The window glass felt painfully cold against Nimue's forehead as she watched the heavy January sky. They had left Paris an hour earlier. The dense city had gradually given way to its suburbs, then to wide, bare fields stretching toward the horizon.
The car smelled of Cinder's warm fur and the faint coffee scent left behind by the cup Jane had bought earlier. The fox remained curled on Nimue's lap, his russet tail draped across her knee.
« Tu vas attraper froid, petite. » (You will catch cold, little one.) Jane reached over and gently touched her daughter's cheek, her green eyes filled with quiet concern. « Tu es glacée. » (You are freezing.)
« Je regarde. » (I'm looking.) Nimue pressed her forehead more firmly against the cold glass.
The fields outside were brown and sodden from the winter rain. Leafless trees stood scattered across the landscape, their bare branches stark against the pale, low-hanging sky.
Nimue watched a small bird perched on a fence post, its feathers puffed up against the biting cold, until the car sped past and it disappeared behind them.
Jane sighed softly. She reached over again and pulled the collar of Nimue's blue coat higher, tucking the woolen fabric securely around her neck.
Matthieu kept both hands on the steering wheel, his gray cap pulled low over his brow. A soft French melody played on the radio, a woman singing about the sea while static crackled between the notes. Nimue shifted against the door, feeling the seat belt press lightly against her shoulder as she listened to the tires humming over the wet asphalt.
« Encore deux heures. » (Two more hours.) Matthieu glanced at the rearview mirror, meeting Nimue's eyes for a brief moment. « Tu tiens le coup? » (Are you holding up?)
« Oui. »
Saoirse stretched in the seat beside her, her knee bumping against Nimue's leg in the cramped space filled with luggage.
« Elle a regardé par la fenêtre tout le trajet. Pas une sieste. »
(She has been looking out the window the entire journey. Not a single nap.)
« Je ne suis pas fatiguée. » (I'm not tired.) Nimue insisted, though her voice was small.
« Tu vas t'endormir dans l'assiette ce soir. » (You will fall asleep in your dinner tonight.)
Nimue ignored her aunt and continued watching the passing scenery. A tractor was working in a distant field, its heavy wheels throwing up thick clods of dark mud as it turned the earth. The farmer inside the cab was little more than a vague silhouette, too far away for her to make out his face through the mist.
Matthieu eventually turned off the main road and drove into a small town. The streets were narrow and wet, lined with old stone buildings and wooden shutters painted in various faded shades of gray. He parked in a quiet square beneath a large, ancient plane tree. Its bare branches spread over a stone war memorial at the center.
« On mange ici. » (We will eat here.) He switched off the engine. « Il y a une auberge. Rien de chic, mais ça fait l'affaire. » (There's an inn. Nothing fancy, but it will do.)
Jack opened the car door, and a rush of sharp winter air swept inside, stinging their cheeks. Nimue lifted Cinder and carefully placed him on the seat.
« Reste. » She pointed a finger at him.
The fox flattened his ears in disappointment. He watched her through the window as she climbed out onto the wet cobblestones.
The auberge was a small, squat building with low ceilings and dark wooden beams. Inside, a fire crackled cheerfully in a large stone hearth, the logs popping as they burned. A woman with gray hair tied in a tight, practical bun was wiping a table near the window. She greeted them with a gesture toward an empty table.
The room smelled of aged wood, woodsmoke, and roasting meat.
Nimue climbed onto a heavy wooden chair and studied the menu written in chalk on a blackboard, even though she couldn't read most of the sprawling handwriting.
« Qu'est-ce que tu veux, ma chérie? » (What would you like, my darling?) Jane sat beside her and began pulling off her leather gloves.
« Du pain. » (Bread.) Nimue paused before adding, « Et du fromage. » (And cheese.)
« C'est tout? » (Is that all?)
« Et des frites. » (And chips.)
Jane almost smiled as she placed the order in rapid, fluent French. The woman nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Saoirse stretched her arms above her head until her joints popped.
« Je pourrais dormir ici. Sur la table. Juste vingt minutes. »
(I could sleep here. Right on the table. Just twenty minutes.)
« Tu as dormi dans la voiture. » (You slept in the car.) Jack reminded her.
« Je me reposais les yeux. » (I was resting my eyes.)
