Two months passed.
With the guests gone, the manor settled into a quieter routine. Morwenna quickly grew used to it. Mornings belonged to Jack's study, where the air smelled of old ink and beeswax. She sat on the rug with a heavy book open across her lap while his quill scratched across the parchment on his desk.
Afternoons were for the gardens or the warm, damp greenhouse, depending on the English weather. Evenings belonged to Jane, who read her long stories by the fire or simply sat with her while the shadows stretched across the patterned rugs.
Morwenna still checked the Floo some mornings. Not every day, but occasionally she would stop in front of the empty hearth and stare at the cold grate before turning away to fetch her boots.
Saoirse stayed.
No one had asked her to remain, but she showed no sign of leaving. Every morning, she appeared at the breakfast table with her dark hair in a windblown mess and a steaming cup of tea in hand. She claimed she was merely "between travels", which could mean anything from a week to an entire season.
Jack never questioned her excuse. Neither did Jane. They both understood that Morwenna needed someone who could fill the manor's quiet with a little noise.
On a warm morning in early June, the scent of roses drifted through the open windows. Morwenna stood on a small wooden stool at the kitchen counter, both hands buried in a bowl of dough. Flour dusted her white hair and face, covered her clothes and the counter, and had somehow spread across much of the stone floor.
Tilly stood nearby, looking resigned to the mess. He had accepted that flour in every corner of the kitchen was simply the price of letting the child continue her work.
Saoirse leaned against the doorway, watching with amusement.
"You are getting better at that," she remarked.
Morwenna looked up, considering the statement with the same seriousness she gave everything she did.
"Yes," she replied before returning to her kneading.
The dough had already been kneaded more than enough. It was smooth and elastic, ready for the oven. Morwenna had started making bread for her French grandfather while he was staying at the manor, and she had continued even after he returned to France. Now, she made it for everyone else.
Saoirse crossed the kitchen and peered into the bowl.
"That's a lot of bread, isn't it?"
"For everyone," Morwenna answered.
"For everyone," Saoirse repeated, smiling. "Very efficient."
Morwenna nodded and continued kneading, pressing her small hands into the dough with surprising strength.
. . .
The rest of the morning followed its usual routine: breakfast, the garden, then the library.
Morwenna slept less than she used to. Sometimes she lay in bed with Cinder curled at her feet, staring at the ceiling without saying a word. Other times, she got up after a short while and went to find Tilly, who could always find some small task for her.
That afternoon, she found Jane in the morning room, surrounded by a stack of letters.
Jane looked up as her daughter appeared in the doorway.
"You can't sleep, ma chérie?"
Morwenna shook her head. She crossed the room, climbed onto the velvet settee, and settled beside her mother. Cinder followed, squeezing himself between them with a contented huff.
Jane put the letters on a small table. "Then we can do something else. Perhaps a story?"
Morwenna considered the suggestion, her brow furrowed as she thought. Then she pointed towards the window, where June sunlight lay across the lawn.
"Garden?"
"It's too hot just now."
"Lake?"
"Perhaps later. It's a little too far for now."
Morwenna thought harder, her jaw set with concentration.
"Stories?"
"Stories will do nicely."
Jane reached for one of the illustrated French books Celestine had left behind. She opened the heavy cover to a page marked with a green silk ribbon.
Morwenna leaned against her mother's side and watched the magical pictures as Jane began to read.
The story was about a girl who followed a white bird into the woods and discovered a house made entirely of bread. It wasn't a trap, nor a place where the hungry were lured to their doom. It was a warm home where the girl was fed and kept safe.
Morwenna listened without moving, her breathing gradually matching the rhythm of Jane's voice.
When the story ended, she asked, "Like my bread?"
"Like your bread," Jane replied.
She brushed a loose strand of white hair away from Morwenna's face. "Perhaps one day you will build a house of your own."
Morwenna looked down at her hands. There were still traces of flour in the creases of her skin.
"Too small."
"You will grow, Morwenna."
"Yes."
They sat together as afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, turning the dust in the air golden. Somewhere in the manor, Saoirse was probably finding another way to cause trouble.
After a while, Morwenna spoke again.
"Gran-ma and Gran-da coming back?"
"Soon."
"When?"
"Soon, ma chérie. I promise."
Morwenna studied her mother's face. She had heard that answer before, and she remembered.
