Three days later, Saoirse found the stone.
She nearly tripped over it. The morning was still dark and overcast, the sky a heavy slate gray as the sun struggled to rise above the jagged line of hills. She had just stepped outside to collect the milk crates from the front step. Her bare feet touched the damp, weathered wood of the porch before striking something unexpectedly hard and cold.
Saoirse looked down, her toes curling away from the sudden chill.
The stone sat in the exact center of the top step, as though someone had placed it there with deliberate care. It was smooth and gray, roughly the size of her palm. Beside it rested a small wooden box with dark, polished grain. There had been no owl, no sound of wings, and no warning from the wards.
She crouched and touched the stone with one cautious finger. It wasn't merely cool from the morning air, nor did it have the familiar bite of cold river water. It felt as though it had never known warmth and never would. When she picked it up, numbness spread through her fingers almost immediately, dulling the sensation in her hand.
"Huh," she murmured.
She carried both objects inside and closed the door behind her.
The kitchen was already warm, and the kettle had begun to hiss softly on the stove. Jack sat at the table with the morning newspaper in front of him, his dark hair still messy from sleep. He hadn't started reading yet. Nimue sat on the wooden bench nearby, her legs swinging as she ate a piece of buttered toast.
Yeah, I get the inspiration from Xianxia's Spirit Stone
Saoirse placed the stone on the table. Its weight made a dull sound against the wood.
"It's here."
Jack looked up sharply. Jane turned from the stove, her green eyes narrowing. Nimue stopped chewing and looked at the table.
The stone appeared perfectly ordinary, just a smooth gray object without any glow or hum. Yet it seemed to draw the warmth from the air around it.
"Touch it," Saoirse challenged.
Jack reached out and brushed its surface with one finger. He immediately pulled his hand back.
"Bloody hell. That's cold."
Jane touched it next. She kept her hand on the stone longer, wrapping her fingers around its smooth surface as she examined it. When she finally let go, her palm had turned almost completely white, and goosebumps covered her skin.
"It isn't just cold," she whispered, rubbing her hand to bring back the color. "It's an absence of warmth."
Saoirse nodded. "That's what the monks said. It's the Cold Light."
Nimue set her toast aside and looked from the stone to her aunt.
"Can I touch it?"
"Oui."
Nimue reached out. Unlike the others, she didn't flinch when her fingers met the surface. The cold was different from her own frost. Her frost felt familiar, like a heavy wool blanket she carried everywhere. This was something external, something that didn't belong to her nature.
She picked up the stone. The numbness spread to her wrist, but she held on without letting go.
"It feels like nothing," she said.
"That's the point," Saoirse explained quietly. "It has been immersed in the Cold Light for so long that it has forgotten the very concept of heat."
Nimue held it for another moment, studying its flat gray surface, before placing it back on the table.
"What about the box?"
Saoirse opened the lid with a soft click. Inside was a small glass vial filled with a liquid the color of rain-soaked ash. It was neither silver nor white, but a dull, flat gray that seemed to absorb the light around it.
"We won't open that yet," Jane said firmly. Her tone left no room for argument. "Not until we know exactly what it is."
Saoirse closed the box. "So, what do we do with the stone?"
Nimue reached for it again, her fingers naturally drawn to its chill.
"Can I keep it?"
Jane and Saoirse exchanged a long, thoughtful look.
"Not in your pouch," Saoirse warned. "We don't know whether it might interfere with the memory stone Elara gave you. They come from different origins and may carry different kinds of magic. It's better not to let them touch."
Nimue nodded. She gathered the stone in both hands, her white hair swaying as she moved.
"I will put it in my bag."
She carried it to her room and unzipped her green canvas bag. After moving aside her folded shirts and spare woolens, she tucked the stone at the very bottom. It felt like a heavy, freezing weight beneath the fabric. She stood there for a moment, looking down at the bag, before returning to the kitchen to finish her breakfast.
. . . .
The days after the stone arrived felt a little different, even though the family's routine remained much the same. The stone stayed in Nimue's bag, cold and silent. Every morning, she checked to make sure it was still there, slipping her fingers beneath her clothes to find its smooth gray surface.
It never disappeared.
The adults, however, had changed their approach. They talked less about the different phoenix types and stopped pursuing every new lead that came their way. Jane made it clear that they would wait, giving Nimue's body time to settle and keeping a close eye on any changes in her frost.
So Nimue spent her days playing.
She helped Margaret pick the last of the apples. The trees were beginning to thin, their leaves turning brittle and their branches looking increasingly bare against the sky. Rosie climbed much higher than Nimue was allowed, her boots disappearing among the leaves as she picked the apples and dropped them into Nimue's waiting hands.
Together, they filled three crates before lunch, while the air around them grew thick with the sweet smell of bruised fruit.
Another day, she returned to the pasture with Molly and Beth. The brown-faced sheep seemed to remember her. It allowed her to scratch its head and rub behind its ears without moving away. Molly declared that Nimue was a sheep whisperer, and Nimue saw no reason to correct her.
