The bookshop stood on a quiet side street, tucked between a small bakery and a dusty charity shop. The bakery filled the air with the warm smell of toasted yeast and caramelized sugar, wafting out whenever someone opened its heavy door.
Outside the charity shop, a rack of secondhand clothes fluttered gently in the cool breeze, carrying the faint scent of stale perfume and old wool.
Above the bookshop's entrance hung a colorful sign that read Little Readers. Its bright red, blue, and yellow letters were the exact same shades as the wooden blocks Morwenna had been stacking on the marble floor the day before.
Jane pushed open the door, and a small brass bell jingled overhead.
The shop was warm and cozy, filled with the pleasant scents of aged paper, fresh ink, and a faint hint of vanilla. Books crowded the shelves from the wooden floorboards to the high, ornate ceiling.
Picture books occupied the lower shelves, their glossy covers bright and inviting, while older volumes filled the higher ones, their spines worn and their titles faded by years of London sunlight.
A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. She appeared to be in her sixties, with short gray hair and glasses hanging from a silver chain around her neck.
"Can I help you?"
Jane returned her smile. It felt a little stiff on her face, this ordinary expression of friendliness, but she managed it well enough.
"We are looking for books for our daughter. She is three."
The woman came out from behind the counter, her shoes clicking softly against the wooden floor. She moved with the unhurried ease of someone who knew every corner of her shop.
"Is this the first time you have bought books for her?"
"It's the first time we have bought anything for her, really." Jane lowered her voice slightly, looking a little embarrassed. "She has been unwell for a long time and hasn't been able to go out, meet people, or do the things other children normally do. Her health is finally improving, so we want to start preparing her for what comes next."
The woman's expression softened with genuine sympathy. There was a particular kindness in her eyes, the sort that came from having met many worried parents over the years.
"Oh, you poor thing. Of course. Let me show you what we have."
She led them through the narrow aisles, selecting books with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly where everything belonged.
There were board books with bright illustrations and thick, sturdy pages that little hands could turn without tearing.
Picture books offered simple stories with rhythmic, repeating phrases. The woman showed them books about colors, numbers, and all kinds of animals, each designed to help young children discover the world around them.
Then she moved on to books about feelings.
There was a little bear learning to recognize and name its emotions, a story about a child struggling with separation anxiety, and several books about making friends, visiting the doctor, and facing unfamiliar situations.
They were all ordinary childhood experiences, yet many of them were things Morwenna had never encountered beyond the walls of the manor.
Jane listened carefully, nodding as the woman explained the differences between the books and recommended suitable choices. Meanwhile, her mind filled with questions she had never thought to ask before.
How could she tell when Morwenna was ready for longer stories? What should she do if her daughter lost interest halfway through a page? Were there books that could help a child cope with anxiety, unfamiliar surroundings, or the overwhelming amount of sights and sounds that came with experiencing the outside world for the first time at four?
The woman answered every question patiently. She pulled more books from the shelves, recommended specific authors and series, and explained which ones might be most useful as Morwenna grew older.
She never pressed Jane for details about her daughter's illness. Instead, she respected the boundaries Jane had quietly set, offering help without asking questions she clearly didn't want to answer.
By the time they were ready to leave, the paper bag in Jane's hand had grown heavy with books.
The woman walked them to the counter and then reached for a small appointment card, pressing it into Jane's hand.
"I would recommend this pediatrician," she said. "She is particularly good with children who have more complex needs."
Jane looked down at the card, carefully noting the name and contact details.
"Thank you. That's very kind of you."
The woman smiled.
"Give them a call. They will help you."
Jane tucked the card deep into her pocket.
The children's clothing store was a ten-minute walk away. As they continued down the street, the surroundings gradually became quieter and more residential. Plane trees lined the pavement, their fresh spring leaves beginning to fill out in vibrant shades of green.
The store was considerably louder than the bookshop. Pop music played through speakers hidden in the ceiling, a bright, repetitive song that Jane vaguely remembered from years ago.
Children ran between the circular clothing racks, shrieking with excitement as their parents called after them in various states of exasperation.
