The room was quiet when Nimue woke. The light coming through the window was a muted gray, with the sun still hidden behind the jagged skyline of the city. She lay still for a moment, listening to the house. Cinder remained curled at her feet, his breathing slow and steady.
The building was silent in a way it hadn't been for the past month. There was no kettle clicking in the kitchen, no voices downstairs. Only the stillness of the morning pressed against the cold windowpane.
She slipped out of bed, her feet meeting the cool, familiar floorboards. The bag Jane had given her was already waiting by the door. It was made of dark green canvas, with a long, sturdy strap. Its mouth stood open, ready to be filled.
Nimue quickly dressed in her blue denim shorts and the white shirt with the little fox on the chest. She pulled her shoelaces tight and tied them into neat double bows. Then she opened the wardrobe.
Her clothes were folded on the lower shelf in neat, square piles. There was much less to pack now. She had worn most of them, washed them in the noisy machine, and folded them again.
She added her gray wool jumper, the pale blue shirt with the small pocket, and the white socks with pink flowers. Finally, she placed the green dress on top, its silk fabric cool and smooth beneath her fingers.
She carried everything to the bag and pressed the clothes down firmly to make room. Her toothbrush went into the small side pocket. She placed the book from the market on top, its cover slightly worn from being read so often. Beside it went the small jar of honey from Mr. Chen's bees, carefully wrapped in a clean white cloth.
Nimue stepped back to look at the bag. It was much fuller than when she had first arrived. Her new blue skirt with the deep pockets was tucked inside.
The pressed flower from the market was safe between the pages of her book, and the smooth gray river stone Lucy had given her on their last day in the valley was wrapped among her belongings.
She picked up the leather pouch from the nightstand and felt the familiar weight of her treasures. The memory stone, the silver box, and the crystal sphere. The small dark box from Sylvaine and the silver bell from Saoirse. Her locket was already around her neck, the silver warm against her chest.
After tying the pouch around her waist, she picked up her bag.
. . .
The house was dark when Nimue stepped into the hall. The curtains were still drawn, and the furniture looked as though it were waiting to be covered.
She found Jane in the kitchen, standing at the counter with a cloth and a bottle of vinegar. Its sharp, clean smell filled the narrow room.
"Morning," Jane said. She didn't look up from her work, her movements steady and focused.
Nimue set her bag by the door and stood in the kitchen entrance.
"What do I do?"
Jane handed her a clean cloth. "The table first. Then the counters, and finally the windowsills."
Nimue worked slowly, wiping each spot twice and checking her work from different angles. The dark wooden table gradually came clean, its natural grain becoming visible beneath the damp cloth.
Next, she cleaned the counters, moving the cloth in long, even strokes just as Jane had shown her. The windowsills were narrow, with dust caught deep in the corners. She had to rise onto her toes to reach the far edge.
Saoirse came downstairs carrying a heavy pile of white sheets. Jack followed with a broom, its bristles already worn from use. Together, they moved through the rooms, covering the chairs, sofa, and long dining table with white cotton sheets.
The house seemed to grow quieter with every sheet they spread. The familiar colors of the rooms gradually disappeared beneath layers of white fabric, and even the sounds of their movements seemed softer.
By the time the sun was fully up, every room had been covered. The sitting room had become a collection of strange white shapes, with the furniture hidden beneath the cotton like sleeping animals. The dining table was one long, silent mound. The kitchen was bare, its counters clean and the refrigerator empty.
They ate their last meal standing at the counter. It was only bread and butter, along with the very last of the strawberry jam. Jane poured tea into four ceramic cups, steam rising in thin curls. No one sat down. There were no chairs left uncovered.
"We should check the windows," Jack said. His voice sounded hollow in the nearly empty room. "Make sure everything is locked."
"I checked upstairs yesterday," Saoirse replied.
"The back door?"
"Locked."
Jane wiped the counter one final time, moving her hand in a small circle.
"We are ready."
Nimue looked around the kitchen. The morning sun now shone brightly through the window, catching the tiny dust particles floating in the air. The walls were bare, and the shelves were empty. The house seemed to be waiting for someone else to come and fill it with noise.
They gathered in the sitting room and sat together on the sofa, the only piece of furniture that hadn't been covered. Nimue sat between her parents, her feet swinging above the floor. Cinder lay at her feet, his ears pointed forward and his nose facing the front door.
Saoirse stood by the window, peering through a gap in the curtains with her arms crossed.
"He said noon."
"He will be here," Jack assured her.