"That's what you said last time."
Jane smiled. "You remember that?"
"Yes."
"Then you remember that they came back before."
Morwenna thought about it. She remembered Aldric's deep voice and Seraphina's gentle hands. Those memories had stayed clear in her mind, even after they left.
"Yes," she said.
"So they will come back again."
Morwenna nodded, satisfied with the answer. She leaned against her mother and closed her eyes.
She didn't fall asleep, but she rested there in the warmth of Jane's embrace.
.....
The carriage arrived on a Thursday.
Morwenna heard it first. The crunch of wheels on gravel and the steady trot of horses reached her in the library, where Saoirse was trying to teach her a card trick that wasn't working at all. Morwenna was far too observant to be fooled so easily.
Her head turned sharply towards the window.
"What is it?" Saoirse asked.
"Carriage."
Morwenna slid off her chair and hurried towards the door.
Saoirse watched her go, then glanced at Cinder, who had darted after the girl.
"Well," she muttered to the empty library, "I suppose that's that, then."
Morwenna reached the entrance hall just as the heavy front door opened.
Aldric stepped inside first. The moment he saw Morwenna waiting in the hall, his expression softened.
She didn't run towards him. Instead, she stood still, looking him over as if making sure he was really there.
Aldric crossed the distance between them and crouched on the stone floor.
"Hello, little one."
"Gran-da," she said.
Then she stepped forward and wrapped her small arms around his neck.
He held her close, one large hand covering most of her back. He said nothing, simply letting her press her face against his woollen shoulder.
Seraphina entered behind him and stopped when she saw them. Her hand rose briefly to her mouth.
"Oh," she whispered.
Jane appeared in the archway, with Jack just behind her. Saoirse leaned over the upstairs banister. No one interrupted them.
After a while, Morwenna pulled back and looked at Aldric. Then she turned towards Seraphina.
"Gran-ma."
She held out her arms.
Seraphina gathered her up at once and kissed her white curls.
"My little girl," she murmured. "We missed you too."
That evening, the manor felt like home again.
It wasn't as lively as it had been during Morwenna's birthday, nor were the rooms crowded with guests. The house was simply warmer with her grandparents back, and the silence that had settled over it during their absence no longer felt quite so heavy.
Dinner was served in the morning room. Jack and Jane sat with Aldric and Seraphina, while Saoirse and Morwenna completed the group. Cinder waited beneath the table, watching for any food that might come his way.
Morwenna sat between her grandparents, eating carefully and occasionally slipping Cinder a bite beneath the table. She listened as the adults talked, paying attention to more than just their words.
Aldric spoke about their travels, mentioning places and people she had never heard of. Morwenna listened anyway, remembering every detail she could.
After dinner, Seraphina brought out her knitting. Dark green and silver wool lay in her lap, and the pattern was beginning to take shape.
Morwenna watched the bone needles move, their soft clicks catching her attention.
"How?"
Seraphina slowed down to show her. She demonstrated how to make a loop, pull the yarn through, and form the next stitch.
Morwenna reached out and touched the wool.
"Soft."
"Yes."
"I want to."
Seraphina studied her for a moment before reaching into her bag. She took out a smaller pair of needles and a spare ball of yarn.
"These are for practice. You won't make anything just yet. First, you need to learn the movements."
Morwenna accepted them carefully. She held the needles as Seraphina had shown her, but the yarn slipped between her fingers.
She tried again.
The needles clicked together. The yarn slipped loose. Nothing took shape.
She tried a second time, with the same result.
Her brow furrowed. She looked at Seraphina's hands, then down at her own.
"Why?"
"Your hands are still small, darling. They need time to learn. You can keep practising until then."
Morwenna considered this explanation, then tried again, gripping the needles more firmly.
They clicked together. The yarn slipped. Nothing formed.
At last, she put the needles down on the settee.
"Later."
"There's time," Seraphina assured her. "Plenty of time."
. . .
The next morning, Aldric found Morwenna in the library. Early sunlight fell across the floorboards, catching the dust in the air.
She sat with a heavy bestiary open across her lap. Cinder lay beside her in a patch of pale sunlight, his russet fur almost golden in the light. Morwenna's small finger moved from one hand-painted illustration to the next as she spoke in Parseltongue. She formed each hissing sound with care, as if the creatures in the book might hear her.
