Grey morning light filtered through a gap in the curtains. Nimue lay still for a moment, her green eyes tracing the patterns on the ceiling.
The cottage had low, sloping ceilings, with whitewashed timber beams running across the plaster like the ribs of some enormous creature. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of dry wood and salt.
Outside, she could hear the sea. It sounded different from the rustling farm fields or the quick, babbling river in Thornwell. This was a long, steady breath, a deep pull followed by a heavy release, like something vast and patient stirring beneath the cliffs.
Cinder shifted at the foot of the bed, his ears flicking towards the window. He didn't get up. He simply let his tail thump once against the thick quilt before closing his eyes again, his nose tucked into his fur.
Nimue slipped out of bed, her toes curling against the cold floorboards. Her trainers were waiting by the door, still caked with dried gray mud from the previous day. She slipped them on without bothering to tie the laces, then pushed the curtain aside.
The harbor lay beyond the window. Masts crowded together in a forest of lines and rigging, while boats were packed tightly along the stone quay. The water stretched out beneath a sky the color of worn pearl, so pale and gray that the horizon was barely visible.
She pulled her shirt over her head. It was still wrinkled from the long journey the previous day, but she didn't mind. After finding her shorts and stepping into them, she padded towards the kitchen, her shoelaces still undone.
Jane was already at the stove. Her hair was tied back with a silk ribbon, and her sleeves were rolled above her elbows. A heavy iron pan sizzled over the burner, filling the small kitchen with the rich smell of frying eggs, melting butter, and a fragrant herb Nimue couldn't identify.
« Tu es debout tôt, ma petite. » (You are up early.)
Jane didn't turn around as she spoke, her hand moving the spatula in small, precise motions.
Nimue climbed onto a wooden chair. The timber had been worn smooth by decades of use, and the seat had a shallow dip that made it surprisingly comfortable.
"The sound of the sea woke me."
« Ça arrive souvent. L'océan ne se soucie pas de savoir si tu veux dormir. » (That happens often. The ocean doesn't care whether you want to sleep.)
Jack came in from the front room, his boots making soft sounds against the floor. He had a French newspaper folded under his arm. The paper was thin, and the fresh ink gave off a sharp smell. The white streak in his black hair caught the morning light as he leaned against the doorframe.
"The boulangerie opens at eight," he said, glancing at his watch. "The fish market opens even earlier."
"We should go before it gets too crowded," Jane replied, sliding an egg onto a plate.
Saoirse appeared in the doorway a moment later. Her hair was loose and untidy, and her eyes were still half closed with sleep. She wore one of Jack's old white shirts over her trousers, the collar sitting crookedly and the sleeves bunched around her wrists.
"I'm staying here."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "You aren't coming to see the harbor?"
"I'm going to sit on that bench outside and watch boats for three hours. Maybe four." She shuffled towards the counter and poured herself a mug of tea. "Someone has to guard the cottage, don't they?"
"From what, exactly?" Jane asked, a small smile playing on her lips.
"Nothing. That's the point."
Nimue watched her aunt carry her tea into the front room before settling onto the wooden bench outside. Saoirse propped up her feet and turned her face towards the harbor, looking quite content with her decision.
Jane placed a plate in front of Nimue. It held soft, folded eggs and a thick slice of crusty bread, with butter already melting into its crumb.
"Eat."
Nimue did as she was told. The bread was different from the soft loaves they had eaten at the farm. It was denser, with a harder crust and tiny grains of salt still clinging to its underside. She broke off a small piece for Cinder, who had appeared beneath the table with his nose pointed towards her knee. He took it gently from her fingers before settling back onto the rug.
Jack stood by the door, his back turned as he tied his sturdy walking shoes. Jane had already begun washing the pan, water running steadily into the stone sink.
"Ready," Nimue said, swallowing the last of her breakfast.
