Three days after her fourth birthday, Morwenna woke in pain.
The ache was already there before she opened her eyes, settled deep in her arms and legs. It was dull and heavy, pulsing through her bones with every shallow breath.
She knew this feeling. Last year had been the same. The runes had carved new pathways through her magic, and now her small body was once again learning to hold more than it had before.
She slowly opened her eyes. The nursery was quiet, filled with the familiar scents of old wood and the dried lavender Jane used to freshen the linens.
The fire burned low in the stone hearth, casting a faint orange glow across the rug. Weak morning light slipped through gaps in the heavy curtains, gray and cold.
Cinder lay pressed against her side, his body a comforting weight. His head rested on her ribs, and she could feel his heartbeat through her nightshirt. His ears were flattened against his head, and his russet tail remained still.
"Maman." Her voice was rough, barely more than a whisper.
Jane sat in the velvet-backed chair beside the bed. She had spent the past three days there, rarely leaving her post. Her red hair hung loose around her shoulders, tangled from too many sleepless nights. Her dress was rumpled, and her face looked pale and drawn, with dark circles beneath her green eyes.
The moment Morwenna spoke, Jane leaned forward, all her attention fixed on her daughter. She placed a hand against Morwenna's forehead, her cool palm soothing the heat of the child's skin.
"You are awake."
Morwenna blinked, waiting for her vision to clear. Then she looked at the shadows beneath her mother's eyes.
"It's over."
"It's over."
She tried to remember what had happened. There had been the stone altar, cold and hard beneath her body. Blue runes had pulsed with a steady light that seemed to fill the entire room. She remembered the brush of the ritual tool against her skin, along with the low, steady sound of Jack's voice and Aldric's deeper, rougher tones answering him.
One by one, the runes had lit up, their magic pressing deeper into her skin than it had the previous year.
Fifteen of them. More than last time.
"It hurt."
Jane's fingers tightened around hers. They trembled slightly.
"I know."
"More than last time."
"Yes."
Morwenna studied her mother's face. The same heavy shadows had appeared after the first ritual, during the fever and those long, terrible nights when the medicinal bath had gone wrong.
Jane had been sitting beside her bed ever since, watching and waiting for her to return from the exhaustion that had swallowed her after the ritual.
Morwenna squeezed her mother's fingers with what little strength she had.
"I stayed awake."
Jane's mouth curved into a small, tired smile. This time, it reached her eyes.
"You did."
"I counted."
She had counted the shadows on the ceiling, just as she had a year ago.
One, two, three.
Warmth had spread across her shoulder blade.
Four, five, six.
A sharp, electric pulse had run through her ribs.
Seven, eight, nine.
Then the deep ache in her spine had grown heavier. Somewhere in the middle, she had lost track. The numbers had slipped away as the heat and blinding blue light filled her senses.
Cinder pressed his black nose against her wrist. She turned her hand and buried her fingers in his thick, warm fur. He gave a small whine and pressed closer, his amber eyes wide and watchful.
"Tilly has broth ready," Jane told her gently. "You need to eat something."
Morwenna shook her head against the pillow. Even lifting her arms felt like too much effort.
"Later."
"Later," Jane agreed.
. . .
Jane wrote the journal entry that night, after Morwenna had fallen back into a restless sleep and she had finally forced herself to eat the food Tilly had brought her with a worried bow.
She sat at her desk with her quill poised over the page. The fire had burned low, and long shadows stretched across the room.
April 29th.
The second blood ritual is done.
Fifteen runes. She counted the shadows. She stayed awake.
She said it hurt more than last time. She said she stayed awake.
Jane placed the quill on its rest and watched the black ink dry. The words looked sharp and final against the paper.
She didn't write anything else.
. . .
The following week passed in a slow, quiet blur.
Morwenna slept through most of it, her body using nearly all its energy to heal the new channels and adjust to the greater weight of her magic. Whenever she woke, Jane was there. Whenever she fell asleep again, her mother remained beside her.