Aldric settled into a nearby leather armchair, his joints creaking faintly. He left his own book unopened on his knee and watched her.
After a while, Morwenna looked up, her green eyes bright.
"Gran-da."
"Little one."
She struggled to turn the heavy book towards him. The page showed a serpent coiled around a flowering branch, its scales painted in deep emerald and gold.
"Sss," she said, then continued in Parseltongue. "This one is sleeping."
Aldric replied in the same language. "It looks peaceful."
"It is." Morwenna studied the illustration a little longer before looking at him again. "You were gone a long time."
"We were. Did you miss us?"
She nodded, her expression serious.
"I counted."
"What did you count?"
She held up one hand, spreading all five fingers.
"This many days. Then more. Then I stopped."
Aldric looked at her small hand, his expression softening.
"Counting only works when you know how many days there will be. We didn't know."
"Next time you know?"
"Next time, we will tell you before we leave. Then you can count properly."
Morwenna thought about this, then nodded once. Satisfied, she returned to her book.
That afternoon, Saoirse found them in the garden. The air was warm, carrying the scent of damp earth and lavender.
Morwenna walked along the low stone wall beside the herb beds, her arms stretched out for balance. Her white curls bounced as she moved. Aldric walked beside her, keeping one hand ready to catch her if she fell, though she showed no sign of needing his help.
When she reached the end of the wall, Morwenna jumped down onto the grass with a soft thud and looked up at him.
"Good."
"Very good," Aldric agreed. "You have better balance than your father did at your age."
"Really?"
"Really. He fell straight into the fish pond when he was two."
Morwenna's eyes widened.
"Dada?"
"Dada. Straight into the water. The fish were most surprised."
She burst out laughing, her voice carrying across the garden.
Saoirse stood by the greenhouse door, watching them.
That evening, after Morwenna had gone to bed, the adults gathered in the morning room.
The fire burned low in the grate, its light flickering across the wooden panels. Their glasses of wine remained untouched on the table, and the room was quiet and comfortable.
"She is doing well," Seraphina said, her knitting needles clicking softly as she worked.
Jane nodded, holding a warm cup between her hands. "She misses you, but she is doing well."
"Her speech has improved," Aldric observed. "She uses more words now, and her thoughts are clearer."
"She talks to Cinder constantly," Saoirse added. "In Parseltongue. The fox listens as if he understands every word."
"Perhaps he does," Aldric said.
They considered that for a moment.
Seraphina lowered her knitting. "We should start thinking about her education."
Jane looked up. "She is only two."
"She is two now, but she will be three before long. Her first maturity isn't far off." Seraphina spoke calmly. "I'm not suggesting formal lessons yet. Just a foundation. She needs some preparation before her proper education begins."
Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What do you suggest?"
"Routine, first. Children learn through repetition. A familiar daily schedule gives them something steady to rely on as they grow.
Second, exposure to family magic. No lessons yet. Let her watch us perform simple things: lighting candles without a flame, encouraging plants to grow, speaking with portraits. She will learn by observing.
Third, stories. The old tales about Myrddin, Morgana, and the founding lines. She won't understand everything now, but she will remember the names.
And fourth, physical development. Balance, coordination, and control over her hands. All of it will help her when she begins learning magic."
Aldric nodded. "Agreed."
Jane listened, then glanced at Jack. He gave her a small nod.
"That sounds reasonable," she said.
"I will take the stories," Seraphina offered. "And the knitting. It will help her learn to control her fingers."
"I will handle the physical side," Saoirse said. "Walks, balance, that sort of thing. She likes the wall."
"She does," Aldric agreed. "I watched her walk along it today."
Jack turned to his father. "And you?"
Aldric smiled faintly. "I will read to her in English and Parseltongue. She should hear both languages spoken properly."
They continued planning by the fire, making arrangements for a child who was still small enough to struggle with the buttons on her coat.
.....
The next morning, Morwenna woke to find Seraphina sitting in the nursery by the window, knitting in the early morning light.
Morwenna pushed herself upright, her white curls tousled around her face. Cinder stirred at her feet and stretched.
"Gran-ma?"
"Good morning, little one." Seraphina set her knitting aside. "Today, we are going to start something new."
Morwenna looked at her curiously. "What?"
"A routine. We will follow a certain order each day, so you know what comes next."