The market was at the far end of the harbor, where the stone buildings stood close together and the streets narrowed into cobbled paths too small for cars. They walked down from the cottage, passing shuttered windows and old walls stained yellow and green by salt and moss.
A man was washing the deck of his boat, sending water across the wooden planks and splashing it into the dark harbor below. He looked up as they passed, nodded once to Jack, then returned to his work.
Nimue kept one hand firmly in Jane's. Jack walked on her other side, carrying the wicker basket over his arm.
The fish stalls were closest to the water. The day's catch lay arranged on beds of crushed ice, which glittered in the morning light. The fish had clear eyes and scales that shone like polished silver. A woman behind one of the stalls had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hands were reddened from the cold and the work.
She glanced at Nimue, then at Jane, before looking towards Jack.
« Vous voulez du poisson ? Frais. Pris ce matin. » (Would you like some fish? Fresh. Caught this morning.)
Jane examined the selection with a practiced eye.
« Deux filets de cabillaud. Et les crevettes. Une demi-douzaine. » (Two cod fillets. And the prawns. Half a dozen.)
The woman nodded and reached for the fish. She wrapped the fillets in thick brown paper, folding the edges tightly before placing them in Jack's basket. The prawns went into a separate bag, the paper already darkening with moisture.
« Merci. »
The woman gave a brief nod and turned her attention to the next customer waiting in line.
The vegetable stall stood further along the street, where the road widened and the morning sun finally reached the cobblestones. A man with a magnificent gray moustache was arranging tomatoes into a neat pyramid. His hands moved with a steady, unhurried rhythm.
« Les tomates, s'il vous plaît. Six. Et les oignons, trois. » (The tomatoes, please. Six. And the onions, three.)
He selected the vegetables carefully, turning each tomato in his hand before adding it to the basket. When he had finished, he looked down at Nimue.
« Elle parle français ? » (Does she speak French?)
« Oui. »
The man's moustache twitched as he smiled.
« Alors, elle peut choisir les prochaines. » (Then she can choose the next ones.)
He held out a bright red tomato towards Nimue. She took it, feeling its smooth skin and firm flesh beneath her fingers. She lifted it towards the light, examined its deep color, then carefully placed it in the basket.
« Bien. » (Good.)
She chose three more, examining each one in the same way before deciding it was suitable. The man didn't hurry her. He simply watched with an amused expression, then gave a small nod when she finished and turned to the next customer.
The bread stall stood at the far end of the market. The smell of yeast and warm flour was so strong that Nimue could almost taste it. The woman behind the counter had flour dusted across her blue apron and a long, pale scar running along her forearm.
« Une baguette et une fougasse, s'il vous plaît. » (A baguette and a fougasse, please.)
Jane pointed towards a flat loaf studded with green olives, its golden surface marked with shallow cuts.
The woman wrapped the bread in thin brown paper, tucking the baguette beneath her arm as she tied the package with a quick movement of her wrist. Then she handed it to Nimue.
« Tiens. » (Here you are.)
Nimue held the bread against her chest. It was still warm, and she could feel its heat through the paper.
By the time they headed back towards the cottage, the basket was full. Jack carried it over his arm, the weight of the fish and vegetables pulling slightly at his shoulder. Nimue walked beside Jane, still holding the bread against her shirt like a little treasure.
« Tu as aimé le marché, Nimue ? » (Did you like the market, Nimue?) Jane asked.
Nimue thought about the fish stalls, the glittering ice, and the man with the magnificent moustache.
"The man let me choose the tomatoes."
"Because you listened and watched what he was doing. That matters to people who work with their hands."
They continued along the harbor. It was much busier now. Boats rocked gently in the swell, and a man shouted something from a distant deck. Gulls circled overhead, their shadows passing across the cobblestones.
Saoirse was exactly where they had left her. She had dragged the bench into the sunlight and propped her feet on an old wooden crate, her face tilted towards the sky. She didn't even open her eyes when they approached.