Sometimes, she simply sat on the porch with Cinder, watching the swallows gather in long, chattering rows along the telephone wires. They were preparing for their journey south. The air had grown sharper, and the mornings were now crisp enough for her breath to show when she stepped outside.
August gradually gave way to September.
Nimue didn't notice the exact moment the season changed. She simply woke one morning and realized that the light looked different. It had become softer, a pale gold, and the sun seemed to take much longer to rise above the hills.
"Autumn is nearly here," Jane remarked over breakfast, her voice carrying its familiar French lilt.
Nimue looked out towards the field. The grass was still green, but the edges had begun to turn a dull gold.
"When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow."
Her spoon clicked against the porcelain bowl.
"Tomorrow?"
"We are going to France, remember? We have been planning this for weeks. Your grand-père is expecting us."
She remembered. Her family had talked about the journey several times, and she knew they would be leaving the farm soon. Still, hearing that it was tomorrow made it feel much closer.
Her eyes drifted towards the green canvas bag by the door. Its strap hung loosely over the side, and the stone was waiting at the bottom.
"D'accord."
. . . .
On September second, their final morning at the farm, Nimue woke before sunrise.
Her room was dim, the curtains still drawn against the early light. Cinder lay curled at her feet, a warm and heavy weight beneath the blankets. She remained still for a moment, listening to the quiet cottage, before slipping out of bed.
The house was silent. There was no sound of the kettle or the familiar rumble of voices from the kitchen.
She walked barefoot across the cold, smooth floorboards and went to check her bag one last time. Her fingers brushed the canvas before reaching inside. The stone was still there, just as cold as ever.
Satisfied, she left the bag by the door and stepped outside.
The sky was a pale, bruised purple, with a few stars still visible above the hills. A thick layer of dew covered the field, turning the grass silver and soaking the hem of her nightshirt as she walked. Bess stood beside the fence, her breath drifting into the cold air in small clouds.
Nimue approached and rested one hand on the wooden rail.
"Au revoir," she whispered.
Bess looked at her, slowly chewing her cud, before turning her attention back towards the horizon.
The rest of the morning was spent cleaning and packing. Jane stripped the beds, gathering the white sheets and shaking them out before placing them in the laundry basket. Jack swept the floors with steady, methodical strokes, while Saoirse scrubbed the kitchen counters and stove until the metal shone.
Nimue helped wherever she could. She carried the dirty sheets to the laundry basket and wiped the table with a damp cloth. Little by little, the cottage began to lose the signs of their stay. The beds were bare, the rooms were empty, and the pantry had been cleared. Only a little milk and butter remained in the refrigerator.
"It's just like London," Saoirse remarked as she worked. "We clean, we pack, and we leave our gifts."
They had prepared the gifts the previous day. There were small jars of honey from Margaret's bees, fresh loaves of bread wrapped in cloth, and a basket filled with the last of the harvest. Jane had also written short notes to thank their neighbors for their kindness and hospitality.
Nimue delivered the gifts herself.
She rode with Jack on the three-wheeled utility tricycle, sitting beside the basket as they visited the five houses they had delivered apple pies to earlier. She recognized the old man with the rough, soil-stained hands and the woman who lived near the forest edge. Each door opened, each person greeted them with a smile, and each farewell came with a few kind words.
"Come back and see us," the woman at the forest edge said warmly.
Nimue nodded, her white hair catching the morning light.
"Maybe."
The sun disappeared behind the hills early that evening. The sky turned a deep purple before gradually darkening into night, and the stars appeared one by one, bright and cold against the darkness.
Nimue sat on the porch steps with Cinder in her lap. His russet fur felt warm beneath her hands as she looked up at the sky.
They were the same stars she had seen in Thornwell and London. Tomorrow, she would see them from France.
They had to be the same.
The following morning, she woke with a dull heaviness in her chest.
It wasn't pain or sickness, but a pressure that seemed to push from the inside, making it difficult to take a deep breath. She lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling and the shadows cast by the trees outside.
She had felt this before. It had happened when they left the manor, again when they left Thornwell, and once more when they left their London house. But this time, the feeling was stronger. It was like a thick knot inside her chest, one that seemed to grow tighter whenever she thought about leaving.
She got out of bed and walked into the sitting room.
Jane was already there, sitting on the sofa with a cup of steaming tea in her hands. Her red hair hung loosely over her shoulders.
"You are up early, petite."
Nimue climbed onto the sofa and pressed her shoulder against her mother's arm.
Jane set down her cup and looked at her. "What is wrong?"
Nimue didn't answer immediately. She watched the dark sky through the window, where the trees swayed gently in the morning breeze.
"I don't like this feeling."
Jane turned towards her. "What feeling?"
Nimue pressed a hand against her chest, curling her fingers into the fabric of her shirt.
