The weeks after Hermione's first visit settled into something that felt like a second skin to Nimue. It was a comfortable familiarity that spread through the house and the surrounding streets, becoming part of her daily life until she hardly noticed it anymore.
She learned the rhythm of the London house just as she had learned the rhythm of the manor. She woke before the milk cart arrived at the kerb, listening for the familiar clink of glass bottles against one another in their crates and the milkman's low voice outside. She recognized the metallic click of the kettle in the kitchen when the water reached a boil.
She could tell her mother's footsteps apart from everyone else's, the soft scuff of her shoes against the floor as she moved between the stove and the table. The stairs creaked in the same places every morning, while the refrigerator settled into its familiar hum at half past six.
Even Cinder had grown used to the house's sounds. He soon learned to recognize the sharp flap of letters slipping through the letterbox. After the third day, he stopped lifting his head whenever it happened, merely flicking one ear in acknowledgement.
Twice a week, they went to the local market, where the air was filled with the smell of damp wood, fresh produce, and the sharp scent of ice from the fishmonger's stall. Jane bought vegetables from a gray-haired woman with calloused hands.
The woman now knew Nimue by name and sometimes slipped her a bruised apple. It was still sweet and cool beneath its skin, and Nimue ate it as they walked.
They also visited the little bookshop on the corner, a quiet place that smelled of ink and old paper. The woman who wore glasses let Nimue sit on a low wooden stool beside the window, where the light was good. She could read whatever she liked.
First, she worked her way through the shelf of colorful picture books, then moved on to the ones with more words. Her finger followed the black lines across each page as her lips moved silently, sounding out the syllables.
The woman never hurried her, only giving an occasional nod as she polished the counter.
Some afternoons, they went to the park, where the grass was patchy but green. Nimue had grown familiar with the feel of the cold iron swings and the way their rusty chains pressed into her palms when she swung too high.
She knew the strange dropping feeling in her stomach when she leaned back far enough to see the rooftops and sky upside down. She knew the metal ladder of the slide, too, and how the sun warmed its silver surface until her hands stuck slightly to it as she climbed.
She had also learned just how fast the roundabout could spin. When the world blurred into a smear of colors and the wind rushed past her ears, she had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep the dizziness from throwing her off balance.
She hadn't fallen off the roundabout. In fact, she hadn't fallen off anything in weeks.
Hermione Granger had become a regular part of her life. She lived four houses down, at number eleven. Her brown curls formed a wild cloud around her head, seemingly beyond the reach of both gravity and combs. She spoke quickly, her voice bright and insistent. She knew all sorts of things and liked sharing them with anyone willing to listen.
They met in the small walled garden behind the London house, where the soil was dark and damp. They met in the Grangers' living room, surrounded by tall bookshelves that reached almost to the ceiling. They also met at the park, where the swings creaked rhythmically and the grass had worn thin and brown around the slides.
Other children joined them from time to time.
There was a boy named David from number eight and a girl named Sarah from across the square. But Hermione was the one who kept coming back. She brought books to show Nimue and explained how the swings worked, using serious words like momentum and friction to describe the way things moved.
Hermione came three times a week. Sometimes they played in the garden, building enormous, messy castles in the dirt beneath the tree. They worked until their knees were stained green and their hands were covered in thick mud.
Other times, Hermione brought books from her own house. There were picture books filled with colorful animals, books about the stars and planets, and even a heavy volume with a blue cover. It contained long words that Nimue had to sound out slowly while Hermione waited patiently with her hands folded in her lap.
The first time Hermione showed her a book about the solar system, she opened it to a page about Jupiter. She pointed at the planet's Great Red Spot with her whole hand, spreading her small fingers across the glossy paper.
The ink had a faint, sharp smell, and the planet's surface was illustrated in swirling shades of ochre and deep rust. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, making its colors shimmer.
"It's a storm. It's been going on for four hundred years. Do you know how long four hundred years is?"