A toddler sat on the floor, his face bright red and mottled as he screamed while his mother struggled to get him into a pair of stiff denim trousers. A baby cried in a pram nearby, while a girl of about five spun in dizzying circles until she toppled over, laughing.
Jane made her way through the chaos, her senses unusually sharp. She picked up tiny pairs of jeans, soft cotton T-shirts, and pajamas printed with cartoon animals.
She found socks with rubber grips on the soles, which seemed useful for the manor's marble floors, and chose a little coat with a hood in a cheerful shade of blue. The material felt warm and sturdy. She checked the seams, held each item up to the light, and placed her selections in the basket Jack carried.
Then she picked up a pair of tiny trainers. They were blue with white stripes and little white laces.
"She will hate these," Jane said.
Jack smiled. "Probably."
They bought them anyway.
At the counter, a teenage girl with bright purple hair and a small nose ring rang up their purchases. She asked if they were shopping for a gift, and Jane said they were buying things for their daughter. The girl smiled and complimented the trainers, calling them cute.
Jane smiled back. It was becoming a little easier to go through the motions of an ordinary life, even when each small step reminded her of everything Morwenna had missed.
At half past eleven, they found a small café with mismatched wooden tables and the rich aroma of freshly roasted coffee. Jane ordered tea, and Jack ordered the same. They sat beside the window, watching Londoners pass along the pavement.
Jane took the appointment card from her pocket and turned it over between her fingers. The cheap paper felt slightly rough, and one corner had bent during the walk.
"I should call now," she said.
"Finish your tea first."
She did as he suggested, though the tea was still far too hot. She burned her tongue on the first sip and barely registered the sting.
Around noon, she got up and crossed the café, weaving between tables as the low murmur of conversation continued around her. A small telephone was mounted on the wall near the counter. She asked the staff if she could use it, and they agreed without making a fuss.
The line clicked as she dialed. The receptionist who answered was polite and efficient, and there was an available appointment at three that afternoon.
Jane accepted it without hesitation.
. . .
The pediatrician's office was in a converted Victorian house on a quiet, leafy street. Three names were engraved on a brass sign beside the entrance, and a small, well-kept garden stretched across the front, its spring flowers just beginning to bloom in shades of purple and white.
Jane sat in the waiting room with a glossy magazine open on her lap. She wasn't reading it. Instead, her eyes moved around the room, taking in every detail.
Several other parents were waiting with children of different ages. A baby slept peacefully in a plastic carrier, its tiny fingers curled around the strap.
A boy of about four was building a wobbly tower out of wooden blocks while his mother watched, one hand resting gently on his back.
Nearby, a little girl with pigtails was coloring in a book, the tip of her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in exactly the same way Morwenna's did whenever she concentrated.
Jane watched them all. She noticed the mother's smile when the boy's tower remained standing, the girl's complete absorption in her coloring, and the baby's tiny fingers curled around its mother's thumb.
A dull, persistent ache settled in her chest.
Jack reached for her hand. His palm was warm and steady, and he didn't say anything. He simply held on, giving her something solid to focus on.
A nurse eventually called their names and led them into the doctor's office.
The pediatrician was a woman in her fifties with gray-streaked hair pulled into a neat, practical bun. Kind eyes looked out from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She shook their hands firmly before gesturing toward the upholstered chairs across from her desk.
"Now," she said, settling into her own chair and picking up a pen. "Tell me about your daughter."
Jane began with the simplified version of their story. Morwenna was three years old and had been unwell since birth. She had a rare, complicated condition that required specialist care, and until recently, her health had prevented her from leaving home.
She had never met other children or experienced the outside world. Now that her condition was improving, they wanted to prepare her for going out the following year.
The doctor listened attentively, nodding at appropriate moments as she made notes on a white pad.
Jane explained what they had bought at the bookshop and clothing store, along with their plans for the coming year. She asked about early education, socialization, and what they should expect when introducing a child to the outside world for the first time at four years old.
The doctor answered each question patiently. She recommended books, explained how local playgroups worked, and discussed separation anxiety and the challenges children could face when entering unfamiliar environments. She also asked about Morwenna's development.