"It's heavy here. I felt it when we left the manor and London. Now it's back."
Jane was quiet for a moment before slipping an arm around her daughter.
"That's what we call a goodbye."
Nimue frowned. The word sounded strange in this context.
"A goodbye?"
"It's what you feel when you leave a place you have come to love. When you know you won't be coming back for a long time, or perhaps ever again. It's the weight of the memories you leave behind."
Nimue thought about the sheep in the pasture, Rosie's bright laughter, and Bess standing by the fence.
"I don't want to feel it."
"I know." Jane rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles. "But feeling it means the place mattered to you. If you didn't care, you wouldn't feel anything at all. That heaviness is proof that you loved being here."
Nimue pressed her face against her mother's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of bergamot.
"How do I make it stop?"
"You don't, sweetheart." Jane rested her cheek against Nimue's hair. "You let it be there. You carry it with you, and after a while, the weight becomes lighter. It never truly disappears, but it gets easier to bear as you move forward."
Nimue listened to her mother's steady heartbeat.
"Does Maman feel it too?"
"Chaque fois."
"Does Papa?"
"Yes. He feels it very deeply."
Nimue pulled back and wiped away a tear.
"So it's normal?"
"Quite normal, ma chérie."
She thought about Saoirse, who was always travelling and moving between different places.
"How does Saoirse do it?"
Jane smiled knowingly. "You can ask her yourself."
Saoirse appeared in the doorway, her black hair and white streak sticking out in several directions. Her eyes were still half closed with sleep.
"Ask me what?"
"The leaving feeling," Nimue said quietly. "How do you do it?"
Saoirse came over and dropped onto the sofa beside her. She stretched her long legs out across the floorboards.
"I feel it every single time. Then I go anyway. The feeling doesn't stop me. It just comes along for the ride, like an extra piece of luggage."
Nimue frowned.
"That doesn't make sense."
"Feelings rarely do." Saoirse turned towards her with a grin. "You can feel sad about leaving and excited about what comes next at the same time. Both things can be true. Life is messy like that."
Jane gave Nimue's shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"You will feel this many times in your life. It might not become easier, but you will get better at carrying the weight."
---
Breakfast was a quiet affair in the half-empty kitchen. Jack made eggs and toast, but Nimue barely tasted her food. Their car was scheduled to arrive at nine, and Jack checked his watch several times as the minutes passed.
"Bags by the door, everyone."
Nimue carried her green canvas bag to the front step. The cold weight of the stone pressed against her hip as she lifted it. Before leaving, she turned to look around the cottage one last time, taking in the familiar scratches on the kitchen table and the window where she had spent so many afternoons watching the fields sway in the breeze.
The car arrived on time. It was a dusty gray sedan that smelled faintly of old leather. The driver loaded their luggage into the trunk while Jack spoke with him in a low voice.
"One more stop," Jack announced as they climbed inside. "Margaret's house."
The car rolled down the lane, passing the thick hedges that were beginning to turn brown. When they reached the main farmhouse, Margaret was already waiting on the porch, her hands tucked into her apron.
Jack stepped out and handed her the heavy iron key.
"Thank you for everything," he said, shaking her hand.
"You were good tenants," Margaret replied with her usual booming voice. "Come back if you are ever in the area. The orchard always needs pickers."
Before anyone could say anything else, Rosie came running around the side of the house. Her hair was loose, and her cheeks were flushed from running.
"You are leaving!"
Nimue climbed out of the car, her trainers crunching against the gravel.
"Yes."
Rosie stopped in front of her, breathing hard. She had both hands hidden behind her back.
"I made you something."
She held out a small cloth bag tied with a piece of rough string. Nimue took it and carefully loosened the knot.
Inside was a smooth river stone. Someone had painted a sheep on its surface. The white paint was a little smudged, and its legs were much too short, but the brown face was unmistakable.
"It's the brown-faced one," Rosie explained, her voice growing thick. "So you won't forget."
Nimue held the stone in her palm. It was still warm from Rosie's hands.
"Thank you."
Rosie stepped forward and gave her a quick, fierce hug before running back towards the house without looking behind her.
Molly and Beth were waiting near the fence. They came over to say their goodbyes.
"The sheep will miss you," Beth said, looking directly at her.
Nimue almost smiled. "All of them?"
"Every one."
They waved as Nimue climbed back into the car, still holding the painted stone. Cinder jumped in after her and settled on her lap, his tail brushing against her arm.
As the car pulled away, Nimue watched the farmhouse grow smaller in the distance. Rosie was still standing by the gate, waving until she became little more than a speck.
The car turned onto the main road, and the houses gradually disappeared behind the hedges. Beyond them, the golden and green fields stretched towards the horizon beneath the wide autumn sky.
Nimue kept watching through the window until the farm was completely out of sight. All that remained were the rolling hills and the open sky.
The heaviness was still there in her chest. But as she rested her head against the window, she found that it had become just a little easier to bear.
===
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