They waited in silence. The clock in the hall ticked steadily, each second sounding unusually loud. Nimue counted them, lost track, and started again. Sunlight slowly moved across the floorboards. Cinder's ears twitched whenever he heard a distant sound from the street.
At eleven o'clock, a car pulled up to the curb. The engine stopped with a low hum. A door opened, then closed with a muffled thud.
Nimue jumped off the sofa before anyone else could move. She hurried to the front door and placed her hand on the handle, waiting. Jane rested a hand on her shoulder, warm and reassuring.
Thomas knocked once, and Jane opened the door.
He looked much the same as he had at Thornwell. He was tall and broad, with dark hair touched by silver at the temples. When he saw Nimue standing there, he offered her a smile.
"Ready?"
Nimue nodded and picked up her bag.
But Thomas didn't turn toward the car. Instead, he looked down the street, toward number eleven.
Nimue followed his gaze.
The Grangers were standing by their gate. Jean had one hand resting on Hermione's shoulder, while Dan stood beside them with his hands tucked into his pockets. All three were watching the house with the green door.
Hermione spotted Nimue and raised one hand in a small, hesitant wave.
Nimue stepped onto the front step. Jane followed her, with Jack coming out behind them. Saoirse was already loading the bags into the car's trunk, working quickly while occasionally glancing toward the Grangers.
Jean walked down the path first, with Dan following a few steps behind. Hermione remained by the gate for a moment, watching them. Then, suddenly, she ran.
She stopped at the gate, gripping the iron bars with both hands. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing hard.
"You are leaving."
Nimue stood on the front step.
Jean reached them first and gently touched Jane's arm.
"We wanted to see you off. The pictures came out well. I paid extra to have them developed as quickly as possible."
She handed Jane three photographs. One showed the Keiths, another showed both families together, and the last was a picture of Nimue and Hermione.
"Thank you," Jane said softly.
Dan shook Jack's hand.
"Safe travels."
Jack gave him a firm nod. "Thank you. For everything."
Hermione was still standing at the gate, her hands wrapped tightly around the iron bars. Nimue walked down the path, leaving her bag behind on the step. Cinder followed, pressing his body against her legs.
"I will miss you," Hermione said.
Her voice sounded small and fragile.
Nimue looked at her friend's face. Her cheeks were pink, and several strands of hair had already escaped her neat plaits. Her fingers gripped the gate as though she might fall if she let go.
Nimue remembered a conversation she had shared with her mother three nights earlier, in the quiet of her bedroom. She had asked Jane about the strange feeling in her chest whenever Hermione spoke too quickly, when her voice became sharp and her words piled on top of one another until Nimue found it difficult to breathe.
"It's not anger," she had said. "It's not sadness. It's something else."
Jane had sat on the edge of the bed, resting a hand on Nimue's knee.
"It's hurt. She doesn't mean to hurt you, but when someone speaks to you as though you don't matter, it hurts."
"I don't want to hurt her."
"You won't. You can tell her gently. She is your friend, and friends should tell each other when something is wrong."
Now, Nimue looked at Hermione again. At her fingers curled around the iron bars and the way she held her chin up, trying not to cry.
Nimue reached out and took her hand. Hermione's fingers were warm and slightly damp.
"Mione. You are one of my friends. Thank you for becoming my friend."
Hermione's eyes widened.
"You know I was never angry with you, right?"
Hermione nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
"But sometimes, the way you talk makes me feel sad and angry." Nimue's voice remained steady and clear. "It makes me feel small. It feels like you are looking down on me, like I don't matter to you. I don't like that feeling. Your tone and the way you speak sometimes hurt me."
Hermione's face turned deep red, and her eyes grew bright with tears.
"I know you don't mean to do it. That's why I keep being your friend." Nimue gently squeezed the hand she was holding. "But Mione, if you keep talking to people that way, you might hurt many of your friends. After a while, they might not want to play with you anymore."
A tear slipped down Hermione's cheek. Then another followed.
"You don't want that to happen, do you? So can you promise me you will try? That you will try harder? I don't want you to be sad."
Hermione began to cry in earnest. Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She didn't make a sound. She simply stood there, holding Nimue's hand, her shoulders trembling as she tried to contain herself.
Nimue raised her free hand and gently wiped the tears from Hermione's cheek with her thumb. She did it the way Jane always did for her, with a gentle and steady touch.
Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Hermione's shoulders.
Hermione immediately put her arms around Nimue's waist. She pressed her face against Nimue's neck and began to cry.
Nimue held her close. She could feel Hermione's heart beating quickly against her ribs and the warmth of her tears against her skin.
"Be good," Nimue whispered.
Hermione gave a small nod against her shoulder. Her arms tightened around Nimue for a moment before she finally let go.
