On the fourth morning of the family's stay, Morwenna stood at the top of the stairs, one small figure on the broad landing. Her left hand rested on the cold wooden banister as she listened to the manor waking around her.
Voices drifted up from the distant kitchen, where copper pans clattered and the house-elves murmured to one another. Aldric's deep voice carried faintly from the library, suggesting he was reading aloud to himself. From the frosted garden came a musical sound, fluid and shimmering. Lucien was likely singing somewhere among the trees.
The portraits along the hallway had already begun their usual morning arguments, their painted occupants bickering over events that had happened centuries ago. Behind her, Tilly moved quietly through the nursery, the rustle of fabric suggesting she was straightening the bed linens.
Morwenna listened to it all, her head tilted as she took in the busy house.
"Good," she declared, giving a solemn nod of satisfaction.
Then she began her careful descent. With her tongue peeking out from the corner of her mouth, she concentrated on each step, placing both feet firmly on every tread before moving to the next. By the time she reached the bottom, she looked pleased with her accomplishment.
The days that followed were warmer and livelier than the manor's usual routine. The family's presence brought a new energy to its high-ceilinged rooms, blending old traditions with the bustle of the present.
Aldric claimed the leather wingback chair beside the library fireplace as his personal reading spot. It smelled faintly of cedarwood, beeswax, and old pipe tobacco. Each morning, he settled there with a leather-bound book, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would have enjoyed a quiet morning alone. Morwenna, however, had other plans.
Every morning, she climbed onto his lap with a book of her own, a large illustrated volume she had stubbornly dragged from the lower shelves.
She usually held it upside down.
With her brow furrowed in concentration, she held the thick pages open and narrated the illustrations to herself. Her words mixed recognisable English with experimental sounds, following the rhythm of a story even when they failed to form coherent sentences.
Aldric continued reading his own book, occasionally adjusting the heavy volume so he could see over her white hair.
"Mimi read," Morwenna announced on the third morning, pointing solemnly at a colourful illustration.
"I can see that," Aldric replied, his deep voice rumbling gently behind her. "What is the story about today?"
Morwenna studied the page. It showed a serpent coiled elegantly around a branch, its painted scales shimmering with magical light.
"Sss," she said.
Then the sound changed.
It was no ordinary childish hiss. The sibilant noise stretched into a series of rhythmic sounds, with strange pauses and inflections that seemed to resonate through the air.
The library grew still. The fire flared briefly, its flames leaning towards the child as though drawn to her voice. What came from her mouth had the structure and intention of a sentence, spoken in a language few people in Britain had ever heard.
Aldric froze, one hand suspended above the page. A log cracked sharply in the fireplace.
Across the room, Celestine had been working at the mahogany desk. She set down her quill at once, her green eyes fixed on Morwenna.
The little girl repeated the sound, this time with greater confidence. She pointed at the illustrated serpent, then glanced up at her grandfather, apparently checking whether he understood.
Aldric looked at Celestine. Shock and recognition crossed his face.
Celestine's expression grew equally serious. She answered in Parseltongue, her voice forming a sequence of hisses, clicks, and whistles.
"Little one, what are you saying to the snake?"
Morwenna lifted her head, her eyes widening in astonishment. Someone understood her! She hadn't even realised she was speaking a language that other people might not understand.
"Gran-ma know?" she asked in English, her voice rising at the end.
"Gran-ma knows," Celestine replied softly as she rose from her desk and approached the fireplace.
Morwenna looked from her book to Celestine, then up at Aldric. Pointing at the serpent again, she spoke slowly and carefully in Parseltongue.
"It's sleeping."
Aldric answered instinctively, his own hissing words flowing as naturally as hers.
"Yes. It looks very comfortable there."
Morwenna stared at him, her green eyes bright with wonder. Then she turned back to her book, looking thoughtful as she tried to make sense of this new discovery.
Jack appeared in the doorway, drawn by the unusual change in the library's atmosphere. He leaned against the frame, looking from his father to his daughter.
Aldric met his son's gaze, and the two men understood each other without needing to speak. Across the room, Celestine had returned to her desk, her quill moving steadily over the parchment, though her attention was clearly elsewhere.
"She didn't know," Jack said quietly.
"No," Aldric agreed. "She didn't. Not until now."
They watched as Morwenna turned another page in her upside-down book, murmuring to the illustrated serpent in a language she had only discovered she could speak moments earlier.
