The cottage in Normandy remained their base throughout the trip. They slept there most nights, even when they returned after a long and exhausting day of driving.
By now, Nimue had grown accustomed to waking to the rhythmic cries of gulls circling the harbor instead of the familiar tolling of bells. The moment she opened her eyes, her bare feet would find the cold, uneven floorboards, their rough surfaces carrying a faint trace of salt from the sea.
After breakfast, Jane usually spread a large, creased map across the kitchen table. Her pale finger traced the winding coastal roads that followed the shoreline like loose stitches.
Jack often leaned over her shoulder to study the route, his dark hair falling forward and revealing the distinct white streak that marked his family line. Saoirse sat on the wooden bench with her tea, her own black hair bearing the same striking streak of white as she watched them plan the day's journey.
"Falaise first," Jane said, her French accent giving her voice its familiar, gentle lilt. "Then the beaches. Mont-Saint-Michel if we have time."
"That's a bloody lot of driving," Jack remarked.
"We have a car, and we have plenty of days. Ne t'inquiète pas." (Don't worry.)
Nimue stood on a chair, bringing her chin level with the scarred wooden tabletop. The map was covered in blue lines and tiny red dots that looked like spilled ink. She reached out and touched the spot beneath Jane's finger, her fingernail clicking against the paper.
"What is there?"
"A castle," Jane replied, looking down at her with a soft expression in her green eyes. "A very old one. A king was born there."
Nimue studied the map. The name was written in small, elegant letters: Château de Falaise. She didn't really know what a king was, but she liked the sound of the word.
. . .
The castle stood atop a steep hill, an imposing structure of gray stone with thick walls and towers rising against the muted sky.
Nimue walked up the stone ramp with her small hand tucked securely into Jack's larger one. The rubber soles of her trainers scraped against the old, uneven cobblestones, sending faint echoes along the ramparts. When she pressed her palm against the rough stone, its biting cold seeped into her skin.
Inside, the rooms were empty and echoing, carrying the smell of damp earth and old dust. Heavy stone floors stretched beneath their feet, while narrow windows allowed only thin slivers of gray light to enter the gloomy interior.
One fireplace was so large that Nimue could stand comfortably inside it. She tilted her head back, looking up at the soot-blackened stone of the chimney. Far above, the opening revealed only a tiny square of sky.
"A king lived here?"
"William the Conqueror," Jack explained, resting a hand on the stone mantel. "He crossed the sea and became King of England."
Nimue thought about that, her brow furrowing. She had crossed the sea too, but she certainly wasn't a king.
She wandered through the narrow corridors, trailing one hand along the walls. The stone felt rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by centuries of hands that had left no other trace of themselves.
At the top of one tower, the wind blew sharply through the battlements. Far away, the sea appeared as a thin, shimmering gray line. Nimue stood behind the stone parapet and looked down at the world below.
"Careful," Jane said, appearing quietly behind her.
"I'm careful."
And she was. Nimue held the cold stone with both hands as she watched the town gathered at the foot of the hill. Cars moved along the streets like tiny, brightly colored toys, while people walked between the buildings like columns of ants. From up here, everything seemed small, quiet, and wonderfully simple.
. . .
The D-Day beaches felt different. Nimue sensed it as soon as they stepped out of the car.
The air smelled much the same, carrying the familiar scent of salt and cold seawater, but the adults moved with a heaviness she hadn't seen during their other outings. Jack walked ahead with his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the breeze. Jane stayed close to Nimue, keeping a steady hand on her shoulder.
The beach was wide and desolate. Pale sand stretched toward the restless water beneath a heavy, overcast sky. There were no sunbathers or children playing with buckets. Only the endless stretch of sand, the steady rhythm of the sea, and a long, haunting row of white crosses in the distance.
"What happened here?" Nimue asked softly, her voice almost lost beneath the wind.
Jane remained quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
"A battle took place here a long time ago. Many people died."
Nimue looked toward the crosses. There were so many, stretching farther and farther into the distance, that she couldn't possibly count them all.
"Why?"
"Because there was a war. Bad people wanted to take everything, and good people fought to stop them."
Nimue considered this in silence. The cold wind blew her white hair across her face. She thought about the manor, its towering iron gates, and the complicated wards that kept unwanted visitors away.
"Did we fight?"
"Our family? Some of them did. Not here, but in other places."
Nimue didn't ask anything else. She walked down toward the water, allowing the freezing waves to wash over the toes of her trainers. The sand beneath her feet was wet and unstable. She stood there, watching the foam retreat, until Jane eventually called her back to the car.
. . .
At the Pegasus Memorial, they crossed a bridge spanning a quiet canal. Jane explained that the original bridge was gone, but the one standing before them was an exact replica. A glider had landed nearby in the darkness, and soldiers had come to capture the bridge from the enemy.
Nimue touched the metal railing. It was cold and damp from the afternoon mist. She looked down at the canal, watching the slow, murky brown water swirl around the supports.
"Were there children?"
Jane rested a hand gently on Nimue's head, smoothing her hair.
"Yes. There are always children."
