Nimue fell so many times on her first morning of skiing that she eventually stopped counting.
Jack helped her up every time. His patience never wavered, even when she ended up sprawled across the snow like a starfish.
"You are leaning back again," he said, looking down at her.
"I'm not."
"You are. Look at your skis."
Nimue glanced down. The tips were pointing toward the sky, and she was practically sitting on the backs of them.
"That's why you keep falling," Jack explained. "Lean forward. Let the skis do the work."
She planted her poles in the snow and leaned forward. This time, the skis slid smoothly beneath her. She stayed upright for three seconds, then five, then ten. Jack skied alongside her, close enough to catch her if she lost her balance.
But she didn't fall. She wobbled, and her arms flailed like a bird trying to take off, but she managed to stay on her feet.
"I'm doing it!"
"You are doing it."
When she finally reached the bottom of the slope, she deliberately threw herself into the snow, laughing as she landed on her back. The cold was beginning to seep through her padded blue jacket, but she didn't care. Jack stopped beside her and shook his head.
"Get up."
"No."
"We have to go back up."
"Carry me."
"Absolutely not."
She remained in the snow for another minute before finally pushing herself up. Her legs ached, her arms ached, and her cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
The second day went even better. She fell less often and began learning how to turn by shifting her weight to one side and allowing the skis to follow. Jack taught her how to stop by bringing the tips of her skis together, forming a wedge like a slice of pizza.
She tried it and came to a stop just inches from a tree trunk.
"Good," Jack said. "Now do it again."
She did it again, then once more. By the end of the day, she could ski from the top of the beginner slope all the way to the bottom without falling. She was still slow and a little unsteady, but at least she could remain upright.
. . .
The outdoor skating rink was tucked between two buildings in the heart of the village. By midday, the ice was often rough and uneven, chopped up by the skates of the morning visitors. Every afternoon, however, the man who managed the rink dragged a hose across the surface and flooded it with water, allowing it to freeze overnight. By the following morning, the ice was smooth and glassy again.
Nimue rented a pair of skates that smelled strongly of old leather. Their blades were dull and scratched from years of use. She sat on a wooden bench to lace them up, her fingers already growing cold and stiff.
Saoirse glided past her, skating backward with her hands tucked into her coat pockets.
"You are taking forever."
"The laces are frozen."
"They aren't frozen. You are just slow."
Nimue pulled the laces as tight as she could and stood up. Her ankles wobbled immediately, and she grabbed the railing.
"Bend your knees," Saoirse advised. "Don't lock them."
Nimue followed her instructions, and the wobbling stopped. She pushed off, sliding forward with a soft scraping sound. She made it halfway across the rink before her ankles gave way, forcing her to grab the railing again.
"Better," Saoirse said. "Now let go."
"I will fall."
"So fall. The ice is soft enough."
Nimue took a breath and released the railing. She pushed off, found her balance, and began to glide. Her ankles held firm this time. She made it all the way to the other side without touching the railing once. Then she turned, pushed off again, and skated back.
Saoirse clapped her hands.
"There you go!"
Nimue skated another lap, then another. Her breath formed little clouds in the crisp air, while the mountains rose all around the village, their snow-covered slopes bright beneath the blue sky. She didn't fall even once.
. . .
The old woman who owned the chalet was named Marguerite. She had lived there for forty years, ever since her husband died and she moved up from the valley. The chalet belonged to her. Although she occasionally rented it to tourists when she needed the money, she mostly lived a quiet life with her cat, her books, and the mountains.
Jane had found her through a recommendation from someone who knew the family. Their arrangement was simple. Marguerite would let them stay in exchange for help with the woodpile and clearing the snow. Jack handled the firewood, Saoirse took care of the snow, and Jane did the cooking.
Nimue's responsibility was looking after the cat.
It was a fat, gray tomcat with one torn ear and a missing claw. Most of the time, it slept beside the hearth, ignoring everyone except Nimue, who had made a habit of feeding it scraps of fish.
Marguerite's hair was as white as the snow outside, and her face was creased like old parchment. Her eyes were green, but not a dull or dark shade. They were bright and luminous, exactly the same color as Jane's.
And exactly the same color as Nimue's.
Nimue noticed the resemblance on their second evening together. Marguerite was sitting beside the fire with a book in her hands. Its pages had yellowed with age, and its binding was cracked. She held it close to her face, squinting in the dim light. The firelight caught her eyes, making them appear almost luminous.