Nimue studied the picture. According to the caption, the red spot was bigger than Earth, though she didn't fully understand how large that meant it was.
"Long."
"I asked my mum. She said four hundred years was before the Pilgrims. Before America. Before Shakespeare, maybe."
Nimue wasn't sure who the Pilgrims or Shakespeare were, but she understood that four hundred years was a very long time. It was as old as Thornwell. As old as the enormous oak on the village green, its branches spreading over the stone wall like a great canopy.
"It's a storm," she said quietly.
"Yes!" Hermione turned the page, her brown curls bouncing with the movement. "And Saturn has rings. They are made of ice and rock. Some of the rocks are as big as houses. Imagine a rock as big as your house flying around in space."
Nimue imagined it. She pictured a gray, pitted rock tumbling end over end through the blackness of space. Stuck to one jagged side was the green door of the London house. She could even see the brass knocker catching the distant starlight as the rock spun around.
The thought made her laugh.
Hermione looked at her, uncertain whether Nimue was laughing at her or simply imagining something silly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Hermione turned back to the book and pointed at Neptune, a small blue planet on the page.
"This one has the strongest winds in the solar system. They are faster than anything on Earth. If you stood on Neptune, you would be blown away before you even landed."
She said it with the same absolute certainty she brought to everything. Her voice was quick and sharp, and her finger tapped the page in time with the clock ticking on the mantel. She seemed almost to be daring the blue planet to disagree with her.
Nimue watched her. She noticed how Hermione's brow furrowed whenever she explained something and how her mouth sometimes moved faster than her thoughts. Her words piled on top of one another like building blocks that might topple over at any moment.
"You know a lot," Nimue said.
Hermione's face turned pink.
"I read."
That was the first time Nimue noticed the pattern. Hermione's voice grew louder whenever she knew a fact. Her sentences ran together into one long, breathless stream, and she looked at Nimue as though she were waiting for the other girl to catch up. It wasn't unkind, exactly.
Nimue didn't have a name for the feeling, but it made her feel small in a way that had nothing to do with her size.
It happened on a Tuesday afternoon in the Grangers' living room. The room smelled faintly of peppermint tea and old paper. They were sitting on the thick rug with a book about planets open between them. The dark blue weave felt slightly rough beneath Nimue's knees.
Hermione was pointing at a diagram of Saturn.
"The rings are made of ice and rock. Most people think they are solid, but they aren't. It's actually quite simple physics if you understand gravity. My dad told me. He knows about teeth, but he knows about this too. Actually, I read it in this book yesterday. It's important to understand the difference, because otherwise you might think you can stand on them."
She looked at Nimue, her chin slightly raised. Her eyes were bright, almost as if she expected some kind of acknowledgement.
Nimue felt a small knot tighten in her chest. It wasn't anger. It was the uncomfortable feeling of being talked at instead of spoken to, like someone had placed her on the other side of a counter and was trying to sell her something she didn't want.
"Hermione." Her voice was soft.
Hermione didn't stop. "And the planet's rotation is tilted, which means the seasons are different, but not like Earth's because..."
"Hermione."
The other girl paused. She blinked twice, her curls settling around her shoulders.
"What?"
"You are talking too fast." Nimue kept her hands folded neatly in her lap. "And your tone is wrong. You sound as though you think I don't know anything."
Hermione's face turned a deep pink. The color spread from her neck to her cheeks. She lowered her eyes to the open book, tracing its edge with one finger.
"I didn't mean it like that. I just know this information. I thought you would want to know."
"I do want to know. But you are lecturing me. I don't like it."
Hermione gave a small nod. She looked miserable.
"I'm sorry. I will try to stop."
She really did try.
For the next two days, she watched her words so carefully that she often kept her mouth pressed into a thin line. She paused before speaking, twisting the hem of her shirt between her fingers. Instead of making statements, she asked questions, her voice unusually quiet and cautious.