Nimue didn't know what to do with that answer. It left a heavy feeling in her chest. She walked to the end of the bridge and back, carefully counting her steps to keep her mind occupied.
Sixty-four.
She told Saoirse, who nodded solemnly and said that was quite a lot of steps for such a small bridge.
. . .
Mont-Saint-Michel rose from the sea like something out of an old story.
Nimue first saw it through the car window, a dark, jagged silhouette against the gray sky. As they drew closer, it grew into a mountain of stone buildings stacked one above another, with a slender spire rising from the very top. Gray water surrounded it on all sides.
"We have to wait for low tide," Jack said, checking his watch. "Otherwise, we won't be able to walk across the flats."
They parked and began their walk along the causeway. The sand was wet and packed firmly beneath their feet, reflecting the sky like polished slate. With every step, the island grew larger and more imposing. Nimue kept looking up until her neck began to ache, hoping to catch a glimpse of the golden statue at the summit.
Beyond the gates, the streets were narrow and winding, filled with the smell of fried dough and damp stone. Steps had been carved directly into the rock, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of travelers. Shops sold postcards and inexpensive wooden toys, while tourists crowded the narrow alleys, speaking in languages Nimue didn't recognize.
The abbey stood at the very top of the mount. Its halls were built of cold stone, with high vaulted ceilings and windows overlooking the vast, empty bay. A monk passed them in a white robe, his sandals making a steady slapping sound against the stone floor as he walked through the quiet cloister.
Nimue stopped beside a deep-set window and looked down. Their car was now little more than a speck, and the causeway appeared as a thin, vulnerable line across the sand. The water was already returning, creeping steadily and silently over the flats.
"We need to go," Jack said, his voice echoing through the stone hall. "Otherwise, we will be stuck here until the next low tide."
They hurried down the mount, making their way through the steep stairways. Nimue held her mother's hand tightly. By then, the water had spread much closer across the sand, shallow and brown beneath the gray sky. When they finally reached the car, the path behind them had already disappeared beneath the rising tide.
. . .
The last few days in Normandy passed quietly, accompanied by the occasional scent of woodsmoke.
Nimue helped Hélène clean the mussels again. Her fingers were faster and more confident now, and the small knife felt natural in her hand. Each time, she removed the tough beards cleanly without much effort. Mathis sat on his blanket nearby, watching her with wide eyes and his stuffed rabbit tucked securely beneath one arm.
« Tu deviens une experte. » (You are becoming an expert.)
Hélène smiled warmly, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
Nimue merely shrugged. She dropped another glossy black mussel into the metal bucket before reaching for the next one.
Meanwhile, Jane spent the afternoons packing the cottage with her usual efficiency. She cleared the kitchen counters, stripped the beds of their linen, and folded the white sheets into neat squares. Nimue helped wherever she could, carrying heavy piles of laundry to the basket and wiping down the sturdy wooden table until its surface was completely dry and gleaming.
. . .
The morning they left, the sky was the color of tarnished pewter.
Nimue stood by the gate and looked toward the harbor one last time. The boats rocked gently with the swell. Somewhere in the distance, a man shouted from the deck of a boat while gulls circled endlessly overhead.
"Ready?" Jack asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
She nodded.
. . .
The shopping trip took most of the day. It was a blur of bright lights, glass displays, and unfamiliar sights.
They drove to a larger town with enormous department stores and wide windows filled with stiff, carefully dressed mannequins. Nimue had never been inside a shop so large. The lights were dazzlingly bright, and the polished floors were so shiny that she could see her reflection in them. Everything smelled of new fabric, starch, and cardboard.
Jane pulled heavy coats from the racks, held them against Nimue to check the size, and returned them before moving on to the next one. Eventually, she found a thick, padded jacket and slipped it over Nimue's shoulders.
"It's too big."
"You will grow."
"It's huge. I look like a blue bird."
Jane laughed, the sound bright in the quiet shop.
"That's the point. It keeps the warmth in."
They bought it anyway. The jacket was a deep blue, with a hood lined in soft fur that tickled Nimue's neck. She wore it out of the shop with the sleeves rolled up twice, feeling rather like a giant marshmallow. Saoirse told her she looked adorable, which earned her a stern look.
Next came a pair of sturdy boots. They had thick soles, warm fleece lining, and long laces that took Nimue several attempts to tie. She sat on a low bench in the middle of the shop and practiced the knots until she could finish them in less than a minute.
They continued with woolen gloves, hats, and scarves, along with a jumper so thick that Nimue could barely move her arms. By the time they finished, the shopping bags were heavy, and she was exhausted.
"Do we really need all this?" she asked as they walked back to the car.
"The Alps are cold," Jane replied. She glanced at Nimue's skeptical expression and smiled. "You will wear the jacket."
"Fine."
. . .
The train carried them south through the French countryside.
Their car was gone, returned to the rental agency in Caen. Nimue watched the countryside slide past the window.
Green fields gave way to low, rolling hills, and eventually, higher, jagged peaks appeared in the distance. The sky remained stubbornly gray, while the temperature outside the window seemed to drop steadily as they traveled farther south and climbed in altitude.
