown bread to the ducks, how she had run ahead of me with her white hair streaming behind her.
Maman noticed that I was thinking about her.
I said yes.
She didn't ask anything else. She simply took my hand, and we walked home together in silence.
That night, I wrote Nimue a letter.
I didn't have her address yet, so there was nowhere to send it. But I wrote it anyway, carefully forming each word in my neatest handwriting.
Dear Nimue,
I'm thinking of you. Paris is quieter without you. I hope you arrived safely.
I still have the stone. It's on my nightstand, and I'm wearing the blue ribbon in my hair. Are you wearing yours, too?
Write to me when you can.
Your big sister,
Fleur
I folded the paper and placed it in my drawer. I would send it once I had her address, once I knew where to find her.
For now, all I could do was wait.
Before going to bed, I checked the mail slot by the front door.
There was nothing.
. . .
I slipped the stone back into my pocket the next morning. I carried it everywhere, to my lessons, to lunch, and wherever else I went. Maman noticed, but she never commented on it.
At night, I held it in my palm and thought about something Nimue had once told me.
I know you well enough.
She had said that after knowing me for only a few days. It was ridiculous. How could a child know someone so quickly?
But whenever I remembered the way she looked at me, how she watched me so closely and never seemed to look away, I began to wonder whether she might have been right.
Perhaps she did know me.
Perhaps she knew me better than anyone else.
I placed the stone beneath my pillow and closed my eyes. That night, I dreamed of snow, white hair, and green eyes that never seemed to blink.
When I woke up, my pillow was damp.
I didn't know why.
. . .
The days blurred together after that. I kept the stone close and checked the mail every morning. I told myself Nimue was probably busy, but I knew she wouldn't forget me.
She had looked at me as though she had already made a promise to wait. She had even asked me to save a kiss for when we were grown up.
Sometimes, sitting alone with the stone in my hand, I wondered what I would say if she asked me again.
I still didn't know.
But I knew I would keep my promise. In fact, I was already planning exactly what I would write back the moment her letter arrived.