Could she talk? Could she walk? Could she feed herself?
Jane answered everything she could.
Then her hands began to shake.
The doctor noticed at once. She put down her pen, and the soft click against the desk sounded surprisingly loud in the quiet room.
"Mrs. Keith, is there something else?"
Jane looked at Jack. He gave her a small, encouraging nod.
So she told the doctor about the treatment.
She kept her voice steady, forcing herself to describe everything as if she were reading from a medical report. She explained what the first treatment was supposed to accomplish and how gently they had expected it to go. Then she described Morwenna's reaction, the sudden distress, and the half hour of agony that followed.
Her voice remained level, but her body no longer obeyed her.
The trembling spread from her hands to her arms, and soon her shoulders were shaking as well. Each breath grew shorter and more difficult than the last. She gripped her thighs so tightly that her fingernails pressed painfully into the denim of her jeans.
She told the doctor how she had been unable to reach her daughter, how Jack had been forced to hold her back, and how she had watched Morwenna's tiny body convulse while hearing sounds no mother should ever have to hear from her child.
There had been nothing she could do. She had been right there, yet she couldn't help her.
Jane went on to explain the treatments that still lay ahead. Morwenna would need them again at five, seven, eleven, and seventeen. In the past, most children with her condition hadn't survived the second treatment.
Her daughter was different, she explained. Morwenna's case was unusually complicated, and the risks were considerably higher because of her unique condition. There was a very real possibility that she might not survive.
When Jane finally finished speaking, silence settled over the room.
Her hands were still shaking. She could feel her pulse pounding in her throat and temples, even behind her eyes. Despite the warmth of the office, her skin had turned cold and clammy with sweat.
The doctor's eyes glistened with tears, but she didn't wipe them away. She simply looked at Jane with an expression that was difficult to name. It wasn't pity or ordinary sympathy. It was the look of someone who had sat across from many parents and heard different versions of the same painful story.
"Mrs. Keith, Mr. Keith," she said softly. "I'm so sorry."
Jane nodded, unable to speak. Her throat felt as though a hand had closed around it, making even the simplest words impossible to force out.
The doctor leaned forward, clasping her hands together. "I would like to refer you to a colleague of mine. She is a psychologist who specializes in helping parents through situations like yours, particularly those who have experienced this kind of trauma."
Jack answered for them. His voice was steady, though exhaustion had left it rough around the edges. "We thought you might."
The doctor nodded and wrote something on a small white card before sliding it across the desk.
"Her name is Dr. Ellis. She is very good at what she does and works with families whose children have complex medical needs. She will understand what you are going through."
Jane took the card, her fingers cold against the paper.
"Thank you."
. . .
They sat together on a green wooden bench in a small neighborhood park. The late spring sun warmed their faces, casting a soft golden light over the grass. It wasn't yet the harsh heat of summer, and the air carried a pleasant warmth that made the afternoon feel peaceful.
Children ran across the lawn, chasing one another and shrieking with laughter. A dog raced after a bright yellow ball, while parents sat on nearby benches, chatting and sipping coffee from paper cups.
Jane watched a little girl climbing a plastic slide. She looked about three, with dark curls and a bright pink coat. Slowly and carefully, she made her way up, gripping the sides with her small hands. When she reached the top, she paused and looked back at her mother.
Then she waved.
Her mother waved back with a smile, and the little girl slid down with a delighted shriek.
"She is screaming," Jane murmured.
Jack turned to look at her.
"That little girl. She is screaming, but she is happy. It's joy." Jane's gaze remained fixed on the playground. Her voice sounded distant, as though her thoughts were somewhere far away. "Morwenna screamed like that once. At her party, when she was laughing."
Jack slipped an arm around her shoulders, his hand warm and steady.
"She will do it again," he said. "She will have years of it."
Jane leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and slow beneath his clothes.
"I know."
They stayed on the bench for a long time, watching the children play beneath the golden afternoon light.
. . .
Dr. Ellis's office was in a modest four-story building near the park. The lift creaked as it carried them to the third floor, where a quiet waiting room greeted them.