"Took you long enough. I nearly withered away."
"You were supposed to be watching the cottage," Jack said, though there was no real irritation in his voice.
"I was. Nothing happened. It's perfectly safe." She opened one eye. "Did you get the good bread?"
Jane took the bread from Nimue's hands and held it up.
"Fougasse."
Saoirse sat up so quickly that the crate wobbled beneath her feet.
"Then give it here!"
The kitchen was small and cozy. The stove occupied most of one wall, with a copper pot hanging above it, its bottom blackened by years of use. Jane placed the basket on the table and began unpacking their purchases. Nimue climbed onto a chair so she could watch.
"What are we making, Maman?"
"Fish for tonight. But first..."
Jane reached beneath the counter and brought out a smaller basket lined with clean wax paper.
"The neighbors."
There were four cottages along the narrow lane. Jane had counted them the previous day after their arrival. One appeared to be empty, its shutters tightly closed and its garden overgrown with weeds.
The other three were occupied. Nimue had seen an old woman watering the flowers in her window boxes, a man walking past their gate with his dog, and a young woman who hung her laundry out in the morning and brought it inside before sunset.
Jack placed the bread in the basket. They had bought an extra loaf for each household, wrapped in paper and tied with neat pieces of string. Jane added a jar of golden honey from Margaret's farm and a small box of buttery biscuits that Tilly had packed before they left England.
"Come along. You can carry the honey, Nimue."
Nimue took the small bag. The glass jars clinked softly against each other as she moved.
The first cottage had blue shutters and a stone path with grass growing between the cracks. The old woman opened the door before they had even knocked, one hand resting against the frame as though she had been waiting for them. She was small, with slightly hunched shoulders and ash-gray hair.
« Bonjour. Nous sommes les locataires de la maison au bout. Nous voulions venir vous saluer. » (Hello. We are the tenants from the house at the end. We wanted to come and say hello.)
The woman looked at the basket, then at Jane, and finally at Nimue. Her eyes were pale, the color of the sky after heavy rain.
« Vous êtes anglais. » (You are English.)
« Oui. Nous restons quelques semaines. » (Yes. We are staying for a few weeks.)
The woman's gaze shifted to Nimue's white hair. It lingered there for a moment. She wasn't quite staring, but there was something unusually intent about the way she studied the little girl.
« Elle ressemble à quelqu'un. » (She looks like someone.)
Jane didn't respond. She simply held out the basket.
The woman accepted it with thin hands, her knuckles swollen with age. She looked at the bread, the honey, and the biscuits.
« C'est gentil. » (That's very kind.)
She closed the door without saying anything more. Nimue could hear her footsteps moving away, slow and steady across the stone floor inside.
The second cottage stood further down the lane, where the path turned towards the cliffs. The man with the dog was in the yard, his back to them as he worked with a coil of thick rope. His dog, a brown-and-gray creature with a white muzzle, lifted its head and gave a quiet woof when they stopped at the gate.
The man turned around. His face was deeply creased from years of exposure to the wind, his skin darkened by the sun and his beard a wiry gray. His eyes went straight to the basket.
« La dame du bout a dit que vous étiez là. Vous n'avez pas besoin de faire ça. » (The lady from the end said you were here. You don't have to do this.)
He wiped his hands against his trousers.
« Nous en avions envie. C'est simplement ce qu'on fait. » (We wanted to. It's simply what we do.)
He took the basket and set it on the stone step. Then he looked at Nimue for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he were trying to remember a familiar face. Finally, he crouched down to her level.
« Tu as quel âge, petite ? » (How old are you, little one?)
"Four."
He nodded slowly.
« Quatre ans. Mon petit-fils a quatre ans aussi. Il est à l'école aujourd'hui. » (Four. My grandson is four too. He is at school today.)
He stood up and gave them a small nod.
« Merci. »
The dog wagged its tail once against the dirt before settling down in the sunlight again.