Nimue watched the fire, fascinated by the way the orange flames moved and danced while the logs gradually blackened at the edges. A large gray cat with a torn ear was sleeping peacefully beside the hearth, completely undisturbed by the arrival of the newcomers.
Thinking of Cinder waiting alone in the car, Nimue turned toward her mother.
« Maman. Cinder a faim. » (Maman. Cinder is hungry.)
« On lui donnera quelque chose après. » (We will give him something afterward.)
The food arrived shortly afterward, still steaming. There was a basket of crusty bread, a plate of sharp cheese, and a bowl of thick-cut chips, along with a pot of rich pâté for the adults.
Nimue spread a generous amount of butter over her bread before moving on to the chips. She dipped them one by one into the ketchup on the side of her plate.
Jane enjoyed a glass of dark red wine while Jack asked Matthieu about the road ahead. The driver answered in a low voice, mentioning a particular turn near the river and a stone bridge that had been repaired the previous autumn.
Once she finished eating, Nimue pushed her plate away and looked out at the square. A woman was walking a small, shivering dog, while a man carried a fresh baguette tucked beneath his arm. Above them, the plane tree's branches swayed restlessly in the wind, their silhouettes shifting against the gray sky.
« On part bientôt? » (Are we leaving soon?) she asked.
« Oui. » Jane glanced at her. « Encore une petite heure. Ça va aller? » (Just one more hour. Will you be all right?)
« Oui. »
Saoirse reached across the table and stole one of the remaining chips. Nimue simply watched her eat it without protest, her thoughts already drifting back to the journey.
The final hour of the drive felt longer than the entire journey before it. The daylight gradually faded, and the sky shifted from dull, leaden gray to a bruised purple along the horizon. The flat fields gave way to low, rolling hills and vineyards, where rows of bare vines stretched across the slopes like brown stitching across the earth.
Nimue pressed her face against the window again. Her breath formed small clouds on the glass, each one disappearing almost as soon as it appeared.
« On approche. » (We are getting close.) Matthieu announced.
The road narrowed. Stone walls covered in thick moss began to line either side of the car. They passed a sign that Nimue couldn't read, followed by a church with a square tower and a row of houses whose shutters had already been closed against the evening chill.
The car turned onto a long gravel drive. Trees arched overhead, their bare branches reaching across the road and forming a tunnel.
Then the trees parted, revealing the house.
It stood three stories high, built from weathered stone. Ivy climbed one side of the building, and tall windows glowed softly in the fading light. A thin line of smoke rose from one of its chimneys.
« On est arrivés. » (We have arrived.) Matthieu said.
Nimue unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. The cold air touched her face, carrying the clean scent of damp stone and freshly turned earth. Cinder jumped out after her and pressed his russet side firmly against her legs.
The front door opened.
An elderly woman stood in the warm golden light. White hair framed her deeply lined face, but her brown eyes were kind.
« Bienvenue à Clairval. » (Welcome to Clairval.)
She stepped back and opened the door wider. She wore a thick gray wool cardigan, worn thin at the elbows, and carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and freshly baked goods.
« Entrez, entrez. Il fait froid dehors. » (Come in, come in. It's cold outside.) Her voice was low and resonant. « Je suis Marcelle. Ta grand-tante. » (I'm Marcelle. Your great-aunt.)
Jane stepped inside first, followed by Jack, who was carrying the heavier bags. Saoirse came in behind them and stamped her boots against the mat to knock the mud from her soles.
Nimue remained on the doorstep for a moment, with Cinder pressed against her leg. Marcelle looked down at her and smiled.
« Tu ressembles à ta mère. La même bouche. » (You look like your mother. The same mouth.)
Nimue didn't know how to respond, so she simply stepped inside.
The entrance hall was wide and dimly lit. Old black-and-white photographs covered the walls, their silver-nitrate prints set inside heavy, gilded frames. Faces from another time stared out at the newcomers. A staircase curved upward from the center of the hall, its polished wooden steps gleaming under the light. The air carried the rich scent of beeswax and old stone.
« La chambre est prête. » (The room is ready.) Marcelle turned to Jane. « La même que d'habitude. Celle qui donne sur les vignes. » (The usual one. The one overlooking the vineyards.)
Jane nodded.
« Merci, Marcelle. »
Marcelle looked at Nimue again.