But on the fourth day, they were building a castle out of wooden blocks in the middle of the sitting room. The blocks were smooth and smelled of pine, making a hollow clicking sound whenever they were stacked together.
Hermione corrected Nimue about the tower's structural stability before she had even placed the third block. The words came quickly, sharp and sudden, spilling out before she could stop them. Her chin lifted again, and her eyes sought the same acknowledgement as before.
Nimue said nothing. She stopped moving her hand, leaving the block suspended an inch above the others. Then she slowly turned her head.
She looked at Hermione.
It was a look she had seen in the mirror during the long nights after the rituals. It was also a look she had seen on her mother's face when a supplier tried to overcharge her for herbs at the market. Her expression was flat and perfectly still. There was no visible anger, no sudden flash of annoyance. She simply looked at Hermione without blinking.
It was enough to say stop without a single word.
Hermione's voice faded into silence. The words died in her throat, leaving her mouth slightly open. She stared into Nimue's still green eyes, and the color returned to her cheeks. After a moment, she lowered her gaze to the pile of blocks, picked one up, and placed it quietly on the floor.
Nimue turned back to the tower. She wasn't angry. She understood that Hermione didn't do it on purpose. It was a habit, perhaps a way of making herself feel safe in a world where knowing things seemed to matter more than anything else.
Still, being treated as though she were stupid made Nimue uncomfortable. It wasn't a weight she wanted to carry. She hoped Hermione would change, though she knew it wouldn't be easy. Some habits were rooted deep.
They finished the castle together, building the towers until they reached Nimue's shoulder. Neither of them mentioned Hermione's tone again. They simply played until the light faded and the room grew dim.
It happened again three days later.
This time, they were in Hermione's house, sitting on her bedroom floor with a book about ancient Egypt spread between them. Her room was small and tidy, with the faint smell of graphite and clean paper. A single bed stood against the wall, and her desk was covered with sharpened pencils. On the windowsill, a collection of rocks sat in a perfect row, each one labeled in Hermione's neat, slanted handwriting.
"The pyramids took twenty years to build." Hermione's voice was already growing faster, excitement bubbling over. "They used ramps, not wheels, because they didn't have the wheel. Not for building. They had wheels for other things, just not for..." She turned the heavy page. "This one is Khufu. It's the largest. Each block weighs two and a half tons. Do you know how much that is?"
Nimue didn't, but Hermione was already explaining.
"It's about as much as a car. Two thousand kilograms. And they moved them without any machines. They just used people, ropes, and ramps. Some people think aliens built them, but that's stupid. There's evidence of the ramps. Archaeologists found them. They have proof."
She was speaking even faster now. Her words piled on top of one another like the stone blocks she was describing. Her hands moved along with her sentences, gesturing wildly.
The book lay open to a diagram of the pyramid, but she was no longer looking at it. Her eyes were fixed on Nimue, bright and wide, waiting for her to understand something she had barely been given time to consider.
Nimue placed her palm flat on the page. The paper felt cool and slightly rough beneath her hand.
Hermione stopped.
She stared at Nimue's hand, then looked up at her face. A blush was already spreading from her collar.
"You are doing it again," Nimue said.
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. She pressed her lips together and looked down at her hands, which were still gripping the edges of the book.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"I don't mean to."
Nimue lifted her hand from the page. The diagram of the pyramid was still there, showing the neat, square blocks and the lines marking where the ramps had been. She studied it for a moment before looking back at Hermione.
"Why do you do it?"
Hermione's fingers tightened around the book.
"I don't know. I just... I know things, and I want to say them. If I don't say them right away, I forget that I wanted to say them at all. And then it comes out wrong."
Her cheeks were still red. Her voice was quiet now, no longer rushing forward but coming out slowly and carefully.
"It's not wrong. It's just a lot."
Hermione didn't answer.
It continued throughout the following weeks. It didn't happen every time they sat together on the patio or in the sitting room, but it happened often enough that Nimue learned to recognize the signs before Hermione even spoke.