The third cottage stood at the very end of the lane, where the paved path gave way to dirt and the hedges grew wild. The young woman who hung out the laundry was sitting on her doorstep, with a wicker basket of damp clothes beside her. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot, and her face was already flushed from the morning sun.
« Ah, vous êtes ceux de la maison bleue. » (Ah, you are the ones staying in the blue house.)
« Oui. Nous voulions vous remercier de nous avoir accueillis dans le voisinage. » (Yes. We wanted to thank you for welcoming us into the neighborhood.)
The woman laughed, a hearty sound that seemed to come straight from her chest.
« On n'a pas fait grand-chose. » (We haven't done much.)
She accepted the basket, lifted out the bread, and took a deep breath of its warm, fragrant smell.
« Ah, de la fougasse. C'est celle de la boulangère du port ? » (Ah, fougasse. Is this from the baker at the harbor?)
« Oui. » (
« Elle fait les meilleures. » (She makes the best ones.)
She carefully placed the bread back in the basket.
« Vous restez longtemps ? » (Are you staying long?)
« Jusqu'à la fin du mois. » (Until the end of the month.)
« Alors, peut-être qu'on se reverra. » (Then perhaps we will see each other again.)
Her gaze shifted to Nimue, and her expression brightened.
« C'est votre fille ? » (Is she your daughter?)
« Oui. »
The woman smiled at Nimue.
« Elle a les cheveux clairs. Comme ma mère. » (She has light-colored hair. Like my mother.)
She didn't wait for an answer. Instead, she picked up her laundry basket and went inside, closing the door softly behind her.
The three of them walked back down the lane together. Nimue's hands were empty now that the honey had been delivered. Jane carried the folded bag beneath her arm, while Jack had taken the larger basket again, with the remaining fish and vegetables waiting to be brought inside.
"Did we do good, Maman?" Nimue asked.
Jane gently touched her white hair.
"We did good."
Saoirse was still sitting on the bench when they returned. The fougasse lay open across her lap, with a piece already torn off and a small pile of olive pits beside her on the step.
"Finally. I was about to send a search party into the village."
Jack carried the basket inside, and Jane followed him. Nimue settled onto the step beside her aunt, stretching out her legs until the toes of her trainers touched the dry ground.
"Did they take everything?" Saoirse asked.
"What?"
"The neighbors. Did they accept the food?"
Nimue thought about the old woman's thin hands, the man crouching down to speak to her, and the young woman's hearty laughter.
"Yes. They all took it."
Saoirse tore off another piece of the salty bread and handed it to her. The olive tasted sharp and slightly oily, while the bread was still warm from the morning.
"Good," Saoirse said. "That's how you do it. You feed them first."
Nimue ate her bread while watching the boats turn in the harbor. The sun had climbed higher, shortening the shadows on the ground. Cinder came out of the cottage and settled across her feet, his ears twitching at the distant cries of gulls.
Inside, she could hear Jane moving around the kitchen, the knife tapping against the wooden cutting board, and Jack's low voice answering something. The smell of butter filled the air as something hit the hot pan.
Nimue leaned back against the step, resting her head against the warm wood, and waited for lunch.
. . .
The afternoon heat poured through the window, heavy with the smell of salt from the sea. It seemed to press against the glass.
Nimue had been lying on her bed for some time. She wasn't asleep, only watching the dust motes drift across the ceiling beams. Cinder lay on the floor, his chin resting on her trainers, his ears following every sound outside. A boat engine rumbled in the distance. Gulls squabbled over a scrap of fish. Somewhere down the lane, a door creaked open.
Eventually, Nimue got up. Her legs felt restless, and her shirt was sticking to her back. She tugged it away from her skin and headed into the front room.
Saoirse was still sitting on the bench outside, her hat pulled low over her eyes. A glass of dark cider sat on the step beside her, its surface covered in beads of condensation. She barely moved when Nimue came out.