"Mimi," she told it, pointing at herself.
The serpent didn't answer. Morwenna seemed to consider this a failure on its part rather than hers, then simply turned the page.
....
Seraphina approached grandmotherhood differently from Celestine. Where Celestine offered quiet companionship and warmth, Seraphina preferred to teach.
In the late afternoons, as the sunlight slanted through the high windows, she spent time with Morwenna, introducing her to the world through simple lessons and demonstrations. Her teaching was neither formal nor rigid. It came naturally to someone who had lived long enough to gather a vast store of knowledge.
In the manor's humid greenhouse, she showed Morwenna which plants welcomed a gentle touch and which preferred to be left alone. Some leaves curled away when approached too quickly, while others trembled at the slightest contact. The air was thick with the scent of damp moss and fresh earth.
She also taught Morwenna to notice how the light changed throughout the day, from the grey of morning to the gold of evening, shifting the shadows across the ancient stone floors. In the portrait gallery, she introduced her to the painted ancestors, explaining who they had been and why their lives mattered to the House of Keith.
Morwenna absorbed each lesson with the same focused attention she brought to everything that interested her.
Lucien spent his mornings in the garden, and Morwenna followed him like a shadow. Her small leather boots crunched over the gravel as she kept exactly three paces behind him, watching his hands and the soil.
He moved slowly through the grounds, stopping to examine the plants with the quiet pleasure of someone who genuinely enjoyed growing things. Morwenna followed close behind, pointing at unfamiliar shapes and budding leaves and waiting for him to name them.
One morning, Lucien knelt beside a cluster of crocuses and began singing softly in the Veela tongue. It was less like an ordinary song than a series of carefully shaped tones, guided by his breath. The air around the flowers seemed to vibrate, and the purple and yellow petals opened a little wider in the April sunlight.
Morwenna stood beside him, her head tilted as she listened.
Then she began to hum.
Her attempt was imperfect, like a child repeating a melody she had heard only once or twice. She captured its general shape but missed several of the more difficult intervals. The tonal shifts that gave the Veela tongue its magical depth were also absent.
Still, the melody was recognisable. Her intention was clear.
The crocuses opened a little farther, their stems straightening. Lucien's amber-gold eyes softened, and the faint radiance of his Veela heritage shimmered briefly in the sunlight.
He turned to study his granddaughter, looking for any sign of how she was managing it.
Morwenna hummed the sequence again, concentrating so hard that her hands curled into fists at her sides.
Lucien spoke gently in the Veela tongue.
"You hear the music. You hear it."
Morwenna looked up at him, her green eyes wide. She didn't yet have the words to answer him properly, but she tried. Three tentative, melodic notes came from her throat, close enough to the original melody to make Lucien's expression change.
She looked at him, silently asking whether she had done it correctly.
Lucien slowly sat back on his heels and regarded her for a long moment. The garden was quiet around them, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves.
That evening, he told Jane and Jack what had happened on the lawn. His voice remained calm and measured, though he rarely spoke in such detail about something that had genuinely surprised him.
Candlelight flickered across the white tablecloth, glinting off the crystal glasses and silver platters.
Across the table, Morwenna was busy negotiating with Tilly over exactly how much honey should go on her bread, paying no attention to the conversation.
.....
Saoirse arrived on Wednesday, five days before the birthday, and she didn't use the Floo.
The first sign of her arrival was a sharp, resonant sound from the front of the manor. It fell somewhere between a hound's deep bark and a clear musical note, vibrating through the ancient stone walls and stirring every portrait in the entrance hall.
The painted figures turned towards the heavy oak door almost in unison.
The second sign came from Aldric. Still seated in his library armchair, he kept his eyes on his book as he remarked, "That will be Saoirse."
He spoke with the calm certainty of a man who had heard such announcements for thirty years. He had long since accepted the chaos that followed in his daughter's wake as a natural law of the manor.
The front door swung open with a heavy thud, its echo rolling beneath the high ceiling.
Saoirse Keith swept into the entrance hall on a rush of cool April air, bringing the scent of rain and distant pine with her. The gust caught the gold birthday streamers Jane had carefully arranged on the console table. One ribbon lifted, snagged briefly on the mirror, then drifted to the floor.
A worn leather travel pack, darkened by moisture and heavy with use, hung over her shoulder. Her deep Keith-black hair, streaked with the family's characteristic silver, had been left loose and tangled by the wind. Her expression held the raw exhilaration of someone who had spent weeks constantly on the move.
