The front door clicked shut behind them, and Nimue could hear Saoirse before she saw her. Her aunt's voice drifted out from the sitting room, high and thin with exaggerated misery. She was whining like a cat desperate to be let out into the rain.
"I'm dying. I'm actually dying. Jack, write to Mummy. Tell her I met a hero's death in the attic. Tell her I was reaching for a box of her old love letters when the dust finally finished me off."
Jack's voice was lower and much drier. "You found one box. You opened it. You looked at one photograph."
"A photograph of me. When I was young. When I was beautiful. When I could breathe without choking on a thousand years of dead skin."
"You are thirty-eight."
"Which is practically ancient. In attic years, I'm a skeleton. Jack, look at me. I'm a skeleton. I'm dust. I'm..."
Saoirse finally noticed them.
She was sprawled across the sofa, her arms flung out as though she had fallen from a great height. Her hair was tangled into a wild nest, and her face was gray beneath a fine layer of dust. One leg hung over the armrest, swinging listlessly. She looked like a fish that had been left out in the sun for too long.
Then she spotted the ice cream.
She moved with astonishing speed. Nimue barely saw her get up. One moment, Saoirse was a corpse on the sofa. The next, she was standing in front of them, reaching for the paper bag in Jane's hand with desperate hunger.
"Give it to me. Give it to me now. I will trade you anything. My postcard collection. My good boots. My very life. Just give me the ice cream."
Jane held out the bag. Saoirse took it as though it were a sacred relic. She pulled out her cup, peeled off the paper lid, and took an enormous bite.
Her eyes closed immediately. The dramatic lines around her mouth softened, and her whole expression changed. She looked like someone who had wandered through a scorching desert for a thousand years and had finally found a spring of cold water.
"Oh. Oh, my dearest sister-in-law. My life belongs to you for at least the next half hour. If you tell me to go west, I won't even look east. I will carry you on my back across the whole of London. I will..."
"Finish your ice cream," Jane said, clearly amused. "Before it melts into soup."
Saoirse took another bite and made a deep, appreciative sound that was almost unrecognizable as human.
Nimue took the other cup from the bag and carried it to her father. He was standing in the doorway, watching Saoirse with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness. He looked tired too, and there were traces of gray cobwebs in his hair.
He accepted the cup and looked inside. "Chocolate?"
"I picked it."
He looked at her, and for a moment his expression softened in a way Nimue knew well. It was the same look he gave her when she fell asleep against his shoulder or said something that reminded him just how quickly she was growing up.
"Thank you." He took a bite, and the cold sweetness seemed to ease his exhaustion. "It's good."
Saoirse had already finished hers. She scraped the last bit from the bottom of the cup before leaning back against the sofa, one hand resting on her stomach.
"I have been resurrected. I'm a new woman. I'm going to live forever."
"You are going to take a shower. You are covered in dust."
Saoirse glanced at her arm. The layer of dust was thick enough to write on. She dragged a finger through it, slowly tracing her name and watching the letters appear against her skin.
"See? I was here. I existed. I climbed into the attic for you. I touched boxes no one has opened since we were children. I found Mommy's wedding dress. I found Daddy's old schoolbooks. I even found a photograph of Jack in nappies."
Jack stopped eating halfway through a bite. "You didn't."
"I did." Saoirse sat up, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "You were very small. Very bald. Sitting in the garden with a plastic bucket on your head."
Jack put his ice cream down on the side table. "Give it to me."
"No."
"Saoirse."
"No." She was already heading toward the stairs, her laughter trailing behind her. "It's mine now. My precious treasure. I'm keeping it forever. I will show it to Morwenna when she is older. I will show it to her children."
Jack hurried after her, protesting loudly. Jane laughed, while Nimue stood in the hallway with Cinder at her feet, listening to her family fill the house with noise.
. . .
Lunch consisted of fresh bread, sharp cheese, and the last of the red tomatoes from the market. They ate around the small kitchen table with the windows open, letting in the sounds of the street: distant car engines and the calls of birds.
Saoirse was clean again, her damp hair smelling of herbal soap. Jack was still refusing to speak to her, although his silence was more theatrical than genuine. He ate his tomato with exaggerated concentration, while Saoirse kept glancing at her younger brother with a barely suppressed smile.
She held out a slice of crusty bread.
"Peace offering?"
Jack accepted it. He didn't smile, but he took it.
After lunch, Jane sent Nimue upstairs for her afternoon rest. Her bedroom was warm, with sunlight falling in a bright square across the white quilt. She lay down with Cinder curled beside her and closed her eyes, letting the steady sounds of the city outside lull her to sleep.
When she woke, the sunlight had shifted across the walls. The sun was lower, and the shadows had grown longer. Cinder was no longer beside her.
Nimue sat up, still feeling a little sleepy. The house was quiet. Somewhere in the hall, the clock ticked steadily. It was twenty minutes to three.