Morwenna thought about that, then glanced towards the window, where the sun was beginning to rise over the hills.
"First?"
"First, you get dressed. You should do as much as you can by yourself. Then we have breakfast, and after that, we continue with the rest of the day."
Morwenna climbed out of bed and went to the small pile of clothes Jane had laid out for her. She picked up her green dress, examined it, then looked at Seraphina.
"Help?"
"A little. Try it yourself first."
Morwenna tried.
She managed to pull the dress over her head, but put her arm through the wrong opening. When she tried to pull the fabric down, it caught. She tugged harder, her face scrunching up with the effort.
Seraphina watched without interfering, giving her time to work it out.
At last, Morwenna stopped and examined the problem. She looked at the fabric, her trapped arm, and the shape of the dress.
"Stuck."
"Yes. What happened?"
Morwenna thought for a moment before pulling her arm free. She looked at the dress again and realised she had used the wrong opening.
"Oh."
She tried again, this time finding the correct sleeve. The dress slipped into place, though it sat a little crooked.
Seraphina stepped forward, straightened the dark green fabric, and fastened the small buttons.
"Well done," she said.
"I did it."
"You did."
Then they went downstairs to breakfast.
.....
The new routine soon became part of everyday life.
Mornings belonged to Seraphina. She taught Morwenna simple tasks that required patience and steady hands: pouring water from a small jug without spilling, folding linen napkins so the corners lined up, and holding the bone knitting needles correctly. The knitting still proved difficult. The wool often tangled or slipped from the smooth needles, but Morwenna kept trying.
Afternoons belonged to Saoirse. Whenever the English weather allowed, they spent their time outside, where the air smelled of cut grass and damp earth. They walked along the lake, practised balancing on the low, moss-covered garden walls, and sometimes visited the creature meadow.
There, Saoirse often pointed out things Morwenna couldn't yet see.
"Horses," Saoirse said one afternoon, pointing towards a patch of swaying grass.
Morwenna followed her gaze, squinting in the bright sunlight. All she could see was the wind moving through the clover.
"Where?"
"Right there. By the elder tree."
Morwenna searched the empty space with her green eyes, but she still saw nothing.
"No."
Saoirse blinked, then laughed. "Right. You can't see them yet. That's all right. They are shy."
Morwenna accepted this without question. Shy, invisible horses seemed perfectly reasonable to her.
Evenings belonged to the whole family. They gathered for dinner in the morning room, where candlelight flickered against the dark wood, then settled down for stories. Sometimes Aldric read from the heavy books in English. Other times, he used the soft hissing sounds of Parseltongue. Morwenna listened to both, tilting her head as she tried to follow the sounds, even when the meanings escaped her.
Every night before bed, she stood at the window and looked at the silver moon above the trees.
One evening, Jane found her with her forehead against the cool glass.
"Still looking, darling?"
Morwenna nodded. "Gran-ma sees it too."
"Yes, she does."
"Gran-da too."
"Yes."
"Elara and Vivi too. Maybe."
"Maybe."
Morwenna watched a thin cloud drift past the crescent moon. After a while, she spoke again.
"I'm not sad."
Jane knelt beside her on the rug. "No?"
"No. They come back. Gran-da and Gran-ma came back. So the others will too."
Jane studied her daughter's face, her white hair shining in the moonlight. She wondered how Morwenna could be so certain.
"Yes," she said. "They will."
Morwenna nodded, satisfied, and went to bed with Cinder trotting after her.
....
June gradually gave way to July.
The weather stayed warm, and the gardens filled with flowers. Morwenna learned to pour her own juice, though she still occasionally missed the cup and left a small puddle on the table. She also learned to set the long dining table, placing each napkin carefully.
"One for Mama. One for Dada. One for Gran-ma. One for Gran-da. One for Saoirse. One for Mimi."
She counted on her fingers, sometimes skipping a number or repeating one when she got ahead of herself. But she always finished by patting the last napkin with satisfaction.
Every morning, she fed Cinder, saving him a choice piece of meat from her own plate. The fennec fox soon learned to wait beside her chair, his large ears turning towards her whenever she moved.
Morwenna also discovered that if she called "Gran-da" in a particularly firm voice, Aldric would stop whatever he was doing and listen. She used this power carefully.
One afternoon, Aldric found her in the library with the heavy bestiary open before her again.