She stood taller than Jack, with the sharp cheekbones and piercing dark eyes that ran in their family. She moved with a restless vitality that came naturally to her, a grace others might spend a lifetime trying to imitate.
Cradled against her chest was a small fox, clearly no ordinary woodland creature. Its fur was the colour of toasted sand, and its enormous ears were tipped with fine silver hair. The ears twitched and rotated independently, picking up every sound in the hall, while its intelligent amber eyes watched its surroundings.
Then it noticed Morwenna.
She emerged from the library with Tilly close behind her and paused at the entrance, one hand resting against the doorframe for balance. Her gaze moved from Saoirse to the fox, studying both with silent concentration.
"Sss?" she asked.
The fox's enormous ears snapped towards her, both locking onto the sound.
"Not a serpent," Saoirse said, delight brightening her face and easing the weariness around her eyes. "A fox. His name is Cinder."
She crouched without ceremony, lowering herself to Morwenna's level. Her travel pack slid from her shoulder and hit the floor with a heavy thud. She rolled her shoulders, wincing briefly before breaking into a bright smile.
"And you are my niece. I have waited a whole year to see you again. That's a very long time."
Morwenna studied the fox's twitching black nose, then Saoirse's windblown face, before looking back at the creature.
"Hold?" she asked, stretching out both arms with quiet certainty.
Saoirse placed Cinder in her niece's waiting arms without hesitation. The fox was surprisingly light, its lean body covered in fur as soft as silk.
Cinder studied Morwenna, his ears fixed on her face. She answered him in Parseltongue, uttering two or three soft, hissing syllables as she narrated her discovery in the matter-of-fact way toddlers often did.
Saoirse glanced up at Jack, who stood on the stairs with one hand gripping the banister. He nodded solemnly.
"Already," she said. It wasn't quite a question, but an acknowledgement of something she had expected.
"Last Tuesday," Jack replied.
Morwenna examined Cinder's remarkable ears with absorbed fascination, tracing the silver tuft at one tip with her tiny finger. She leaned closer, her nose almost touching his fur, and whispered another soft hiss of approval.
The fox endured her inspection with patient dignity, blinking slowly with his amber eyes.
"Merlin," Saoirse murmured, her jaw tightening.
"Myrddin," Jack corrected.
Saoirse burst out laughing, her amusement filling the entrance hall.
She settled into the manor's routine as she did everything else: immediately, wholeheartedly, and without the slightest concern for the disruption she might cause. She claimed the largest sitting room to unpack, spreading the contents of her weathered pack across every available surface.
Every object came with a story. She explained the origins of her travel-worn keepsakes to anyone willing to listen, growing more animated as she described the distant places they had come from. A jar of pale sand from the Himalayas sat beside a map with burned edges that still carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and mountain frost.
She had brought gifts, too.
For Morwenna, she produced a wooden puzzle from Scandinavia. Intricate patterns had been carved into the pale wood, and the pieces rearranged themselves whenever touched, clicking into place with mechanical precision.
For Jane, she had a collection of pressed alpine flowers from a secluded valley in the Alps. Their colours remained remarkably vivid beneath the glass, as though they had been preserved only yesterday.
For Jack, she offered a sea-washed stone from the Irish coast. Cool to the touch, it gave off a faint, grounding vibration whenever he held it in his palm.
Each gift had been chosen with care, showing how closely Saoirse paid attention despite her habit of seeming distracted by the wider world.
She and Morwenna formed an alliance almost immediately. Saoirse had never been able to refuse a child who asked for something with enough determination, and Morwenna possessed that quality in abundance.
For the next two days, Morwenna was rarely anywhere but on her aunt's shoulders. She watched card tricks that Saoirse insisted were not technically magic and listened for hours as her aunt read stories aloud, giving every character a different accent with no discernible pattern.
Morwenna remained completely absorbed, following every word.
"She will be unbearable for a week after you leave," Jane remarked on the second evening. She stood by the window, watching her daughter attempt to recreate a card trick using wooden blocks, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Excellent," Saoirse replied, leaning back against the sofa cushions and stretching out her legs. "That's my responsibility."
"Zat responsibility ees travelling to places without owl post and sending us letters with no return address."
"That too." Saoirse glanced towards Morwenna. "She is going to be extraordinary, Jane."
"We know," Jane replied.