She climbed out of bed and went downstairs, her socks making no sound against the wooden steps. Jane was in the kitchen with her back to the door, washing a few remaining dishes. Jack was reading in the sitting room. Saoirse had fallen asleep on the sofa again, her mouth slightly open, a tiny line of drool at the corner. One arm was thrown over her face.
Nimue went to the front window and looked outside.
The street was quiet. The plane trees swayed gently in the breeze. The curtains at number eleven were open, and she could see the edge of a table, a vase of flowers, and a book left lying nearby. No one had come to the door yet.
She waited.
The clock in the hall continued ticking.
Three o'clock.
The street remained still for another moment. Nimue pressed her face against the glass, her breath fogging a small circle on the pane, and watched the blue door at number eleven.
A minute passed. Then another. Then a third.
Finally, the door opened.
Hermione came out first. Her hair looked even bigger than it had that morning, spreading around her head like a dark cloud. She was wearing the same little floral dress.
Her mother stood behind her, saying something. Hermione turned to answer before starting down the path, her steps quick and her eyes fixed on the house with the green door.
Nimue hurried to the front door and opened it before Hermione could knock.
"You are late," she said.
Hermione stopped on the doorstep. Her expression shifted, as though she couldn't decide whether Nimue was scolding her or simply welcoming her.
"Mum wanted me to brush my hair again. She said it was a mess."
Nimue looked at her hair. It had clearly been brushed. In fact, it looked very thoroughly brushed, which only seemed to make it take up more space.
She stepped aside.
"Come."
The garden was at the back of the house, reached through the kitchen. It was a small, neat rectangle of grass with a single tree in the middle and a stone bench against the brick wall. The grass grew longer in the corners where the mower couldn't reach, and bright yellow dandelions dotted the ground near the fence. Thick, dark ivy covered the wall at the far end.
Hermione stopped at the edge of the lawn and looked around.
"It's small."
Nimue glanced at the garden. She had never thought of it as small. It was simply the garden.
"It's enough."
"My mum says our garden is small too. She says we can't have a dog because there isn't enough room for it to run around properly."
Nimue thought about that. She had never had a dog. She had Cinder. He didn't need a large garden to run in circles. He was small and quick, and he ran around the house whenever he pleased.
"What do you want to play?" Hermione asked, clasping her hands in front of her.
Nimue looked around the garden. She glanced at the grass, then at the bare patch of dark soil beneath the tree where the shade kept the grass from growing properly. Finally, she noticed the small gray stones scattered along the base of the wall.
She picked up a flat one.
"Hopscotch."
She had learned the game from Lucy in Thornwell. She knew the pattern and how to hop on one foot, turn around, and make her way back without falling. But she had never drawn the squares herself. The other children had always done that.
Using the sharp edge of the stone, she began drawing the pattern in the dirt.
The lines came out thin and a little wobbly, but she could see them clearly enough. When she stepped back, Hermione examined her work with a critical expression.
"That's good. But the squares are a bit small. My mum says they have to be big enough for your feet, or you will trip."
Nimue made them bigger. She redrew the lines, and this time Hermione came over to stand beside her. She pointed out where the edges needed to go to keep the squares straight. When they finished, the spaces were wide enough, and the numbers were clearly marked in the soil.
Hermione went first. She was surprisingly good at the game. She tossed the stone into the first square, hopped forward with perfect balance, bent to pick it up, and hopped back. She didn't touch a single line.
When she finished, she looked at Nimue as though waiting for a mark.
Nimue took the stone and tossed it. It landed right in the middle of the square. She hopped forward, but her foot came down directly on one of the lines.
She had to start again.
She tried three times, and each time her foot seemed to betray her. On the fourth attempt, however, she made it all the way through. She bent to pick up the stone and hopped back without stepping on a line.
When she finished, Hermione was smiling.
"You did it."
"I did."
They played for a while, taking turns and drawing new squares whenever their trainers smudged the old ones. They counted their hops aloud and laughed whenever one of them nearly lost her balance.
As the sun moved across the garden, the tree's shadow stretched toward the house. Nimue's trainers grew dark with dirt, and her hands were covered in gray soil.
Eventually, Hermione sat beneath the tree.
"I'm tired."
Nimue sat down beside her. The ground was cool, and the tree roots made small bumps beneath their legs. Cinder came over and settled between them, his amber eyes half-closed.
"What is his name?" Hermione asked, reaching out a hesitant hand.
"Cinder."
"Like the fire?"
Nimue looked at her. She had never really thought about the meaning of his name. Cinder was simply Cinder. Saoirse had given him to her, and he belonged to her.
"Yes. Like the fire."
Hermione gently touched his fur. Cinder opened his eyes and studied her for a moment before closing them again. Her small fingers moved carefully through his coat. When she finally pulled her hand away, she was smiling.