Soft piano music played somewhere in the background, its gentle melody filling the silence. A fish tank bubbled in one corner, goldfish drifting between artificial green plants. Toys had been arranged neatly in a wicker basket, though no children were waiting there that afternoon.
Jane sat on a couch that was far too soft, sinking into the cushions until she felt small and swallowed up by them. Jack sat beside her, their hands clasped together.
Dr. Ellis came out to meet them herself. She was a petite woman with short gray hair and glasses hanging from a silver chain around her neck. Her handshake was warm, and her smile seemed genuine.
"Come in," she said. "Please, have a seat."
Her office was comfortable, with the faint scent of old books in the air. Shelves held psychology textbooks, parenting guides, and novels, while a box of tissues sat on the low wooden table between the chairs. A large window overlooked the busy street below.
Rather than sitting behind a desk, Dr. Ellis settled into an armchair facing them, close enough to speak comfortably at the same level.
"Dr. Meadows sent me your file," she said, her expression kind. "I'm glad you came to see me. What you have been through..." She paused and slowly shook her head. "Most people would struggle to sit here and talk about it. Many would rather try to forget."
Jane's throat tightened. "We can't forget."
"No," Dr. Ellis agreed. "You can't. But you can learn to carry it."
They talked for an hour.
Jane told the story again, but this time, she didn't force herself to keep her voice steady. She let it crack. She let the tears fall down her cheeks and drip from her chin without wiping them away.
She spoke about the moment she realized she couldn't reach Morwenna, about fighting Jack as he held her back, and about the way his arms had felt around her, keeping her away from her own child. She told Dr. Ellis about the screams that had seemed to go on forever.
Jack watched her throughout, one hand resting on her knee to ground them both. When Jane paused to gather herself, he picked up where she had left off.
"I turned away," he said. "I couldn't watch anymore. I walked over to the wall and pressed my forehead against it. The stone was cold. I remember that. It was so cold, and she was screaming, and I couldn't..."
He stopped, his jaw tightening as he struggled to continue. "I couldn't do anything. I couldn't help her. I couldn't help my wife. I just stood there with my face against the wall."
Dr. Ellis waited without interrupting. The silence was patient and unhurried, giving him room to speak when he was ready.
"She fought me," Jack continued. "Jane. When I held her back, she fought me like she didn't even know who I was. Her nails..." He glanced down at his arm. The scratches had healed weeks ago, but he could still see them in his mind.
"She drew blood. I didn't feel it at the time. I only noticed later, when we were upstairs and Morwenna was sleeping. It stung, and I remember thinking, good. It should sting."
"Why did you think that?" Dr. Ellis asked gently.
Jack considered the question before answering. "Because I needed to feel something. I needed to know I was still there, that I had done something, even if that something was hurting her. For that half hour, I didn't feel like I existed. I was just... nothing. A wall. A pair of arms holding my wife back from her child."
Jane reached for his hand, and he held on tightly.
"I didn't heal the scratches," he continued. "I could have, but I didn't. I let them heal on their own. It took weeks. Every time I looked at them, I remembered. I remembered Jane fighting me. I remembered her screaming. I remembered the sound Nimue made when it got really bad."
Dr. Ellis nodded slowly. "You held on to the pain because part of you was afraid of letting it go."
Jack remained quiet for a long moment before answering.
"Yes."
Jane's thumb moved in small circles over his knuckles, mirroring the way his hand had been moving over her knee. Neither of them let go.
"It feels like I'm allowed to breathe again," Jack said at last. "Like I don't have to carry it every second of every day. But then I feel guilty for not carrying it." He looked at Dr. Ellis. "Is that normal?"
She gave him a small, understanding smile. "Very normal. Guilt is a strange thing. Sometimes it convinces us that we have to keep hurting, because if we stop, it means we didn't love enough."
She leaned forward slightly.
"But you did love enough. You loved your wife so much that you held her back from something that would have destroyed her. You loved your daughter so much that you stood with your face against a wall and endured the sound of her screams when you couldn't bear to watch anymore. And you love them both enough to be here now, trying to find a way to live with what happened."
Jack's throat tightened. He wanted to answer, but no words came. Jane squeezed his hand, and he squeezed hers in return.