She watched Hermione's shoulders creep up toward her ears and noticed how her small hands began making quick, sweeping gestures to emphasize her points. Her voice would gradually grow louder and faster until her words ran together like water rushing over a waterfall.
Sometimes Hermione caught herself halfway through a sentence and slowed down, her cheeks turning a deep, embarrassed pink. Other times, she became so caught up in the facts she had gathered from her many books that she didn't notice at all.
The worst incident happened in the garden, two weeks after they finished the book about Egypt. The afternoon was warm and still, with sunlight falling over Nimue's white hair. They were drawing with rough sticks of chalk on the stone patio.
Nimue was drawing a snake, its long body curling around the gray stones. She gave it a raised head, as though it were looking at something hidden in the grass.
A few feet away, Hermione's fingers were covered in fine blue chalk dust as she drew the solar system. She made circle after circle, placing the sun in the middle and adding rays that spread across the pavement.
"Mars is smaller than Earth. It has the biggest volcano in the solar system. Olympus Mons. It's three times taller than Mount Everest. Do you know how tall Everest is?"
Nimue didn't look up. She continued drawing, the chalk scratching softly against the stone. The snake's tongue was a thin, bright red line.
"It's eight thousand eight hundred meters tall. Almost nine kilometers. So Olympus Mons is twenty-four kilometers tall. That's much taller than the distance between this house and the park. Imagine a mountain that high.
It would almost touch space. Not really, but almost. It would be far above the clouds. You could stand at the very top and see the curve of the planet. If you were on Mars, you could see..."
Nimue stopped drawing.
She said nothing. She placed the yellow chalk on the stone with a soft, distinct click, then looked at Hermione. Her face was perfectly still, her eyes steady and unblinking.
Hermione's voice trailed off. Her hand remained suspended in the air, still holding a piece of blue chalk. The circle she had been drawing for Neptune remained unfinished, leaving a jagged blue arc on the patio.
"What?"
Nimue didn't answer. She simply kept looking at her.
"What is it?" Hermione's voice grew higher, uncertain now. "I was just telling you about..."
Nimue's gaze didn't waver.
Hermione's words slowed. Her voice grew quieter until it was barely more than a breath. At last, she lowered her hand into her lap. The blue chalk had left a small, bright mark on her palm where she had been gripping it so tightly.
"I was talking too much again," she said.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Nimue picked up the yellow chalk and drew the snake's eye. It was green, like her own, but she didn't mention that.
They didn't speak about it again.
Over time, Nimue learned to let Hermione's steady stream of words wash over her like a warm tide. She gave small nods at the parts that seemed most important and quietly let the rest of the information drift away into the golden afternoon light.
Hermione, meanwhile, learned to slow down, at least sometimes. She still forgot. The excitement of discovering a new fact often swept her away, and she would begin speaking too quickly again. She piled one fact on top of another like blocks in a tower that might topple at any moment, then looked at Nimue with that same wide-eyed expression, waiting for her to catch up.
But whenever Hermione realized what she was doing, she stopped abruptly. Her cheeks would turn a deep, sudden red.
Sometimes she whispered a quick apology. Other times, she said nothing at all and simply closed her mouth, looking away.
Nimue didn't know whether that effort would be enough. She didn't know if Hermione could truly change something that seemed to be such a fundamental part of her. It reminded her of the cold that belonged to her own body. It was always there, settled deep in her bones, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
She thought about the way Hermione spoke. It wasn't cruel, but neither was it particularly gentle. Hermione simply wanted to share what she knew. Nimue also thought about how quickly the other girl's face flushed whenever she realized she had made the same mistake again.
It wasn't something mean. It was just the way Hermione was.
Still, Nimue hoped that when Hermione grew older, she would learn to hold her words a little longer before letting them rush out. She hoped Hermione wouldn't have to blush so often.
She kept those thoughts to herself. Instead, she continued drawing her yellow snake, watching the sunlight move slowly across the patio stones and listening as Hermione's breathing gradually returned to normal.