"Too hot for running around, little monster."
"I'm not running."
"You are thinking about it. I can hear your brain whirring."
Nimue sat on the step, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them.
The wood was hot beneath her thighs. The harbor was quiet now. The boats barely moved, and the market stalls had all been folded away. A woman walked along the quay carrying a bag of bread, her footsteps sounding unusually loud against the stone.
"Where is Maman?"
"Down the lane. Talking to the woman with the laundry. Hélène, I think her name is."
Nimue looked toward the end of the lane. The hedge was thick, its wild roses heavy with rose hips. In the shadows, the deep green leaves looked almost black. Beyond them, she could make out the edge of the cottage, its blue door, and the washing line, which was now empty.
She stood up.
Saoirse lifted her hat just enough to peer at her. "You going down there?"
"Yes."
"Don't stay out too long. You will burn with that fair skin."
Nimue glanced at her arms. They were already turning a faint pink. "I will stay in the shade."
Saoirse let her hat fall back over her eyes with a grunt. "Fine."
The lane was quiet. The stones felt warm beneath the soles of Nimue's trainers, and the air was almost completely still. The only nearby sounds came from bees buzzing among the hedge flowers. A small lizard darted across the path before disappearing into a crack in the wall.
Hélène was in her yard, her back turned to the lane as she worked at a wooden table. Jane sat nearby on a chair, her sleeves rolled up and her hair hanging loose. She looked up when Nimue came through the gate.
"Ma chérie. You couldn't rest?"
"Too hot," Nimue replied, stopping beside her mother's knee.
Hélène turned around. Her hair was tied back, and her face was flushed from the sun. Near the door, a toddler lay on a blanket, half-asleep, with a stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm.
« C'est ta fille ? » (Is she your daughter?)
« Oui, » Jane replied. She rested a hand on Nimue's shoulder. « Nimue. »
« Je m'appelle Hélène. Et le petit, c'est Mathis. » (My name is Hélène. And the little one is Mathis.)
The toddler didn't stir. His fingers rested loosely around the rabbit's ear, and his breathing was slow and steady.
On the table stood a large bowl, with a pile of dark shells beside it. Hélène held a sharp knife in her hand. They were mussels. Their black shells were slick with seawater, and they had a sharp, clean smell. Hélène worked quickly, scraping something away with the blade before dropping each mussel into a bucket of fresh water.
Nimue moved closer, rising onto her tiptoes to see better.
"What are you doing?"
Hélène glanced at Jane, who gave her an encouraging nod.
« Les moules. On les nettoie. » She picked one up and showed Nimue its side, then ran the knife along the shell. « Le barbillon. Il faut l'enlever. Sinon, ça craque sous la dent. » (The mussels. We clean them. The beard must be removed. Otherwise, it crunches under your teeth.)
She dropped the mussel into the bucket. It sank beneath the water, its shell now clean and shining.
Nimue watched as Hélène cleaned three more. Her hands moved so quickly that her eyes hardly needed to follow them. She chatted as she worked, talking about the tide, the boats that had come in that morning, and her husband, who was still out on the water.
Jane listened with her head slightly tilted. She asked a question in French about the tide times, and Hélène answered without interrupting the steady rhythm of her hands.
Nimue picked up one of the mussels. It was cold and wet, its rough shell pressing against her skin. She turned it over and examined the fine brown threads growing between the tightly closed shells.
"Do you want to try?" Hélène offered her the knife, holding it by the blade so Nimue could take the handle.
Nimue looked at Jane again. Her mother said nothing, simply waiting with a calm expression.
After a moment, Nimue took the knife. Its wooden handle had been worn smooth by years of use, with shallow grooves where Hélène's fingers usually rested. Nimue's smaller fingers settled into them. She placed the mussel flat against the table, just as she had seen Hélène do, and positioned the knife against its side.
She pulled.
Nothing happened. The beard remained firmly attached.