« Tu veux voir ta chambre? » (Would you like to see your room?)
Nimue nodded and started up the stairs. The wooden steps creaked beneath her sneakers, while the ancestors in their photographs seemed to follow her with their eyes as she passed.
There were many unfamiliar faces, most with brown eyes and dark hair. Some wore stiff collars, while others were dressed in long, old-fashioned skirts. One photograph showed a young girl in a white dress holding a bouquet of flowers that had faded to a ghostly gray with age.
The bedroom was at the very end of the corridor. Marcelle opened the heavy door and let her enter.
It was larger than the bedroom they had used in Paris. A thick white quilt covered the bed, and a wide window overlooked the dark vineyards outside. A fire burned quietly in the hearth, its flames low and steady. In one corner stood a wooden wardrobe with doors carved in intricate floral patterns.
« C'est joli. » (It's pretty.) Nimue looked around the room.
Marcelle smiled.
« Ta grand-mère a dormi dans ce lit quand elle était petite. Avant de partir pour Beauxbâtons. »
(Your grandmother slept in this bed when she was little, before leaving for Beauxbâtons.)
Nimue reached out and touched the quilt. It was soft beneath her fingers and smelled of lavender. She already wanted to crawl beneath it.
« Le dîner dans une heure. » (Dinner is in an hour.) Marcelle turned toward the door. « Tu as le temps de te reposer. » (You have time to rest.)
She left, and the door clicked shut behind her.
Nimue sat on the edge of the bed while Cinder jumped up and curled at her feet. Now that they had finally arrived, the exhaustion from the journey seemed to settle over her all at once.
Jane drew a bath while Nimue unpacked a few essentials. The tub filled with deep, hot water, and Nimue sank into it with a quiet sigh.
Steam rose around her as Jane sat on a wooden stool beside the tub, her sleeves rolled up. She poured warm water over Nimue's hair and gently worked the soap through its tangles. The steam carried the soothing floral scent of lavender.
"Did you miss Paris?" Jane asked.
"Yes." Nimue watched the water trickle from her fingers in small, slow drops before asking, "Can we write to Fleur?"
Jane's hands paused for a moment, then continued washing her hair.
"Yes. After breakfast, you can tie the letter to the owl yourself."
Nimue nodded, reassured by the promise.
Jane rinsed her hair. The water briefly turned gray before running clear again.
"We will stay here for a few weeks, and then we will go home."
"To the manor?"
"Yes."
Nimue thought about the manor, remembering its long corridors, the familiar portraits, and the way her grandparents and Tilly would be waiting for them at the door.
"Cinder will be happy."
Jane let out a small laugh.
"He will sleep for three days."
. . . .
Dinner was served in a long room at the back of the house. A wooden table, worn smooth in the middle, stretched almost the entire length of the room. Candles burned in glass holders, their shifting light falling across the faces of everyone gathered around it.
Marcelle sat at the head of the table. Beside her was a man with gray hair and thick, calloused hands. Nimue assumed he was her husband, Étienne. He didn't speak much, but he passed the bread around and nodded politely whenever someone addressed him.
Two younger women sat on the other side of the table. One was pregnant and rested a protective hand on her stomach. The other had short, dark hair and a sharp nose. They were Marcelle's daughters, Chloé and Margot.
Jane introduced Nimue to everyone. Chloé greeted her with a warm smile, while Margot merely nodded before returning to her soup.
« Elle est grande pour son âge. » (She is tall for her age.) Chloé smiled at Nimue from across the table.
« Elle tient de son père. » (She takes after her father.) Jane replied.
Jack looked up from the other end of the table.
« Qu'est-ce que j'ai raté? » (What did I miss?)
« Rien. » (Nothing.) Jane lifted her wine glass with a faint, playful smile.
Nimue ate her soup slowly, slipping a small piece of bread beneath the table for Cinder. The adults talked about their journey and the vineyards, but she remained quiet, listening as their voices blended with the crackling fire.
Étienne asked Jack about the drive, and Jack answered in careful, measured French. Matthieu added a few details about the road conditions near Orléans.
After the soup, the next course was roast chicken seasoned with aromatic herbs. Its skin was crisp and dark. Nimue ate two pieces of breast meat while Chloé watched her with an amused smile.