. . .
The park was busy on Saturday morning, filled with the cheerful sounds of children playing and calling to one another.
It was the last Saturday before they left for the farm. Nimue knew this because Jane had told her at breakfast, counting the days on her fingers as they sat around the honey-colored table.
Three days until the car came to the kerb. Three days until the London house would be empty again, its furniture covered with white sheets and the kitchen silent.
Nimue didn't want to think about that just yet. She wanted to feel the steady pull of the swing chains and the rush of air against her face.
The park was crowded with children. A group of older boys kicked a leather ball at the far end, their voices rising and falling as they shouted to one another. A toddler cried beside the sandpit, her thin, fragile wails carrying across the grass while her mother crouched to wipe her face with a soft tissue.
The roundabout spun in a dizzying blur of bright colors, with children clinging to its metal bars and their hair flying behind them like little banners.
Hermione was already there, standing beside the black iron swings with her mother. Her hair had been pulled into two neat, tight plaits, which looked much more orderly than the wild cloud of curls Nimue usually saw. Her white shoes were so clean that they looked as though they had just come out of their box.
When she spotted Nimue, she waved with her whole arm, making a wide, enthusiastic arc.
Jean Granger stood beside her, a heavy canvas bag hanging from her shoulder. She gave Jane a warm smile as they approached.
"We were early. Hermione wanted to get the good swings."
"The good swings?" Jane glanced along the row of swings. They all looked the same to her.
"The ones that don't squeak." Jean laughed, her voice bright and easy. "She has a list."
Hermione's face turned deep pink.
"They are better. The chains are tighter."
Nimue didn't ask what that meant. She simply reached out, took Hermione's hand, and led her toward the empty rubber seats.
Saoirse followed behind them, her coat open and her hands tucked deep into her pockets. She had been quiet all morning, the sort of quiet that suggested she was watching the world more than she was interested in speaking to it.
She settled onto the green wooden bench near the swings, close enough to keep an eye on the girls but far enough away to let them play without feeling watched.
The men took the bench near the sandpit. Jack sat with his hands resting in his lap, his posture steady as he watched the roundabout. A little girl in a red coat was gripping its bars with both hands. Dan Granger sat beside him, his legs crossed and his elbows resting on his knees. They had been talking for some time, their low, steady voices carrying across the grass.
Jean sat beside Jane, resting her bag on her lap. One hand moved inside it, searching for something before pulling out a small packet of biscuits.
"She has been asking about Nimue every morning. 'When is Nimue coming? Can we go to the park? Can I ring her bell?' She is very fond of her."
Jane smiled, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She watched Nimue climb onto the swing, then glanced at Saoirse leaning back against the bench. Above them, white clouds drifted slowly across the pale blue sky.
"She has been good for her, too. Nimue has never had a friend before this year. Not someone her own age."
Jean looked at her in surprise, her hand stopping inside the bag.
"Never?"
"Her health." Jane spoke about it in the same calm, matter-of-fact way she always did. The words had become familiar through years of repetition. "She couldn't go out. She couldn't meet other people. It's only this year that she has been well enough."
Jean's expression softened. She pulled her hand out of the bag, momentarily forgetting the packet of biscuits.
"I didn't know."
"We didn't say." Jane watched Nimue push off from the rubber-matted ground. The swing rose, lifting Nimue's white hair away from her shoulders. "We wanted her to have something normal. To be normal, even if only for a little while."
On the swings, Hermione was already reaching for the sky. Her plaits flew behind her like dark ribbons as she laughed, her mouth wide open and her eyes fixed on the blue expanse above. Nimue moved more slowly. Her legs pumped with a steady, determined rhythm, her little feet kicking at the air while her hands held the cold metal chains.
She watched Hermione, noticing how the sunlight caught her friend's face whenever she leaned back at the highest point of each swing.