"He likes me."
"He likes everyone."
"No." Hermione shook her head, making her hair bounce. "He likes me. I can tell. Animals are very selective."
Nimue looked down at Cinder. He was perfectly still. He didn't actually like everyone. He barely tolerated Jack and usually ignored Saoirse's dramatic antics. Most of the time, he only wanted to sleep at Nimue's feet.
"He likes you," she agreed.
Hermione's smile widened. She looked at the bare patch of earth beneath the tree, where the grass had worn away.
"Do you want to make something?"
"Like what?"
"A castle." Hermione was already on her hands and knees, digging into the damp soil with her fingers. "A castle with a moat. My mum says some castles in Scotland have moats. Big ones filled with water to keep people out."
Nimue knelt beside her. The soil was soft and easy to shape. When she scooped it up with her hands, it formed thick lumps that could be pressed together to make walls.
Hermione worked quickly, her hands moving with surprising focus. Before long, she had made one square tower, then another beside it, with a wall connecting the two. She sat back and looked at Nimue's work.
Nimue had made a rather lumpy pile of dirt.
"That isn't a castle," Hermione said.
Nimue examined her creation. It was round and uneven.
"It's a hill."
Hermione considered this seriously, just as she had when explaining how to pronounce her name.
"A hill with a castle on it," she decided. "Put it here."
She pointed to the space between her towers. Nimue picked up her little hill and placed it there. Hermione patted the sides until they were smooth, then drew a road up the slope with her finger. At the top, she made a small square entrance.
"There. Now it's a castle."
They continued working together. Hermione added more towers, while Nimue built hills around them. They made walls, a gate, and a courtyard with a tiny tree made from a twig. Hermione found small stones to use as windows, and Nimue picked up a long leaf to serve as a flag.
By the time they finished, their castle spread across the bare patch of earth beneath the tree.
Hermione sat back on her heels. The hem of her floral dress was brown with dirt, and her face and hands were covered in smudges. There were even a few bits of soil caught in her hair. She looked at their creation with a broad smile.
"It's good. Very good."
Nimue examined the castle. The towers were crooked, the walls uneven, and the gate was much too small.
"Yes. It's good."
They sat in the dirt with their castle between them as the sunlight turned a deep, golden color. Cinder had moved to the stone bench and was watching them with his ears perked up.
Hermione leaned forward and placed one more stone on top of the tallest tower.
"My mum says we will move house in a few years. Somewhere bigger, with a much larger garden."
Nimue looked at her.
"Don't you like your house?"
"I like my room because all my books are there. But the house is small, and I want a dog."
She glanced at Cinder.
"Maybe a fox. But you can't have a fox in London. My mum says they are wild and bitey."
Cinder's ears twitched.
"He isn't wild. He is mine."
Hermione nodded and returned to the castle, carefully pressing a crumbling wall back into place.
"Will you be here tomorrow?"
Nimue thought about how long they would be staying. Twenty-two days remained.
"Yes."
Hermione smiled.
"Then I will come back tomorrow. After my rest."
She stood and tried to brush the dirt from her dress, but most of it stayed where it was.
"I have to go now. Mum said four o'clock sharp."
Nimue stood too. Her legs felt stiff, and her knees were covered in dirt and grass stains. She walked Hermione to the front door.
Hermione waved goodbye before running down the path toward number eleven, her hair bouncing wildly with every step.
When Nimue returned inside, Jane was in the kitchen. She took one look at her daughter's dirty hands, knees, and face.
Without saying a word, she turned on the taps and began filling the bathtub.
The warm water felt soothing against Nimue's skin. She sat in the tub and watched the dirt wash away, turning the clear water into swirling brown clouds. Once she was clean and dry, Jane wrapped her in a soft towel and led her back to the bedroom.
The new skirt was a pale, soft blue with deep pockets. Jane had bought it at the market, but Nimue hadn't tried it on until now. It fell just above her knees, and when she turned in a circle, the fabric swirled around her legs.
She stood in front of the tall mirror and looked at herself.
Her cheeks were pink from the warm bath, and her eyes looked especially green.
She slipped one hand into the left pocket. It was deep enough to hold plenty of stones. Then she put her other hand into the right pocket.
She stood there for a moment, studying her reflection before going to find her mother.
Jane was in the kitchen, wiping down the counter for what seemed like the tenth time that day. She looked up when Nimue entered, and her expression softened.
"That's a lovely color on you," Jane said.
Nimue looked down at her skirt. The blue reminded her of the morning sky and the flowers she had seen at the market. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric.
"I like it."
Jane smiled.
"Good."
===
There's images below
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I will share the ages of some of the adults as of 1984:
Raphael is 33.
Jane is 27.
Luelle is 22.
Saoirse is 38.
Jack is 32.