Saoirse slept across two seats with her coat pulled over her face. Her black hair, streaked with white, had become tangled from sleep. Jack read a thick book he had bought at the station, while Jane watched the passing scenery. Her reflection appeared pale against the glass, her eyes distant. Nimue pressed one hand against the cold window.
They changed trains twice, making their way through busy platforms filled with the smell of diesel. By evening, the mountains had drawn much closer. Their peaks were covered in fresh snow, standing out against the dark, looming rock. Nimue pressed her face to the window and watched them grow larger as the train wound through the valleys.
The station was small and rustic, with wooden benches and snow piled high against its stone walls. A man was waiting for them with a van. He loaded their bags into the back and spoke in French so quickly that Nimue couldn't follow him. Jane answered in the same rapid, rhythmic language.
The drive was short. The road wound uphill between dense stands of dark evergreen trees before the chalet finally came into view. It was built from weathered wood and gray stone, with thick smoke rising from its chimney and warm light glowing through its small windows.
Nimue stepped out of the van, and the air struck her face with such sharp intensity that she gasped.
This was nothing like the damp, heavy chill of Normandy. The cold here bit much deeper. Her nose began to sting, and her ears ached almost immediately. She looked up at the mountains surrounding them, their dark, jagged peaks silhouetted against the last light of day. The sky had turned deep purple near the edges, and the first stars were already visible in the clear air.
"Well," Saoirse said, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she shivered. "It's certainly cold."
Nimue didn't answer. She was watching the snow covering the high peaks and the way it caught the fading violet light. The cold inside her stirred, like something small waking from a long sleep and stretching its limbs.
She smiled.
The chalet door opened, revealing an elderly woman with white hair and a face creased like parchment. Her eyes were green.
« Entrez, entrez. » (Come in, come in.)
She stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter.
"It's cold outside."
Nimue walked inside, and the dry warmth immediately enveloped her. The air smelled of woodsmoke, melted wax, and cooking herbs. A fire crackled in the large stone hearth, and thick, colorful rugs covered the wooden floor.
She dropped her bag beside the stairs and went straight to the window. The peaks were dark now, their snow-covered slopes appearing as faint, ghostly shapes against the night sky.
"We are really here," she said, her breath catching slightly.
Jane came up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder.
"We are really here."
Nimue pressed her palm against the glass. It was cold, but no frost formed beneath her touch. She didn't need it. The bitter cold outside was already more than enough to satisfy the familiar itch beneath her skin.
. . . .
The next morning, Nimue woke to a kind of light she had never seen before.
It wasn't the dull, flat gray of Normandy or the pale gold of the farm. It was a brilliant, almost blinding white, reflected from the snow and pouring through the bedroom window.
She sat up in the soft bed. Cinder was curled at her feet, his russet fur standing out against the white duvet. His ears were flattened, and his body was tucked into a tight ball. He clearly didn't like the cold. The previous night, he had refused to leave the rug until Jack finally carried him upstairs to the bedroom. His amber eyes had remained wide with suspicion the entire time.
"Snow," Nimue whispered.
One of Cinder's ears twitched, but he didn't uncurl.
She climbed out of bed and went to the window. The world had turned completely white overnight. Trees, rooftops, and the narrow road were buried beneath a fresh, untouched layer of snow. In the morning light, the mountains looked sharper, their peaks cutting into the deep blue sky like glass.
Nimue dressed quickly, pulling on her new padded blue jacket and thick fleece-lined boots. As she hurried downstairs, her breath formed small clouds in the cold morning air. Jane stood by the stove with a pot of coffee, while Jack watched the deep snowdrifts outside the window. Saoirse was still asleep on the sofa, her coat thrown over her like a heavy blanket.
"Can I go outside?" Nimue asked, already reaching for the door latch.
"After breakfast," Jane replied firmly.
Nimue ate as quickly as she could. She had bread with cold butter, a bowl of thick porridge, and a cup of tea so hot that it burned her tongue. She barely noticed. All she could think about was getting outside and touching the snow.
When the door finally opened, a rush of freezing air swept into the chalet. Nimue stepped onto the porch, and the snow crunched beneath her boots. She walked to the edge of the wooden deck and looked out over the valley below.
Everything was white, silent, and perfectly still. Somewhere beneath the ice, a stream continued to run. Its faint, tinkling sound reached her whenever she stopped to listen.
She knelt and scooped up a handful of snow. It was light and powdery, cold even through her gloves. She packed it into a firm ball and threw it at a nearby pine tree. The snow burst against its branches, scattering into a cloud of white powder.
She did it again, then again, growing more energetic with each throw.
The cold inside her stirred once more, stronger this time. It was neither painful nor frightening. It was simply there, as though the frozen landscape had called to something deep within her.
Jane came outside carrying a steaming mug of tea, wrapped in her own thick coat.
"You will freeze out here."
"I'm not cold."
Jane studied her closely. Nimue's cheeks were pink, and her breath formed clouds in the air, but she wasn't shivering. She stood in the deep snow as comfortably as if it were the height of summer.
"You really aren't," Jane observed, her voice filled with quiet surprise.
Nimue shrugged. She bent down and began making another snowball, her breathing steady and her hands sure despite the cold.
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