"She is very brave," Jean said. Her voice had softened. "Hermione, I mean. She has always been like that. She throws herself into things without thinking about what might happen next."
Jane looked at her daughter. Nimue was pumping her legs harder now, her shoes pointed toward the horizon as she tried to match Hermione's height. Her face was set with determination, and her jaw tightened with the effort. She would catch up eventually. She always did.
"So does Nimue. She just doesn't show it in quite the same way."
They sat quietly for a while. The swings creaked rhythmically, and the roundabout spun nearby. Saoirse had moved from the bench to give the roundabout a push.
One strong hand sent it spinning while her laughter carried across the grass. Hermione shouted something, her voice high and bright, and Saoirse shouted back in the same playful tone.
Jack's voice drifted over from the other bench. He was telling Dan about their month in Thornwell, and Dan occasionally asked him questions. Their voices were too low for the women to make out the words.
"When she was three, she had a treatment," Jane said.
Jean didn't ask what kind. She simply waited, her gaze resting on the grass.
"It was supposed to be gentle. It was the first one, meant only to prepare her body for what came next." Jane's voice remained very calm. "Something went wrong. There was an ingredient she shouldn't have reacted to, but her body fought the infusion. For almost half an hour, she was..."
Jane stopped.
On the roundabout, Saoirse was pushing harder. The children screamed and laughed, their arms stretched out to either side. Nimue was on it now, gripping the safety bar so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. Her hair streamed behind her like a pale, shimmering banner. Hermione sat beside her, her face red from the exertion and her mouth open in a wide grin.
"She was awake the entire time. We couldn't reach her. We couldn't stop the process. If we had stopped it, things would have been much worse."
Jean reached over and rested a hand on Jane's wrist. She didn't squeeze. She simply stayed there.
"Afterward, she slept for three days. She couldn't walk for a week. It took a month before she was truly herself again."
The roundabout was finally slowing. Saoirse stepped back, raising her hands in a playful gesture as she laughed at something Hermione shouted. Nimue leaned against the metal bar, her head tilted back and her eyes fixed on the sky.
"But the treatment worked, didn't it?" Jean asked.
"It worked." Jane's voice remained steady. "She is stronger now. Her body can withstand more. But next year..." She looked toward her daughter, who was climbing off the roundabout. Nimue's legs wobbled when her feet touched the grass, and she reached out to Saoirse for support.
"Next year, it will be more dangerous. It always has been. Children with her condition... In the past, they didn't always survive."
Jean's hand tightened around Jane's wrist.
"We have been looking for another way. Another ingredient, something her body won't fight against. We have time. We have researchers. We have..."
Jane fell silent. She watched Nimue run toward the swings, her little feet barely seeming to touch the grass. Her laughter was sharp and bright.
"We have her. That's what matters."
For a brief moment, the row of swings stood empty. Then Nimue climbed onto one of the black rubber seats, wrapped her small hands around the cold metal chains, and began pumping her legs with a steady, determined rhythm. Hermione settled onto the seat beside her, matching Nimue's height and speed with every swing, her own feet kicking at the air.
Jean watched the two girls.
"That's why you are traveling. That's why you are letting her see everything."
Jane didn't answer immediately. Her eyes remained on Nimue, watching her shoes point toward the clouds with every forward swing. The movement was steady and rhythmic, carrying her daughter higher with each push.
"You want her to have this," Jean said softly, her voice barely audible over the sounds of children playing.
Jane's answer was almost a whisper.
"Yes."
Nearby, Dan said something to Jack, who responded with a short, low laugh. It sounded warm and genuine. Both men turned their attention toward the playground, watching the two girls swing higher and higher against the pale sky.
Jean released Jane's wrist and reached into her canvas bag. She pulled out a packet of biscuits, the plastic crinkling loudly as she opened it, then offered one to Jane.
"She will be fine. She is strong. You can see it in her."
Jane accepted the biscuit. Its surface was plain and slightly rough beneath her fingertips. It tasted a little sweet and a little dry. She broke it in half and ate both pieces, one after the other, the crumbs leaving her mouth dry.