She sat on the floor, looking at the illustration of the gold-scaled serpent and speaking softly in Parseltongue.
Aldric settled into the nearby armchair and listened.
Morwenna told the painted serpent about her day. She described the bread she had made that morning and her walk down to the lake. She talked about the shy horses she still couldn't see and the story Gran-ma had read to her over lunch.
When she finished, she looked up at Aldric.
"Gran-da talk to pictures?"
Aldric considered the question. "Sometimes. When I was young, I often talked to the portraits. Some of the people in those pictures are our ancestors. They live in the portraits and watch over the family."
Morwenna glanced towards the open door and the corridor beyond it.
"They watch me?"
"All the time, little one."
She thought about that.
"That's a lot of watching."
Aldric laughed, his voice warm in the quiet library.
"Yes," he agreed. "It is."
....
On the last day of June, Morwenna stood at the kitchen counter with Saoirse, making bread. The air was warm with the smell of yeast, and flour dusted the counter around them.
They were making bread together. Or rather, Morwenna was in charge, while Saoirse helped only when told to.
"More flour," Morwenna ordered.
Saoirse reached for the sack and sprinkled a little more flour over the sticky dough.
"More water."
Saoirse poured a thin stream from a small ceramic jug.
"Mix."
Saoirse leaned against the counter and watched Morwenna push and knead the dough with her small hands. Her white curls bounced with every movement.
"You are very bossy," Saoirse remarked, amusement in her eyes.
"What is bossy?"
"Telling people what to do."
Morwenna thought about that for a moment. She looked at the dough, then back at Saoirse.
"More flour," she said firmly.
Saoirse laughed and did as she was told.
The bread turned out well. They ate it at dinner while it was still warm from the oven. Jack sliced through the golden crust, which crackled beneath the knife, revealing soft, steaming bread. Butter melted into the fresh slices.
Morwenna watched everyone take their first bites, carefully studying their reactions.
"Good?" she asked, holding her fork ready.
"Very good," Jack said with a nod.
"Good," Jane agreed with a smile.
"Delicious, darling," Seraphina said.
"Excellent," Aldric added warmly.
Satisfied with their answers, Morwenna finally began eating her own piece.
After dinner, the family gathered in the morning room. Morwenna sat between her grandparents on the settee. Seraphina knitted with her bone needles while Aldric read a book, holding it open in his large hands.
Morwenna had her bestiary across her lap, but she paid little attention to the text. Instead, she traced the hand-painted illustrations, following the curve of a serpent's spine with her small finger. Every now and then, she whispered to the pictures in Parseltongue, telling them things only she seemed to understand.
The fire burned low in the grate, spreading a warm glow across the rugs. Cinder slept at her feet, his russet fur lit by the flames.
Seraphina glanced up from her knitting and met Aldric's eyes over Morwenna's head. They exchanged a look but said nothing.
That night, before getting into bed, Morwenna stood by the nursery window.
Jane found her there, her forehead resting against the glass.
"The moon again?"
Morwenna nodded. "Big tonight."
The full moon hung above the treeline, casting silver light over the dark gardens.
"Gran-ma sees it," Morwenna said softly. "Gran-pere too."
"Yes, they do."
Morwenna watched the stars for a while before speaking again.
"I'm glad they came back."
Jane knelt beside her on the rug. "Me too."
"I missed them."
"I know you did."
"But they came back."
"Yes. They did."
Morwenna gazed at the moon a little longer, then turned and climbed into bed. Cinder jumped up after her, circled once, and curled into a ball at her feet.
Jane pulled the heavy covers over her daughter and kissed her forehead.
"Goodnight, Morwenna."
"Goodnight, Mama."
Jane paused in the doorway to look back. Morwenna was already asleep, one small hand resting in Cinder's soft fur.
She closed the door quietly and went to find Jack.
He was in the study, sitting in his chair and watching the dying fire rather than working.
"Is she all right?" he asked when Jane came in.
Jane sat opposite him. "She is fine. More than fine."
Jack waited for her to explain.
"She was standing at the window, looking at the moon. She said she was glad they came back." Jane looked towards the embers. "She is only two, Jack, but she already understands that people leave and return. She knows that missing someone doesn't mean they are gone forever."
Jack watched the fire for a moment before answering.
"She gets that from you."
Jane gave a tired laugh. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."