Jean had one hand over her mouth, her own eyes wet with tears. Dan stood beside her, his expression still, his jaw tight and his hands curled into fists at his sides.
Jane watched Nimue with a soft expression, one hand resting against her collarbone. Jack stood beside her, his hand gently supporting her back. Saoirse had stopped loading the car. She stood by the open door with her arms crossed, her eyes shining.
Thomas was already in the driver's seat. His hands rested on the steering wheel, and his gaze remained fixed on the rearview mirror.
Jean stepped forward and knelt beside Hermione, placing a hand on her back.
"Are you alright?"
Hermione nodded and wiped her face with her sleeve. Her cheeks were wet, and her eyes were red, but she would be fine.
Jean looked up at Jane.
"Thank you."
Jane slowly shook her head. "She did that herself."
Jean stood and reached into her coat pocket, taking out a small white envelope.
"For the road. It's something from Hermione."
Jane accepted it without opening it, simply slipping it into her pocket.
Jean turned to Nimue.
"Take care of yourself, little one."
Nimue nodded.
Jane walked to the car and took out four bottles. Two were made of amber glass, with dark, thick liquid inside. The other two were clear bottles containing a pale golden liquid.
"My mother sent these from France. They arrived last night. They are shampoo and conditioner for Hermione's hair. They should help with the frizz and make it a little easier to manage."
Jean accepted the bottles and examined their labels before looking back at Jane.
"You didn't have to do this."
"We wanted to." Jane glanced at Hermione. "They are a gift from Nimue."
Hermione touched her hair, her wild curls still escaping from her plaits. Her face remained red, and her eyes were still wet, but a small smile had begun to appear.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was quiet but clear.
Nimue smiled back. "You are welcome."
They climbed into the car. Jane went first, followed by Jack. Nimue climbed in last, sliding across the pale leather seat with her bag beside her. Saoirse closed the door and walked around to the passenger side.
Thomas started the engine, and it settled into a quiet purr.
Nimue pressed her face against the window. The street was growing brighter as the sun climbed higher, and the shadows had grown shorter. The Grangers were still standing by their gate. Jean had one arm wrapped around Hermione, while Dan stood behind them with a hand resting on Jean's shoulder.
Hermione was waving.
Nimue raised her own hand and pressed it flat against the glass. The window felt cool beneath her palm, vibrating faintly with the steady hum of the engine.
The car pulled away from the curb. The house with the green door slipped past the window, followed by the house with the blue door. Then came the plane trees, their leaves thick and dark green.
Hermione was still waving.
Nimue watched her friend grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Soon, she was little more than a blue dress and a small white hand.
The car turned the corner.
Hermione was gone.
. . .
The three Grangers remained by the gate, watching the car disappear down the street. Jean kept one hand on Hermione's shoulder, while Dan stood behind them with his hand resting on Jean's back.
Hermione didn't move. Her hand remained raised, still waving even though the car had long since disappeared.
"She is gone," Jean said softly.
Hermione finally lowered her hand. She wiped her face with her sleeve again.
"I know."
"Are you alright?"
Hermione stared at the empty street. The house with the green door was quiet now. Its curtains were drawn, and the furniture inside was covered. The garden was empty. The tree stood still, and the patch of dirt where the girls had built their castles was already beginning to dry.
"She said I talk too much."
Jean didn't answer immediately.
"She said I make people feel small. She said that if I don't stop, nobody will want to be my friend."
Jean knelt beside her daughter.
"She said it because she is your friend. Because she wants you to have friends."
"Is it true?"
Jean gently brushed the hair away from Hermione's face.
"Sometimes, yes. When you get excited or want to show people what you know, you talk very quickly. You forget that not everyone knows the same things you do."
"I don't mean to do it."
"I know you don't mean to. That's why she told you. She knows you don't mean to hurt anyone."
"She will come back," Hermione said.
Jean pulled her into a hug.
"Yes."
"Next year. She said maybe she would."
"Maybe she will."
Hermione pulled back and looked at the bottles in her mother's hand. The amber glass and pale golden liquid caught the morning light.
"Is that for my hair?"
Jean held them up so Hermione could see.
"From her grandmother in France."
Hermione touched her hair. Her curls were already coming loose from the plaits, just as they always did.
"Do you think it will work?"
"We can try it."
Hermione nodded and turned back toward the house. The green door was still. The windows were dark, and the street was quiet.
She raised her hand one more time, just in case, as though she wanted to make sure she had said goodbye properly.
Then she took her mother's hand, and together they walked back to number eleven. The front door closed behind them.