« Plus fort. » (Harder) Hélène placed her hand over Nimue's, her palm warm as she guided her grip. « Comme ça. » (Like that.)
The knife slipped beneath the threads, and the beard came away in one clean piece. Nimue dropped the mussel into the bucket, where it sank to the bottom.
« Bien, » Hélène said with a nod.
Nimue cleaned three more mussels. The first took two attempts, but the second came away cleanly. By the third, she no longer had to think about what she was doing. The knife moved, the beard came free, and the shell dropped into the water.
Hélène picked up another handful of mussels.
« Tu as de la patience. C'est rare à son âge. » (You have patience. It's rare at her age.)
Jane replied in French, her voice low and her words too quick for Nimue to follow. Hélène nodded, her expression turning serious for a moment before she smiled again. She spoke about the old woman at the end of the lane and how more English visitors came to the town every summer now. It had changed so much from the way she remembered it as a girl.
Nimue continued working. Her fingers were wet, and her arms felt sticky with salt water as the cleaned shells piled up in the bucket. Mathis shifted on his blanket, opening his eyes briefly before closing them again. Cinder had come through the gate and settled in the shade beneath the hedge, his ears turning toward Hélène whenever she spoke.
When the last mussel was clean, Hélène poured out the water. It ran across the stones, and the wet shells caught the afternoon light.
« Voilà. Pour ce soir. » (There. For tonight.)
She wiped her hands on her apron, then noticed how pink Nimue's arms had become. She went inside and returned with a glass of water, droplets of condensation gathering on its surface. Handing it to Nimue, she said, « Bois. Tu vas brûler. » (Drink. You are going to burn.)
Nimue drank. The water was cold and refreshing.
Hélène sat on the step, leaning against the doorframe. "Are you staying long?"
"Until the end of the month," Jane replied.
« Alors. Peut-être que tu viendras m'aider encore. » Hélène looked at Nimue. « Si tu veux. » (Then perhaps you can come and help me again, if you like.)
Nimue held the cold glass against her chest. "Yes."
Hélène smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Bon." (Good.)
Mathis woke just then. His face crumpled, and he reached out with both hands. Hélène picked him up and settled him on her hip.
« Il faut y aller. Le goûter. » (Time to go. Snack time.)
They walked back up the lane together, Jane's hand resting on Nimue's shoulder. The sun had begun to sink, and the shadows stretched farther across the ground. As they passed the old woman's cottage, its blue shutters were half-closed against the heat, though the window boxes were still full of red geraniums. The man with the dog was sitting on his doorstep, the dog's head resting on his knee. He raised a hand as they passed, and Jane waved back.
Saoirse was still on the bench, her hat covering her face and her breathing slow. Jack was in the kitchen, where the table had been set and a bowl of tomatoes sat on the counter. He glanced at Nimue's arms.
"You are pink as a prawn."
"I helped with the mussels."
Jack looked at Jane, who simply shrugged.
"Bath," he said. "Before dinner."
The bathwater was cool, and the soap smelled of lavender. Jane sat on the edge of the tub, pouring water over Nimue's shoulders and watching it run down her arms.
"Did you like it?" Jane asked.
"She let me use her knife."
"She trusted you."
Nimue looked down at her hands. The skin had wrinkled from the water, but her nails were perfectly clean.
"She said I have patience."
"You do."
"Is that good?"
Jane dipped the washcloth into the water and gently wiped Nimue's face. "It's very good."
Dinner was late. The light had turned deep gold, casting long shadows across the floor. Jack had cooked the fish until its skin was crisp and the flesh tender and white. He served it with a sauce bright with lemon. The mussels filled a large bowl, their shells open and their broth dark and fragrant with garlic and wine.
Saoirse ate three pieces of bread, dipping each one into the sauce.
"This is why I travel. So I can come back to places where people know how to cook."
"You don't cook when you travel," Jane pointed out.
"I don't have to. I just eat what other people make."
