The days in Clairval settled into a quiet, steady routine, marked by the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway and the gradual changes in the winter light.
Nimue woke each morning to pale light slipping through her curtains. She ate breakfast in the warm kitchen before walking through the vineyards with Cinder, her breath forming small white clouds in the cold air.
The fox always raced ahead, his russet fur standing out against the brown earth and frost-covered vines. His amber eyes searched the ground for movement, while his paws left tiny prints in the silver morning frost that crunched beneath their feet.
One morning, she helped Marcelle feed the chickens. The hens were plump and brown, their feathers fluffed up against the winter chill until they resembled round cushions. They pecked curiously at the toes of Nimue's boots as she scattered handfuls of grain across the damp earth, their movements quick and jerky.
Another day, she followed Étienne into the barn. He showed her the enormous tractor and stacks of wooden crates reaching almost to the rafters. The air carried the heavy, sweet, slightly musty scent of wine that had soaked into the wood over many years.
During the afternoons, Nimue often sat on the sitting-room floor, where a small fire crackled in the hearth to keep the dampness away. She spread her papers around her and drew pictures of the endless vineyards and the stone walls of the house. She even tried drawing Cinder, although her version of the fox looked more like a lumpy potato with four thin sticks for legs.
Marcelle saw the drawing one afternoon. Leaning over Nimue's shoulder, she let out a bright, melodic laugh that filled the room.
« C'est lui? » (Is that him?) she asked, pointing at the sketch with a flour-dusted finger.
« Oui. »
« Il ressemble à une patate. » (He looks like a potato.)
Nimue looked down at Cinder. The fox was sprawled across the rug, his russet chin resting on his paws. His ears were flattened, and his eyes were half-closed. He looked entirely unimpressed by his own likeness.
« Un peu. » Nimue admitted with a small smile.
. . .
Two weeks passed, and Nimue eventually stopped counting the days. The routine of the house remained constant and comforting. Marcelle was usually in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up, Étienne stayed busy in the barn or the sheds, and Jane spent much of her time reading at the long wooden table, her green eyes moving steadily across the pages.
Jack often walked along the edge of the vineyards with his hands buried in his pockets. His dark hair, marked by its familiar white streak, was usually messy from the wind. He always seemed thoughtful, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon.
Saoirse left for two days and returned with a heavy burlap bag filled with oranges from the market in Tours. She found Nimue in the hallway and placed one of the fruits in her hand. Its pebbled skin felt cold against her palm.
"Eat," Saoirse said firmly, her eyes bright against her pale skin. "It's good for you."
Nimue carefully peeled the orange. Its sharp citrus scent cut through the cold air. She separated the segments, and sweet, sticky juice ran over her fingers as she ate.
One morning at breakfast, Marcelle looked at Nimue from across the table, wiping her hands on her apron.
« Tu veux voir les caves? » (Would you like to see the cellars?)
Nimue stopped chewing her bread crust, immediately interested.
« Les caves? » (The cellars?)
« Où le vin dort. Sous la terre. » (Where the wine sleeps. Underground.)
Nimue glanced toward Jane, silently asking for permission. Her mother gave her a small, encouraging nod.
« Oui. »
She slid down from her chair.
Marcelle led her through the kitchen, past the lingering smell of breakfast, and out through a low back door. It was made of thick, ancient wood, its gray paint peeling away in flakes that came off beneath Nimue's touch.
Beyond it, a flight of stone steps descended into darkness.
The air changed as soon as they began going down. It became colder, stiller, and heavier, carrying the smell of damp earth and something sharp and sour.
Nimue held Marcelle's hand tightly, her small fingers almost disappearing inside the older woman's grip. Her sneakers scraped against the narrow, uneven steps as they descended. Once they reached the bottom, Marcelle pulled a cord, and a single yellow light bulb flickered to life, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls.
The cellar opened into a wide, low space. Its curved stone ceiling resembled the inside of a shell. Wooden barrels lined the walls, their dark iron hoops spotted with rust. They stood taller than Nimue, and the damp air carried the smell of wet earth and old fruit. The floor was packed dirt, slightly soft beneath her shoes.
« C'est ici. » (This is it.) Marcelle explained, her voice echoing faintly through the quiet cellar. « Les vignes donnent les raisins. Les raisins donnent le vin. Et le vin dort ici, parfois pendant des années. »
(The vines give us grapes. The grapes give us wine. And the wine sleeps here, sometimes for years.)
Nimue looked up at the enormous barrels, their wooden sides held together by rusted iron hoops.
« Il est vivant? » (Is it alive?) she asked in a whisper.
Marcelle smiled, the yellow light catching the wrinkles around her eyes.
« Il y a des petites bêtes invisibles qui mangent le sucre. Elles font le vin. »
(There are tiny invisible creatures that eat the sugar. They make the wine.)
Nimue blinked and looked more closely at the wooden barrels.
« Des bêtes? » (Creatures?)