On the third day, Morwenna finally asked for food. Tilly brought her steaming broth, followed by crusty bread and small bowls of fluffy rice.
She ate a little at a time, pausing between mouthfuls. Her hands trembled around the metal spoon, and she chewed slowly while Cinder sat beside her chair, ears pointed forward, hoping for any scraps that might fall onto the stone floor.
On the fourth day, she managed to walk to the window.
Her legs felt weak and unsteady, like wet clay beneath her. She gripped the windowsill so tightly that her knuckles turned white before she trusted herself to look outside.
The green shoots were still pushing through the damp soil. Beyond them, the sky was pale and clear.
"Did it open?" she asked.
Jane stood directly behind her, hands hovering near her shoulders in case she stumbled.
"Not yet. It's still waiting."
Morwenna looked toward the greenhouse. She couldn't see the seedling from this window, but she knew exactly where it was. It sat on the table near the door, planted in its little terracotta pot. Its stem was green, and its bud had turned almost white.
"Good."
She turned away from the window and let Jane guide her back to bed.
One by one, the guests began to leave, and the manor grew quieter with each departure.
Sylvaine left first, the morning after the ritual. She came to the nursery before breakfast and stood silently in the doorway.
Morwenna was still asleep, her small body tucked beneath the blankets. Sylvaine watched her for a moment, and her sharp expression softened briefly.
She didn't wake the child. Instead, she placed a small, unmarked box of dark wood on the nightstand and left without a word.
Celestine and Lucien departed on the fifth day.
Morwenna was awake when they came to say goodbye. She sat propped up in bed, her snowy white hair loose around her shoulders and her face still pale against the white pillows.
Celestine sat on the edge of the mattress, the indigo silk of her robes rustling softly. She studied her granddaughter's face, noticing that the shadows beneath her eyes had begun to fade and that her small hands now rested quietly on the blanket.
"You are healing," Celestine said.
Morwenna nodded slowly.
"Slow."
"Slow is good. Faster isn't always better when it comes to these things."
Morwenna looked up at her.
"The seedling. Is it open yet?"
Celestine's expression softened.
"Not yet. Lucien checked it this morning. It's waiting for you."
Morwenna glanced toward the window, where the light had turned gray again.
"I'm going to London."
"I know."
"I want to see it before I go."
Celestine reached out and gently stroked her granddaughter's hair.
"Then perhaps it will open before you leave."
Morwenna studied her grandmother's face, tracing the familiar green eyes so much like her own. She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. Celestine leaned forward and kissed her forehead before standing.
Lucien waited in the doorway, the light from the corridor catching the subtle shimmer in his eyes. He crossed the room and touched Morwenna's ear, then his own.
"Gran-père."
"Little one." His voice was gentle and melodic. "Perhaps tomorrow."
Morwenna held his gaze for a moment before giving a small nod.
He left with Celestine, their footsteps fading down the corridor. The door closed softly behind them, and the nursery grew quiet again.
Elara left that afternoon.
She came to the nursery alone, her footsteps nearly silent on the stone floor. Morwenna was awake, sitting up in bed with Cinder beside her.
"The bracelet. May I see it?" Elara asked.
Morwenna held out her left arm. The silver bracelet felt warm against her skin, its fine warding script almost invisible in the afternoon light.
Elara examined the metal with cool, steady fingers. "It's holding."
She released Morwenna's wrist and stepped back.
"The stone from the mountains hasn't arrived yet. It will. When it does, it should help."
Morwenna nodded. She had heard this before. The stone would arrive when it arrived, and the seedling would open when it opened.
She was learning to wait, and she was beginning to understand that waiting didn't mean standing still.
Elara watched her for another moment before turning and leaving the room.
Raphaël and Luelle departed on the sixth day.
Luelle came to the nursery early, before the breakfast dishes had even been set out. Her green eyes were red, and her mouth was pressed into a tight line. She sat on the edge of the bed and took Morwenna's hand, holding it a little too tightly.
"You are going to have the best time in London. You will ride the swings, eat far too much ice cream, and climb trees with Saoirse. And when you come back, you are going to tell me everything."