"Yes."
As their momentum faded, the swings gradually slowed. Nimue's feet dragged across the rubber matting, kicking up a little dust, and her hands loosened around the chains.
Hermione was already jumping off her seat before it had fully stopped. Her face was flushed from the exercise, and several strands of dark hair had escaped her neat plaits, forming a wild halo around her head.
She immediately began telling Saoirse about the roundabout, describing the strange feeling in her stomach and insisting that she wanted to ride it again.
Saoirse laughed at her enthusiasm.
"You will throw up. Have some water first."
"I won't throw up," Hermione insisted, lifting her chin.
"You will," Saoirse teased.
"I won't!"
Nimue's feet finally touched the ground, bringing her swing to a complete stop. She remained seated for a moment, her hands still wrapped around the chains as she caught her breath. Then she slipped off the rubber seat and walked toward the wooden bench where Jane was sitting.
"Hungry," she said.
Jane looked at her daughter. Nimue's face was flushed from all the exercise, and her white hair had become a tangled mess. Her knees were stained dark green from the grass, and a thin red scratch marked her arm where it had caught against the roundabout's metal edge. One hand rested on her stomach.
"Here, have a biscuit," Jean offered, holding out the packet again.
Nimue took one and finished it in three quick bites. Her eyes remained on the swings, where Hermione was trying to persuade Saoirse to give her another push.
"She is going to be sick," Jane said.
"Probably," Jean agreed.
Saoirse shook her head in mock refusal, though her eyes were full of amusement. Hermione was already climbing back onto the swing, gripping the chains with both hands. Her expression was determined, as though she had never considered the possibility of stopping.
Saoirse finally placed one palm against the back of the seat and gave her a single push. It was just enough to get the swing moving again.
Hermione's laughter soon became the loudest sound in the entire park.
Nimue ate another biscuit, scattering crumbs across her shirt. Then she leaned against Jane's arm, pressing her shoulder firmly against her mother's side. Jane rested a hand on her head, her fingers gently tangling in the white hair.
"One more time," Nimue said. "And then food."
"One more time," Jane agreed.
She didn't move. Her hand remained on Nimue's head, her fingers still tangled in her daughter's white hair, as she watched Nimue watch her friend swing higher and higher into the sky.
. . .
The restaurant was three streets away from the park.
It was the one with the bright red awning, a place they had walked past a dozen times without ever going inside. The woman at the entrance greeted them with a warm smile when she saw the children.
Their faces were still flushed from playing, their clothes covered in a fine layer of playground dust, and their hair was a chaotic mess of brown curls and white strands.
She found them a table near the window, where the evening light was soft. After pushing two wooden chairs together for the girls, she brought over fresh coloring sheets and a box of crayons without even being asked.
Nimue sat between Jane and Saoirse, the chair feeling firm beneath her. Hermione was directly across the table, her hands resting flat on the surface while her legs swung back and forth in a steady rhythm.
Jean Granger sat beside her daughter, smoothing her unruly hair and trying to retie her loose plaits. Dan Granger was at the end of the table. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, looking quite relaxed.
The coloring sheets featured various animals. Hermione had received a lion with a large mane, while Nimue had been given an elephant.
She began coloring it gray, the crayon feeling slightly waxy between her fingers. She worked carefully, making the sky pale blue, the grass bright green, and the sun a brilliant yellow. Across from her, Hermione was concentrating on the lion's mane. Her tongue poked out between her teeth as her crayon moved in quick, confident strokes.
"Lions sleep for twenty hours a day." Hermione's voice was careful, much slower than usual. "Did you know that?"
Nimue looked up from her elephant. Hermione was watching her, her crayon resting against the paper as she waited for an answer.
"No."
"They do. They sleep through most of the day. That's why they are so fast when they hunt. They save all their energy for the chase."