« Des levures. Tu ne peux pas les voir, mais elles sont là. »
(Yeast. You can't see them, but they are there.)
Nimue pressed her palm against the side of a barrel. The wood felt cool and rough beneath her fingers.
« Tu veux goûter? » (Would you like to taste some?) Marcelle asked.
Nimue nodded.
Marcelle found a small glass on a nearby shelf, then turned a brass tap at the bottom of one barrel. A stream of dark red liquid flowed out, looking almost black beneath the dim light.
« Juste une goutte. » (Just one drop.) Marcelle said, holding the glass toward her.
The liquid touched Nimue's tongue. It tasted bitter and sharp, with a strange sweetness underneath. She immediately wrinkled her nose.
Marcelle laughed at her honest reaction.
« C'est un goût d'adulte. Tu préfères le jus de raisin? »
(It's an adult taste. Do you prefer grape juice?)
« Oui. »
Marcelle led her farther into the cellar, toward another barrel with a different kind of tap. This time, the liquid that flowed into the glass was a vivid purple and much thicker. It tasted wonderfully sweet, coating Nimue's tongue with the flavor of fresh grapes.
« Ça, c'est le jus avant qu'il devienne du vin. Avant que les petites bêtes le mangent. »
(This is the juice before it becomes wine. Before the little creatures eat it.)
Nimue took another eager sip, her lips turning a faint shade of violet.
« C'est meilleur. » (This is better.)
Marcelle chuckled.
« Bien sûr. Il faut apprendre à aimer le vin. » (Of course. You have to learn to love wine.)
They continued deeper into the cellar, where the air seemed even more still. Marcelle pointed out barrels marked with different years written in chalk. Eventually, she stopped beside one marked 1980.
« L'année de ta naissance. Un bon cru. » (The year you were born. A good vintage.) Her voice softened as she rested a hand against the wood.
Nimue touched the barrel with a sense of wonder. It was the year she had been born. The wine had been sleeping in the darkness since before she could even walk or speak.
« Tu veux aider à nettoyer? » (Would you like to help clean?) Marcelle asked.
« Oui. »
Marcelle handed her a soft, damp cloth and pointed toward a row of empty green bottles on a wooden shelf.
« Tu les essuies. Doucement. Pas de pression. » (Wipe them gently. Don't press too hard.)
Nimue carefully picked up one of the bottles. It was surprisingly heavy, made of thick, dark glass that felt almost like ice against her hands. She wiped away the fine layer of dust until the cloth turned dull gray.
Then she cleaned another bottle, followed by another, while Marcelle worked steadily beside her.
The air was cold enough to turn Nimue's fingers bright pink, but she remained patient, concentrating on making each bottle shine. She cleaned twenty before finally losing count, her arms beginning to feel heavy.
« C'est bien. Tu as de la patience. » (Very good. You are patient.) Marcelle said, surveying their work.
Nimue looked at the bottles, now gleaming beneath the yellow light.
« On fait quoi après? » (What do we do next?) she asked.
« On les remplit. Mais pas aujourd'hui. Le vin n'est pas prêt. »
(We fill them. But not today. The wine isn't ready.)
Nimue looked back at the rows of barrels, imagining the invisible creatures inside them.
« Il est prêt quand? » (When will it be ready?)
« Au printemps. Quand les vignes donnent à nouveau des raisins. » (In the spring. When the vines grow grapes again.)
Nimue traced the pale ring left by the fresh cut on one of the bottles.
Spring meant the vines would grow grapes again. Spring also meant her birthday, along with the quiet expectations that came with it.
She pressed her palm against the dormant wood of the nearest barrel and decided she would wait for it, just like the wine sleeping inside.
« Je peux revenir? » (Can I come back?) she asked.
Marcelle placed a warm hand on Nimue's head and gently smoothed her hair.
« Bien sûr. Les caves sont toujours là. » (Of course. The cellars will always be here.)
They climbed the stone steps back into the yard. The sudden brightness made Nimue squint, and she blinked several times before her eyes adjusted.
Cinder was waiting near the door, his ears perked up and his bushy tail wagging as soon as he saw them.
They returned to the house together. In the warm kitchen, Marcelle poured Nimue a cup of thick hot chocolate. Nimue wrapped both hands around the ceramic mug, warming her fingers as she watched the steam rise in twisting patterns.
. . .
The following morning was cold enough for Nimue's breath to appear as a thick mist in front of her face.
She stood at the edge of the vineyard with Étienne, who wore a heavy brown coat with its collar turned up against the wind. He held a pair of pruning shears, their metal blades darkened and dulled by old sap.
« Regarde. » (Look.) He knelt beside a vine and selected one of its long branches. With a sharp snap, he cut it. The severed piece fell onto the frozen ground.
« Elle est trop vieille. Il faut la couper pour que la vigne pousse mieux au printemps. »
(It's too old. We have to cut it so the vine will grow better in the spring.)
Nimue leaned closer to examine the fresh cut. The wood inside was surprisingly pale and clean.