« Elle a de l'appétit. » (She has quite an appetite.)
« Elle grandit. » (She is growing.) Jane replied.
Nimue didn't mind being the subject of their conversation. She simply continued eating until her stomach was pleasantly full and the warmth of the room began to make her sleepy.
. . . .
The bed was soft, and the quilt smelled of dried lavender mixed with the sharper scent of old cedar. Cinder had already claimed his usual spot at her feet, his body providing a comforting warmth through the blankets.
Jane sat on the edge of the mattress and gently brushed Nimue's hair away from her forehead.
"You are tired, ma chérie."
"No."
"Your eyes say otherwise."
Nimue didn't argue. Her eyes really were heavy.
The room was dark except for the faint, steady glow of the fire. The logs had burned down to glowing red embers, casting soft shadows across the ceiling. Jane kissed her forehead and whispered:
« Dors bien. » (Sleep well.)
She left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Nimue stared at the ceiling for a while, watching the firelight shadows move across it, until her breathing slowed and she finally drifted off.
. . .
The next morning, Nimue woke early to the unfamiliar sound of birds singing outside. Somewhere among the vineyards, a bird called out in a sharp, quick voice. Cinder was still asleep, though his tail twitched once as he dreamed.
She slipped out of bed and dressed herself in jeans, a thick jumper, and her blue coat. She tied her shoelaces twice to make sure they were secure before stepping out of the room.
The corridor was quiet as Nimue walked down it. The polished wooden floor felt familiar beneath her feet now, and the old photographs in their heavy frames no longer seemed to watch her. Instead, they appeared to stand silently along the walls as she passed. The staircase creaked beneath her steps.
The kitchen was at the back of the house, a spacious room with a black iron stove and a long wooden table. Marcelle was already there, slicing bread with a heavy knife. The blade flashed briefly each time it came down against the cutting board.
« Tu es levée tôt. » (You are up early.) Marcelle glanced at her.
« Je n'arrivais pas à dormir. » (I couldn't sleep.)
Marcelle pointed toward a chair.
« Assieds-toi. Je vais te donner du chocolat chaud. » (Sit down. I will make you some hot chocolate.)
Nimue climbed onto the chair. The wooden seat was cold, but she didn't mind. Cinder appeared in the doorway, shook himself, and settled at her feet.
Marcelle poured milk into a small pot and placed it on the stove. She broke a piece of dark chocolate into it and stirred until it began to melt. Before long, the rich, sweet smell filled the kitchen.
« Tu as bien dormi? » (Did you sleep well?) she asked.
« Oui. » (Yes.)
« Ta mère m'a dit que vous aviez voyagé toute l'année. C'est beaucoup pour une petite. »
(Your mother told me you have been traveling all year. That's a lot for a little girl.)
Nimue shrugged.
« J'ai vu des choses. » (I saw things.)
Marcelle turned from the stove, looking interested.
« Quelles choses? » (What things?)
« La mer. Les montagnes. Paris. Une dame qui avait un chat qui dormait sur le poêle. »
(The sea. The mountains. Paris. A woman who had a cat that slept on the stove.)
Marcelle let out a dry laugh.
« Marguerite. »
She shook her head with obvious fondness.
« Elle n'a jamais changé. » (She has never changed.)
The hot chocolate was ready a moment later. Marcelle poured it into a thick ceramic cup and placed it in front of Nimue. She wrapped both hands around it, letting the warmth seep into her palms. After blowing gently across the surface, she took a cautious sip.
« C'est bon. » (It's good.)
« Bien sûr que c'est bon. C'est ma recette. » (Of course it's good. It's my recipe.)
Marcelle returned to the counter, her knife making a steady rhythm against the cutting board.
A few minutes later, Jane entered the kitchen. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her face still carried the softness of sleep. She poured herself a cup of coffee before sitting across from Nimue.
« Tu as faim? » (Are you hungry?)
« Oui. »
Jane reached across the table and gently touched Nimue's hand. Her fingers were warm and comforting.
Marcelle placed a plate of bread and butter in front of Nimue, along with a bowl of thick, dark red jam.
« Mange. » She nodded toward the food. « Il y a du chemin avant le petit déjeuner. » (There's still some time before breakfast.)
Nimue spread butter over a slice of bread, followed by a generous layer of jam. She took a bite, enjoying the contrast between the crusty bread and the sweetness of the fruit.