Hermione returned to coloring her lion. Her hand moved steadily, and her voice had been just as steady. There was none of the rushed, breathless stream of facts Nimue had grown accustomed to. It was simply something Hermione wanted to share with her, rather than something she felt she had to prove.
Nimue colored the elephant's large ear, using the same shade of gray as its body. It reminded her of the sky just before a rainstorm.
"That's interesting," she said.
Hermione's face turned a soft pink. She didn't say anything more, focusing instead on adding yellow to the lion's fur.
The food arrived shortly afterward.
Nimue had pasta tossed with butter and cheese. The noodles twisted easily around her fork, and the ceramic bowl felt warm against her small hands.
Hermione had fish and chips. She took her time cutting the fish into neat pieces and dipping each one into a small pot of sauce.
The adults talked in low, comfortable voices over their half-empty plates. Saoirse told them a story about a busy market in Turkey, describing a man who sold beautiful, intricately patterned carpets and a ginger cat that insisted on sitting on every single one. Jean laughed so hard at the story that she had to put her glass down.
Nimue finished her pasta and leaned back in her chair. Her stomach was full, and her legs felt heavy with exhaustion. Her eyelids were growing heavier by the minute.
Through the window, she could see the street outside. The fading daylight had turned a deep purple, and the cars seemed to be moving more slowly than they had during the day.
The restaurant was warm, filled with the smell of garlic and toasted bread. The woman who had brought them the coloring sheets returned with a damp cloth. She wiped the table and asked if they wanted anything else before leaving.
Hermione was yawning now, her eyes watering. Jean had already taken a small coat from the back of her daughter's chair. She helped Hermione put her arms through the sleeves and straightened the collar.
Nimue slid off her chair. Her legs felt a little unsteady, so she placed one hand on Jane's knee to steady herself.
"Tired," she said.
Jane stood and took Nimue's coat from the hook. Holding it open, she helped her daughter put it on. Nimue pushed her arms through the sleeves and felt the wool settle over her shoulders, with the hood hanging loosely against her back.
"Say goodbye," Jane said softly.
Nimue looked at Hermione.
The other girl was looking back at her with an expression Nimue didn't yet have a name for. It was quiet and a little sad.
"See you," Nimue said.
Hermione nodded slowly. Jean took her hand and gently led her toward the door. Dan was already outside, holding it open for them. Jean guided her daughter through, then waved and called out a final goodbye.
Saoirse laughed at something Dan said just before they parted, while Jane kept one hand firmly on Nimue's shoulder.
They walked home through the darkening streets. Lights were already glowing behind the windows, and half-drawn curtains made the houses look warm and golden against the night.
Cinder was waiting right by the door when they arrived. His ears perked up, and his tail wagged excitedly. He sniffed Nimue's hands, sleeves, and coat, carefully investigating all the smells she had brought home with her: the park, the restaurant, the grass, and the dust of the city.
Nimue let him finish his inspection. Then she knelt on the floor and buried her face in his thick fur.
He smelled like home. Like the London house, the little garden, and the wool blanket on her bed.
"Three days," she whispered into his ear.
The fox's tail thumped once against the wooden floor.
She went upstairs with Jane following close behind. Her mother's footsteps were slow, one hand resting on the banister as they climbed. The stairs creaked in their familiar places, and a single bulb cast a soft yellow glow over the landing.
Nimue entered her bedroom, leaving the door open just a little so the hallway light could reach her bed. Cinder jumped onto the mattress, turned around twice, and settled against her legs.
The sheets felt cool against her skin, and her pillow was soft.
She closed her eyes.
Three days remained. Then they would go to the farm. She thought about the fields, the animals, and the wide-open green spaces she hadn't seen since leaving Thornwell. She didn't know what the farm would look like.
She would find out soon.
Her eyelids grew heavier. Her legs ached pleasantly from the long day, and Cinder's breathing gradually slowed. She could feel his ribs rising and falling against her feet in a steady rhythm.
Before long, she was asleep.