"No." Saoirse's playful expression faded. She leaned forward, her brown eyes reflecting the firelight. "The sort of extraordinary that makes other extraordinary people feel ordinary. I have been to many places and met many people. The way that child looks at things..."
She fell silent for a moment, then continued in a quieter voice.
"Jack knows it too. I can see it in him. I simply wanted to say it aloud."
Jane watched her daughter. Morwenna had abandoned the wooden blocks and was now explaining something to Cinder in Parseltongue, pointing at the pieces with her left hand as though the fox needed a thorough explanation.
His ears remained fixed on her, twitching at every sibilant sound. He let out a soft, chittering breath and tilted his head, his amber eyes following her finger with unwavering attention.
"We know," Jane repeated softly.
....
Raphaël and Luelle arrived three days before the birthday, stepping through the Floo together in a swirl of green flames. It was Luelle's preference. Ever since she was nine, she had insisted that Floo travel felt less disorienting when someone stood beside her. She repeated this belief every time they arrived by the hearth.
Raphaël Evans was thirty-one, though anyone unfamiliar with the family might have mistaken him for someone closer to twenty-six. Tall, with their mother's green eyes and their father's ears, he moved with the deliberate care of someone who thought before he spoke.
His gaze swept over the entrance hall, taking in the high rafters before settling on Morwenna. She stood in the middle of the hall with Cinder perched on her shoulders, the fox's tail draped across her chest.
« Bonjour, petite, » he greeted her.
Morwenna watched him closely, tracking his movements.
"Mama's?" she asked, pointing at him.
"Her brother," Raphaël explained, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. "Your uncle."
Morwenna tilted her head, looking between him and her mother.
"More people," she declared, visibly pleased by the latest additions to the household.
Luelle was twenty-one and had apparently decided that the Evans family's tradition of emotional restraint was entirely optional. Shorter than Jane and rarely still, she had inherited Lucien's warm colouring, and every feeling she experienced showed plainly on her face.
Less than a minute after stepping out of the fireplace, she had crossed the hall and crouched in front of Morwenna. She smelled faintly of crushed lavender.
The nearby flames flared playfully, brightening for an instant before settling again, as though responding to the warmth of her Veela-touched delight.
"You are the most beautiful child I have ever seen in my entire life, and I have waited a whole year to tell you that again!"
Morwenna stood perfectly still, one finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin in an imitation of Aldric's familiar thinking pose. Cinder's ears swivelled forward, following the rhythmic tapping.
Then Morwenna replied in Parseltongue, her cadence calm and precise.
Luelle blinked before laughing. "She says I smell like flowers," she told Jane. "Since when?"
"Since last Tuesday."
Luelle immediately brightened and turned back to her niece. "Can you say something else?"
Morwenna didn't repeat herself. Instead, she offered another phrase in Parseltongue, calmly sharing a new observation. Cinder's ears swivelled towards her, his amber eyes following her lips.
From the library, Aldric's voice drifted into the hall, sounding distinctly amused.
"She is correct. You do smell like flowers."
Luelle laughed. « Mon dieu, » she murmured, her voice ringing beneath the rafters.
Morwenna looked pleased.
....
Morning light streamed through the curtains, illuminating a manor already buzzing with excitement. The clear April weather was pleasant enough, but the real brightness came from the voices and activity filling the house.
Morwenna woke well before sunrise.
First, she became Tilly's problem when the elf discovered an awake toddler in the nursery who refused to stay beneath the quilts. Then Jack took over the early shift, his footsteps echoing along the corridors as he tried to keep up with her. Before long, anyone within earshot had been dragged into the festivities.
At two years old, Morwenna had strong opinions about how a birthday morning ought to proceed. She expressed them clearly and loudly enough to ensure that nobody slept in for long.
Jack stood beside a stone pillar near the entrance, his thumb brushing his signet ring as he surveyed the preparations. By the time the family gathered for breakfast, the Great Hall had been transformed into a riot of light and colour.
Golden lights floated beneath the vaulted ceiling, glittering like stars as they drifted towards the rafters. Enchanted figures danced along the marble mantelpiece, their feet clicking against the stone. Silk streamers swept through the air in graceful arcs, shifting from cream to gold whenever they caught the morning sunlight.
Along the walls, painted ancestors stirred within their gilded frames, watching the decorations with varying degrees of approval, curiosity, and amusement.
Morwenna followed every movement, tilting her head so far back to watch the floating decorations that she nearly toppled over.