Jack and Saoirse joined them soon afterward, and the kitchen gradually filled with conversation. Étienne came in carrying a basket of fresh eggs from the barn, while Chloé and Margot appeared to begin their own morning routines.
Nimue finished her bread and drank the last of her hot chocolate. Cinder remained patiently at her feet, waiting for any crumbs that might fall.
Marcelle cracked the eggs into a bowl with a sharp, rhythmic sound. She picked up a fork and began whisking them.
« Tu veux aider? » (Would you like to help?) she asked Nimue.
Nimue looked at the yellow eggs and the quick movement of the fork.
« Oui. »
Marcelle handed her the whisk. Nimue stepped closer and wrapped her small fingers around its cool metal handle. Looking down at the yellow mixture, she began moving her wrist, watching the eggs gradually turn pale and frothy.
The steady rhythm felt familiar.
It felt like beginning again.
===
Note: To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why or how the image style gradually changed like this. By the time I noticed, it seemed that the new style had already become somewhat locked in for that particular ChatGPT conversation.
I'll try generating the illustrations in a different chat after the Paris Arc is finished and see if that helps bring back the original style. Or maybe I'll just stick with this new style. We'll see how it goes!
Sorry about the inconsistency, everyone. 😅
Also there's images below
===
Flash Q&A plus note
From Empyrium on Webnovel
"I liked the story so far, even if it is very slow paced. But whatever that is with the french child is weird in my opinion, feels like its a buildup for a romantic relationship"
My answer:
Oh really? Then I'm glad you got that impression!
I wasn't sure if you missed all those notes I left in previous chapters or in the "introduction" chapter where I clearly said that Fleur will be one of her romantic interests.
After all, I intended to make Fleur her girlfriend (the main one) in the future. They only have kisses on the lips when Nimue is in her 4th year at Hogwarts. So that's still very far away, considering Nimue is just almost five right now.
As for their relationship progress in these chapters, the Nimue and Fleur dynamic reads as intentionally intense and ambiguous. They are still too young to be romantic in a sexual sense, but it's clearly meant to feel like a "first love" or soul bond setup.
.
Now, onto something else. Nimue loves music. We'll see how often she sings and plays in later chapters. Some of you might not know what song she's singing or what music she's playing, so I'll usually mention the song title and artist in the text or in note.
Sometimes she even has "background music" playing in her head. For example, if she's playing in the water and sitting on a boat, she might imagine or hear in her mind the "Pirates of the Caribbean" OST.
Or when she first arrives at Hogwarts, during the scene where the first years cross the lake by boat, she might sing "Hikari e" (from One Piece). Or when she's playing wild outdoors or training, she might sing or hear in her mind the song "Go" (from Naruto). Or maybe it's a Korean song or another language.
Also, you might see some lyrics written in the middle of a chapter. Don't worry, it won't be the full song—just the part she "focuses on".
Please remember that Nimue is, in a sense, "me." If you're new here, I graduated from Japanese Language and Literature Education, so of course the majority of my taste is Japanese songs. I also love reading Chinese web novels, which made me pick up some Chinese songs for my playlist as well. And because I've had TikTok since Covid, I also like some viral songs that appear on my FYP. As for Korean, I absolutely love IZ*ONE.
I also absolutely love slower songs like "Yours," "Darari," "Pretty Boy," "Qing Fei De Yi" (情非得已), "Canon in Love," "Messy," "Full Moon," "Dear My X," "The First Snow," "Cinta Yang Sempurna," "Sour Grapes," "Stay," "Really Like You," "恋愛サーキュレーション," etc.
Also please remember that in the lore, the higher being has Art as a domain, so obviously we'll see many things about art. Especially since Nimue often expresses herself through art. So you'll see some lyrics in the middle of chapters, or how often I mention songs, or Nimue doing artistic things.
I just want you to know that you will absolutely find this in later chapters. The reason I'm putting this warning and notice is because I just saw a post on Reddit talking about lyrics in the middle of chapters, and most people didn't like it and said they'd drop the fic.
So I'm putting the warning here, just in case. (For those reading on AO3, I also added clickable audio players there, but on Webnovel and FFN it's just lyrics and song titles.)
Enjoy, and thanks for reading 💕