"Grand-mère," Nimue said. "Your eyes."
Marguerite looked up. "What about them?"
"They are green. Just like Maman's."
Marguerite set the book down on the arm of her chair. She looked at Jane, then back at Nimue.
"Your mother didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"I'm an Evans. From the main branch. The château in the Loire Valley."
Nimue frowned. "But you live here. In the mountains."
"I left." Marguerite said it simply, as though there were nothing more to explain. "A long time ago. I wanted the mountains. The quiet. The snow."
Nimue looked at Jane, who gave a small nod.
"She wrote to me years ago, when you were first born," Marguerite continued. "She wanted to know if I still had the chalet and whether she could bring you here someday. I said yes. I have been waiting."
Nimue didn't know what to say. She looked at the fire, then at Marguerite's hands resting beside the book.
"So you are family."
"Distant family. But yes, we are."
Nimue settled onto the rug beside the old woman's chair. The cat was already curled up there, its body forming a warm gray ball. She stroked its fur, feeling the warmth from the hearth against her hands.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I wanted to see if you would notice on your own." Marguerite smiled, her bright eyes shining. "Evans eyes are quite hard to miss."
"How old are you?"
Marguerite laughed.
"Old enough that your great-great-great-grandmother was my baby sister. I was already grown when she was born. She married and had children, and those children had children. I stayed here."
Nimue tried to work it out. Great-great-great-grandmother. That was four greats. She didn't know how many years that meant, but she knew it must have been a lot.
"So you are..."
"Very old," Marguerite finished for her. "Older than this chalet. Older than the village. The mountains were different when I was young. The snow came earlier and stayed longer."
. . .
The hot spring was behind the chalet, tucked beneath a wooden shelter. The water rose from deep underground, bubbling to the surface with a strong mineral smell. Marguerite said it had been there for centuries and that even the Romans had used it.
Nimue didn't know who the Romans were, but she loved the water. It was almost too hot to bear, and thick clouds of steam rose from the surface, carrying the earthy smell of the minerals.
They went there at night, after dinner, when the sky was dark and the stars shone brightly overhead. Jane went first, followed by Saoirse and then Nimue. Jack stayed inside, reading beside the fire.
The water was deep enough to reach Nimue's shoulders when she sat on the stone bench. Its warmth quickly seeped into her bones, easing the aches from a day of skiing. She leaned her head back and looked up.
Stars filled the sky. With the mountains blocking out the village lights, the darkness was so deep that the stars seemed as thick as salt scattered across it. The cold air stung her face, while the hot water kept the rest of her perfectly warm.
"This is lovely," Saoirse said.
Her hair was tied into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. It was too short to stay neat, and several damp strands clung to her skin.
"It's very hot," Nimue observed.
"That's the point, isn't it?"
Jane sat on Nimue's other side with her eyes closed. The water gently lapped against the stone edge, while a breeze carried the sharp scent of pine needles through the shelter.
"Grand-mère," Nimue said. "She is really family?"
"Distant family," Jane replied. "But yes. The Evans family is vast. We are everywhere."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted you to meet her first. To see her for yourself. The eyes are usually enough of a sign."
Nimue thought about that. She thought about those green eyes, exactly the same shade as hers, being passed down through so many generations. She touched her own face, her fingers cool against her flushed cheeks.
"The old woman's eyes are so bright."
"She is an Evans. We tend to keep our color."
"I like her," Nimue said.
Jane smiled. "I know you do."
. . .
After that, the days seemed to blur together. Some mornings began at the skating rink, others on the slopes, and more than once they switched from one activity to the other before the day was over. Their evenings were reserved for the hot spring. Nimue's legs ached almost constantly, but it was a good kind of ache, the sort that came from growing stronger.
She learned to skate backward, although she crashed into a fence the first time she tried. She learned to ski without constantly looking down at her feet, keeping her eyes on the mountains instead. She even figured out how to build a snow fort that Saoirse couldn't knock down, no matter how hard she kicked it.
Marguerite often watched them from the window. The cat sat on the sill, its yellow eyes following Nimue whenever she moved outside.
One afternoon, Nimue came back inside with crimson cheeks and tiny icicles frozen in her hair. Marguerite made her sit beside the fire and handed her a mug of hot chocolate. It was thick and sweet, with a generous dollop of cream on top.
"You are getting tall," Marguerite remarked.
"I'm growing."
"Evans children grow fast. My own daughter was exactly the same. She shot up like a weed."