After a moment, Dr. Ellis asked, "What do you need right now? At this very moment?"
Jack turned to look at his wife. Her eyes were red, her face swollen from crying, and she was leaning against him as though she needed his support to remain upright.
"I need her to be okay," he said quietly. "I need us to be okay. I need to go home, hold my daughter, and know that she is real, warm, and alive."
Dr. Ellis nodded. "That's a good answer."
They went on to discuss the future, including the treatments that still lay ahead and the possibility that Morwenna might not survive them. By then, Jane's voice had grown steadier, though it remained quiet. She held Jack's hand between both of hers.
"The next treatment is in two years. She will be five." Jane paused, running her thumb along the edge of his palm. "They told us each treatment becomes harder. Her body has to adapt, the treatments grow stronger, and the pain increases."
She took a slow breath.
"Two years. That's what we have. Two years to prepare, to research, and to understand why her body reacted the way it did."
Dr. Ellis listened as the clock ticked softly in the background.
"I think about it all the time," Jane continued, her voice growing quieter. "Not in a panic, not anymore. It's just always there, somewhere in the back of my mind. I will be reading to her, and she will lean against me, and suddenly I will wonder..."
She stopped and swallowed.
"Will I still be doing this when she is six? When she is ten?"
Jane looked up at Dr. Ellis, her eyes shining again.
"Nimue is three. She is only three, and I already have to wonder whether she will live to see six or seven. Whether she will ever go to school, make friends, fall in love, or have a life of her own."
Her voice cracked. She pressed her lips together, trying to steady herself before continuing.
"I have to think about these things because if I don't, if I pretend there's no chance of losing her, then I won't survive it if it happens."
The words hung between them, heavy with the fear she had been carrying for weeks.
Dr. Ellis leaned forward slightly. "What do you feel when you think about that?"
Jane fell silent. Her gaze drifted toward the window, where the street continued its ordinary bustle below.
"I'm angry," she finally said. "Not at anyone in particular. Not at the doctors, not at her condition, and certainly not at Nimue."
She drew a shaky breath.
"I'm just angry. That she has to go through this. That we have to live with it. That nothing is certain, and I could do everything right and still lose her."
Her voice trembled, but she continued.
"And I'm already grieving her. I'm mourning a loss that hasn't even happened. What kind of mother does that?"
"A mother who loves her daughter," Dr. Ellis replied gently. "A mother who has been through something terrifying. A mother who is trying to prepare herself for the worst while still hoping for the best."
She gave Jane a moment to absorb her words before continuing.
"You aren't grieving your daughter. You are grieving the possibility of losing her. Those are two different things."
Jane's breath caught in her throat. She held it for a moment, then slowly let it out.
"The next treatment," Dr. Ellis said softly. "Tell me about it. What do you know?"
Jane described the treatment in detail. She explained the hospital setting, the specialists involved, and the careful monitoring required. Then she told Dr. Ellis how badly the first treatment had gone wrong.
"The next one will hurt more," she said. "That's what they told us. Each time, her body will have to work harder to accept the treatment. The pain will increase. She will be five by then. She will understand more, and she will know what is coming. She will be scared."
Jack spoke next, his voice rough but steady. "After the first treatment, when she woke up, she said, 'I'm brave.' She was only three, and she said that."
Jane nodded. "She is brave. She is the bravest person I know. But being brave doesn't stop the pain. It doesn't make it any easier to watch."
Dr. Ellis listened before asking, "What do you need? For yourselves, I mean, not for Nimue. What do you need to get through this?"
Jane thought for a while before answering.
"I'm looking for a reason to keep going," she admitted. "I need to believe that all of this is worth it. I know her life won't be ordinary. Her health won't allow that. But I need her to live it. I need her to have a life beyond her condition."
Dr. Ellis nodded. "That's honest."
Jane turned to Jack. He was watching her, his dark eyes filled with everything he had struggled to put into words.
"What do you need?" she asked.
He shook his head slightly. "Right now? I need you to keep talking. I need to hear it. All of it."
She squeezed his hand before turning back to Dr. Ellis.