Morwenna squeezed her aunt's fingers.
"I will write it down. In the notebook Vivi gave me."
Luelle let out a sound that was almost a laugh.
"You had better."
She leaned forward and hugged Morwenna carefully, keeping her arms loose so she wouldn't hurt her. Then she stood and left.
Raphaël came in afterward. He paused in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, his expression calm and steady. For a moment, he simply watched Morwenna, taking in the fact that she could sit up on her own and that some color had returned to her cheeks.
"You are stronger," he said.
Morwenna looked down at her hands. They were still pale and thin, but they no longer trembled.
Raphaël gave a firm nod. He didn't say anything else, only reached out to touch her hair before leaving the room.
Viviane departed on the seventh day.
She arrived in the afternoon, when Morwenna was finally well enough to sit out of bed. The girl was settled in the chair by the window, with Cinder at her feet and his head resting against her knees.
Viviane sat on the floor beside her, her dark robes pooling around her as she leaned back against the wall and stretched out her legs. She studied Morwenna's face, then glanced at the light coming through the window.
"You are almost better," she said.
Morwenna nodded.
"I can walk now. To the window and back."
"That's good."
They sat quietly for a while. The fire crackled in the grate, and Cinder's tail thumped once against the floor.
Morwenna reached into her pouch and took out the silver-framed photograph. She looked at the picture of herself, smiling and laughing at something she couldn't remember.
"I'm going to see the swings. The ones Saoirse told me about."
Viviane watched her, warmth in her dark eyes.
"You will have to tell me what they are like."
Morwenna looked at her in surprise.
"You have been on swings before."
"Not those swings. Not the ones you are going to ride."
Morwenna held the frame against her chest.
"I will write it down. In my notebook. I will write what it feels like."
Viviane smiled.
"I would like that."
She stayed until the light shifted and the room filled with a golden glow. She only left when Jane came to tell her that dinner was ready. Before going, she kissed Morwenna's forehead and promised to write every month.
Morwenna held the photograph and watched her godmother leave.
Saoirse, however, wasn't going anywhere.
She was waiting in the morning room when Morwenna came downstairs for breakfast the next day. She sat with a cup of tea in front of her and her feet propped up on the mahogany table.
"You aren't supposed to put your feet on the table," Morwenna said. Her voice was stronger now.
Saoirse glanced at her feet, then looked back at her niece with a grin.
"I'm the aunt. I can do what I want."
Morwenna climbed into her high chair.
"That isn't a rule."
"It's my rule."
Jane entered behind Morwenna, carrying several plates. She looked at Saoirse's feet on the table, then at her daughter's face, and finally at the way Morwenna was already reaching for the toast.
"Your rule is wrong," Jane said, trying to sound stern.
Saoirse lowered her feet with a heavy thud.
"You are no fun."
Morwenna laughed.
It was the first time she had laughed in a week. The sound was small, but it was real.
The following day, Morwenna went to the greenhouse on her own.
Cinder followed close behind, his claws clicking against the stone floor and his ears pricked forward. The air inside the greenhouse was warm and damp, and condensation blurred the glass walls, turning the morning light soft and green.
Morwenna walked straight to the table near the door.
The terracotta pot was still there, its soil dark and moist. The stem stood tall and straight.
And the bud had opened.
Morwenna stopped, her hands hanging at her sides.
Cinder pressed against her legs, his soft fur brushing her skin.
The flower was white, its thin petals almost translucent, like delicate paper held up to the light. A pale yellow center rested between them. It was small, smaller than the snowdrops had been, but it had finally opened.
Morwenna stood still for a long moment, simply looking at it. Then she knelt on the damp stone floor and brought her face closer to the petals.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The flower didn't move. It wasn't supposed to. But it was open, and she was here to see it.
She gently brushed one finger against the stem before standing again.
. . .
That night, Jane wrote in her journal.
May 18th.
She is well enough to travel.
The seedling opened this morning. She saw it. She said thank you.
Tomorrow, she will take her first step beyond the manor wards.