Nimue drank her chocolate, leaving a white moustache of cream above her upper lip. She wiped it away with her sleeve.
"Where is your daughter?"
Marguerite's hands suddenly stopped moving over her knitting.
"Gone. It was a long time ago."
Nimue didn't ask anything else. She set down her mug and watched the fire. The cat stretched before jumping into her lap, its body heavy and warm.
"I'm sorry," Nimue said quietly.
Marguerite shrugged.
"It was a long time ago. I have made my peace with it."
They sat in silence for a while. The fire crackled, and eventually, Marguerite's knitting needles began clicking again. Nimue stroked the cat's fur, listening to its steady purring.
"You remind me of her," Marguerite said. "The same eyes."
Nimue didn't know what to say, so she continued stroking the cat.
"She would have liked you," Marguerite added quietly.
. . .
On their last night in the Alps, the sky was clear. Nimue stood on the porch after dinner, her winter coat pulled tightly around her. The stars were bright and numerous, while the mountains stood as dark silhouettes against the night sky.
Jane came outside and stood beside her.
"Tomorrow we go to Paris," Nimue said.
"Tomorrow."
"I don't want to leave."
Jane slipped an arm around her shoulders.
"We will come back. Marguerite said we could."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Nimue leaned against her mother's side. The cold air stung her cheeks, but the stars remained steady and unmoving overhead.
"Grand-mère said I remind her of her daughter."
Jane was quiet for a moment.
"I know. She told me the same thing."
"What happened to her?"
"She died. It was a long time ago, before you were born."
Nimue thought about that. She thought about Marguerite living alone in the chalet, waiting for her family to visit. She thought about the green eyes passed down through generations and the cat sleeping beside the hearth.
"That's exactly why she let us stay," Nimue realized. "Because we are family."
"That's exactly why," Jane agreed.
Nimue looked up at the stars. They were the same stars she had seen in Normandy, at the farm, and in London. They were also the same stars Marguerite saw every night.
"I'm glad we came here," Nimue said.
Jane gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"So am I."
. . .
Their train was scheduled to leave at noon the following day. Marguerite stood on the platform, her white hair stark against the gray sky. The cat wasn't with her. It had stayed behind at the chalet, most likely sleeping beside the hearth.
Nimue stepped forward and hugged her. The old woman felt smaller than she looked in her chair, her arms thin beneath her clothes. But she held Nimue tightly.
"Come back," Marguerite said.
"I will."
"When you are older. Bring your mother. Bring your father. I will make you hot chocolate."
Nimue smiled.
"With cream?"
"With plenty of cream."
The train whistle sounded, and Nimue climbed aboard to find her seat by the window. She pressed her face against the glass as the train began to pull away. Marguerite stood on the platform with one hand raised. She grew smaller and smaller until she was little more than a speck. Then the train rounded a bend, and she disappeared from view.
Nimue leaned back in her seat. The mountains slid past the window, their slopes white and gray, with deep blue shadows between the peaks. The sky was pale, with only a few thin clouds.
"Paris," she said.
"Paris," Jane agreed.
The train carried them north toward the city. The mountains gradually faded behind them, and the cold inside Nimue's chest settled into quiet stillness.
She closed her eyes and fell asleep.
===
There's images below
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I want to clarify something about the Keith family rules for children.
From birth until age two, only parents, grandparents, and god-grandparents are allowed to see them.
At age two, their godparent and immediate family can see them as well.
At age four, the child is allowed to enter the mundane world.
And at age five, after their second magical maturity, they can fully appear and interact within the wizarding world.
Some of you might be wondering why Nimue is doing fine in this arc, even though she's still four, especially when interacting with Hermione, Fleur, Marguerite, and other magical people.
That's because her magical core is already stable enough. It's still not ideal for her to be around too many magical individuals at once, but limited contact is fine. After all, when traveling in the mundane world, there's no way to guarantee she won't encounter magical people.
Also, the closer she gets to five, the more stable her core becomes.
.
I also want to ask something.
About the "pictures" I mentioned before. I explained that the images are in the paragraph comments. For example, if you click or tap the small number next to a name like "Young Aldric," it should open the image.
Can you actually see the pictures when you do that?
Someone mentioned they couldn't see them even after I added that explanation. So I want to check. If most of you can't access them, I'll start putting the images directly in the comment section instead.
If they're working fine for you, then I'll leave things as they are.
Thanks.
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Oh, btw can you guess how old Marguerite is?