Jack reached for the bread. "That isn't travel. That's being a tourist."
"Same thing."
Nimue ate her fish. The flesh was soft, the lemon sharp, and the skin pleasantly salty. She dipped a piece of bread into the mussel broth and watched it soak up the liquid. Beneath the table, Cinder sat with his nose pointed toward her knee, waiting for a scrap to fall.
When the plates were empty, Jane pushed back her chair.
"Let's go for a walk before it gets dark."
The path to the beach began at the end of the lane. The stones gradually gave way to sand, and the grass grew thinner as the land opened toward the sea.
Nimue stopped at the edge of the beach. The sand was pale, the tide was out, and the water lay far ahead. The sky was the color of a mussel shell, purple near the horizon and gray above.
She pulled off her trainers and walked toward the water. The sand was cool beneath her feet, growing wetter as she went. It was firm underfoot, and each footprint slowly filled with water behind her.
Jane followed at a slower pace. Jack walked with Saoirse, their voices low and their words swallowed by the sound of the sea.
The water drew back, leaving the sand dark and the air colder. Nimue stopped where the last wave had reached. The wet sand clung to her feet.
She looked up.
The stars were beginning to appear. Only the brightest ones at first. The sky was still purple, and the sea was gray. The line between them was so faint that she could hardly tell where one ended and the other began.
Jane came to stand beside her. She said nothing, simply folding her arms and turning her face toward the water.
Nimue kept looking at the horizon.
The sea pulled back. The sand shifted beneath her feet. One by one, more stars appeared.
There were so many, far more than she had seen at the farm. They were not scattered across the sky but gathered in thick, overlapping layers. There was so little space between them that the sky seemed to press down beneath the weight of all that light.
Jane rested a hand on her shoulder.
"It's beautiful."
Nimue didn't answer. She was still watching the stars. They were the same ones she had seen in London and in the valley. They never changed. They didn't care where she was.
The sea drew back again, its low, steady sound filling the quiet. It was the same rhythm her grandmother had heard, and the same rhythm Edmund had listened to when he was young.
Nimue took a breath. The air was cold now, and the water had turned black beneath the white stars.
Jane's hand tightened gently on her shoulder.
"Time to go back."
Nimue looked at the water one last time. The tide was turning, the waves were coming closer, and their sound grew deeper as darkness spread across the sea.
Then she turned around. Her feet were cold, her shorts were damp, and her shirt clung to her back. The cottage lights glowed yellow in the distance, and its door was still ajar.
They walked back across the sand, passing the spot where Nimue had left her trainers. Saoirse was already waiting by the gate, her arms crossed and her face turned toward the sky.
"Good walk?" she asked.
Nimue stopped beside her and looked back. The sea was black, the stars shone brightly above it, and the horizon had disappeared.
"Yes," she said. "It was good."
She went inside. The kitchen was warm, the dishes had been washed, and the table had been wiped clean. Jack was putting the chairs back in their places, while Jane was in the front room, folding the blanket she had left on the bench.
Nimue went to her bedroom. Cinder was already on the bed, his eyes half-closed. His tail thumped once when she came in. She took off her damp shorts and shirt, leaving them on the floor. The sheets were cool, the window was open, and the sound of the sea drifted into the room.
She lay on her back, her hands resting on her stomach and her cold feet against Cinder's fur. Then she closed her eyes.
The tide seemed to breathe in and out. The cottage settled around her, its wooden beams creaking and the window rattling softly. From the next room came the low murmur of her family's voices.
Nimue fell asleep.
= = =
There's images below
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So, I need your opinion on something.
Do you prefer that I keep the dialogue in French, with the meaning written in parentheses… or should I just write everything directly in English and treat it as if they're speaking French?
If I go with French, it would apply to most of the dialogue since they're currently in France.
Let me know what you think in the comments. I'll hold off on updating the next chapter until I decide on this.
Thanks.