She wore her favourite green dress, its colour vivid against her pale skin. Cinder had joined her for the morning festivities, draped across her shoulders with his amber eyes alert as he surveyed the hall. In her left hand, she held her wooden serpent.
She inspected the decorations with a discerning expression, apparently satisfied that everything had been arranged to her standards.
"Two," she announced to Edmund Keith's portrait, holding up two fingers on her left hand.
The nearby fireplace flared with a bright pop of orange.
"Indeed," Edmund replied gravely, adjusting his painted collar as he looked down at her. "Congratulations."
"Cake," Morwenna added, confirming the next step in the household's birthday protocol.
"I'm aware," Edmund said. "I have been informed of this several times already this morning."
At exactly ten o'clock, while the servants were still clearing the breakfast plates from the long table, the Floo flared.
Viviane Beaumont stepped through the flames, and the fire settled behind her. She carried herself with the familiar Beaumont composure, entering the room as though she had already assessed everyone in it. Her travelling robes were practical, impeccably tailored, and made from dark silk that had emerged from the journey without a single crease.
Her composure didn't disappear when she saw Morwenna, but it softened. Her shoulders relaxed, and her attention settled entirely on the child.
« Mon trésor, » she said, her voice warm despite her usual restraint. "Finally. Two years, and here you are. Two whole years I have waited to see this face while your mother sent me letters full of descriptions instead of letting me visit."
Morwenna studied her carefully, her gaze as focused as ever when meeting someone new. She neither retreated nor approached, content to observe first.
Jane appeared in the archway behind her.
"Vhat vould you have had me do?" she asked, leaning against the stone. Her left thumb traced the small silver ring on her right little finger. "You know ze rule. C'est la règle (It is the rule)."
"The rule," Viviane said, keeping her eyes on Morwenna, "is unreasonable."
"Ze rule," Jane replied, plucking a loose thread from her sleeve, "ees ze rule."
"I wrote every month."
"You wrote every week."
"Because you were keeping my goddaughter from me!" Viviane finally turned towards Jane, her mouth set in a line of complaint. "Two years, Jane. I imagined her every month from your descriptions. I want you to know that I imagined her correctly, but that's beside the point."
Jane remained entirely unapologetic, watching her friend with a knowing smile.
Morwenna had listened to their exchange in silence. Now she pointed at Viviane.
"Mama's friend?" she asked.
"Yes," Jane replied. "And your friend, too. She is your godmother, Morwenna. Her name is Viviane."
"Vivi," Morwenna attempted, the syllables coming out softly.
Viviane's expression softened at once. She crouched to the child's level, her robes pooling around her.
"Close enough," she said. "Bonjour , little one. I have thought about you every day for two years. I hope you are everything I imagined."
Morwenna immediately held out her carved serpent by the tail, offering it with her left hand.
Viviane accepted it with both hands. She examined the intricate carvings with complete seriousness, running her thumbs over the smooth wood as though assessing its craftsmanship rather than inspecting a child's toy.
When she returned it, Morwenna seemed satisfied. She raised two fingers again.
"Two," she said.
"Two," Viviane agreed. "A very significant number."
"Cake," Morwenna added.
"I fully support the concept of cake," Viviane replied.
Jane watched the exchange with satisfaction. Her daughter and her best friend appeared to be getting along perfectly well.
Viviane rose, her usual composure restored, though a warmth remained in her expression. She surveyed the assembled family, the floating lights, and the crowd filling the Great Hall.
"I didn't realise there would be so many people," she remarked to Jane.
"You have been corresponding with me for two years. Didn't you realise that Keith family gatherings involve the entire family?"
"I knew the entire family would eventually appear. I simply didn't expect everyone to arrive at once." Viviane glanced around the hall again. "How long has everyone been here?"
"The grandparents arrived two weeks ago. Saoirse arrived five days ago, and Raphaël and Luelle three days ago."
Viviane considered this for a moment.
"And all of them arrived before me."
"Yes."
"Because of the rule."
"Because of the rule," Jane confirmed.
Jane's attention returned to Morwenna, who was sitting in Saoirse's lap and demonstrating something important about Cinder's left ear. Her gestures were broad and emphatic.
Viviane turned back to Jane, narrowing her eyes.
"All right," she said. "Tell me about this rule. From the beginning."
The fire crackled softly in the hearth as the adults turned their attention to the conversation, while the birthday celebrations continued around them.