"The next treatment is in two years. We will spend that time working with specialists and trying to understand her condition better. The doctors are hopeful. They have seen cases like hers before, though never one exactly like hers. We will do everything we can."
She paused, gathering her thoughts.
"But we also have to live. We have to be her parents and let her be a child. We can't spend the next two years doing nothing but waiting for the next time she might die."
"No," Dr. Ellis agreed. "You can't. And you won't. You will do both. You will work with the doctors, research her condition, and prepare for the next treatment. But you will also read her stories, play with her, and let her enjoy being three years old."
She smiled gently.
"That's what parents do. They learn to hold both things at once."
Jane nodded slowly. Her hands had finally stopped shaking.
"The guilt, the grief, the fear. They aren't going away, are they?"
"No," Dr. Ellis answered honestly. "They may always be there in some form. But they will become quieter with time. You will learn where they belong in your life, and they won't be the only things you feel."
Jane looked at Jack. He was watching her with something that resembled hope, and she held on to it.
Throughout the session, Dr. Ellis listened and asked questions without offering easy answers. She didn't promise that everything would be all right or pretend there was nothing to fear. She simply gave them the space to speak, to cry, and to begin making sense of what had happened.
At the end of their appointment, she assured them that they were taking the right steps.
"Come back next week," she said. "And the week after that, if you can. Come as often as you need."
Jane nodded. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she felt a little lighter than before. Not healed, not even close, but no longer quite so weighed down by everything she had been carrying alone.
. . .
They Apparated back to the village as the sun began to set. Golden light stretched across the open fields, casting long shadows over the grass. The carriage was waiting where they had left it, the thestrals standing quietly in their harnesses.
Jack helped Jane climb inside.
The carriage was cool, and the seats were soft. They settled beside each other as it began its journey home. Jane glanced at the bags at their feet. Books, clothes, appointment cards, and small purchases filled them, each one a reminder of the world beyond their secluded home.
"We did it," she said quietly.
"We did."
Jane rested her head against his shoulder. The carriage rocked gently as it carried them along the familiar path. Through the window, she watched the dark forest close around them, its ancient trees standing guard over the manor and shielding it from the outside world.
Soon, they would be home.
Soon, she would hold her daughter again.
. . .
The entrance hall was warm, with candles flickering in their sconces and casting dancing shadows across the high stone walls. The fountain murmured softly at the center of the room. As the carriage passed through the manor's wards, the air shimmered and rippled around them.
Then they were home.
Morwenna was sitting on the bottom step with Cinder in her lap. Both were facing the entrance, waiting patiently. Jane had no idea how long they had been there, but the sight of them sitting side by side, like two little sentinels guarding the door, brought an ache to her chest.
The moment the door opened, Morwenna's face lit up.
"Maman! Dada!"
She scrambled to her feet, nearly tipping the fox onto the floor. Cinder landed lightly on all four paws and hurried after her as she ran toward her parents, her little legs moving as fast as they could carry her.
Jane caught her and lifted her into her arms.
Morwenna's weight was solid and warm against her. Her small hands immediately began patting Jane's cheeks, then her forehead and nose, as though she needed to check that her mother was really there.
"Where go?"
"To get you presents," Jane answered softly.
Morwenna's eyes widened. "Presents?"
Jack held up one of the bags. "Books. And clothes. And..." He reached inside and pulled out the tiny trainers. "Shoes."
Morwenna stared at them. The blue shoes with their white stripes were small enough to fit in her hands. She reached out and carefully touched one of the white laces.
"For me?"
"For you."
She took them in both hands and turned them over, examining them from every angle. Cinder leaned forward to sniff them, then sneezed.
Morwenna burst out laughing.
The sound filled the entrance hall, carrying across the fountain, past the portraits, and against the old stone walls. It was bright and clear, full of life.
Jane held her daughter close and listened, letting that laughter wash over her.
For the first time that day, she allowed herself to stop thinking about the next treatment, the risks, and the years that lay ahead.
Morwenna was here.
Warm in her arms, laughing at a fox who had sneezed at her new shoes, she was here.
For now, that was enough.
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