« Je peux essayer? » (Can I try?) she asked.
Étienne handed her the shears. They were heavy, and the metal felt cold against her skin. Her small fingers barely fit around the large handles.
« Tiens la branche avec l'autre main. Et coupe. » (Hold the branch with your other hand. Then cut.)
Nimue gripped a thin branch with her right hand and squeezed the handles as hard as she could. The blades pressed into the wood, resisting at first. She tightened her grip until the branch finally snapped.
The cut was crooked and uneven.
« C'est bien. La première est toujours de travers. » (That's fine. The first one is always crooked.) Étienne encouraged her.
He showed her another branch, and Nimue concentrated on cutting it more carefully. This time, the result was much straighter.
She continued with several more branches until the muscles in her hands began to ache from the effort. Étienne didn't rush her. He simply watched with a quiet smile.
« Pourquoi tu les coupes? » (Why do you cut them?) Nimue asked, looking at the pile of discarded branches.
« Pour que la vigne donne plus de raisins. Pas trop, pas trop peu. Juste ce qu'elle peut porter. »
(So the vine can produce more grapes. Not too many, not too few. Only as many as it can carry.)
Nimue looked at the vine. It still resembled nothing more than a collection of dead brown sticks poking out of the earth.
« Elle dort. » (It's sleeping.)
Étienne nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
« Comme le vin dans les caves. » (Like the wine in the cellars.)
. . .
A few days later, a soft tapping sound came from the sitting-room window.
A large owl was perched on the sill, a letter tied to its leg. Nimue hurried over and opened the window, letting in a rush of freezing air.
"Maman!" she called, her voice bright with hope.
Jane came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. She untied the letter from the owl's leg, and the bird shook its wings before flying back into the pale sky.
Jane examined the envelope, her expression softening.
"It's for you."
Nimue took it. Her name was written across the front in careful, elegant handwriting, the letters curling beautifully along the paper.
She still couldn't read all of it herself.
"Can you help me read it?" she asked, holding the letter out to Jane.
Jane unfolded it and sat down on the sofa, drawing Nimue close beneath her arm. Then she began to read in a gentle voice.
« Chère Nimue,
Je suis contente que tu sois arrivée sans souci. Clairval a l'air très joli. Ici, il pleut tout le temps. Maman dit que c'est parce que c'est l'hiver. Marcelle a l'air très gentille. J'aimerais goûter son chocolat chaud si je peux.
Je pense à toi aussi. Tu me manques. C'est ce que tu as demandé, non? Alors d'accord. Tu me manques. Écris-moi quand tu peux.
Je garde ton caillou sur ma table de nuit.
Fleur. »
(Dear Nimue,
I'm glad you arrived safely. Clairval sounds very pretty. It rains all the time here. Mama says it's because it's winter. Marcelle seems very kind. I would like to taste her hot chocolate if I can.
I'm thinking of you too. I miss you. That's what you asked for, right? So all right. I miss you too. Write to me when you can.
I keep your stone on my nightstand.
Fleur.)
Jane read the words slowly, allowing them to settle into the quiet room.
Nimue remained still for a moment. Her fingers traced the edge of the paper, feeling the slight indentations left by Fleur's pen.
A small smile gradually appeared on her lips.
"She said okay," she whispered. "She misses me too."
She took the letter back and studied the elegant curves of Fleur's handwriting. Somehow, the words matched the feeling in her chest.
"I want to reply."
A few minutes later, they were sitting at the kitchen table with a fresh sheet of paper and a pen.
"What would you like to say?" Jane asked, uncapping it.
Nimue thought about the gray, frost-covered vineyards and the cold stone walls of the cellar.
"Tell her I went to the cellars and saw the sleeping barrels. I tasted wine, but it wasn't good. I cut a vine with heavy shears. Marcelle makes omelets with eggs from her chickens."
She paused, then added softly, "Tell her we are going back to England in one week. I will write again as soon as we reach the manor."
Jane finished writing and set the pen aside. She gently blew on the ink to help it dry.
"Would you like me to read it?"
« Oui. »
Jane picked up the letter and read it aloud.
« Chère Grande sœur,
Je suis allée dans les caves. Marcelle a dit que le vin dort là. J'ai goûté une goutte, mais ce n'était pas bon. Je n'aime pas ça. Elle a dit que je dois apprendre à aimer le vin.
J'ai aussi coupé une branche de vigne avec de grandes cisailles, et elles étaient très lourdes. Marcelle fait des omelettes avec les œufs du poulailler.
On rentre en Angleterre dans une semaine. Je t'écrirai quand on sera au manoir. Dès qu'on arrivera. »
(Dear Big Sister,
I went to the cellars. Marcelle said the wine sleeps there. I tried a drop, but it wasn't good. I don't like it. She said I have to learn to love wine.
I also cut a vine branch with large pruning shears, and they were very heavy. Marcelle makes omelets with eggs from the chicken coop.
We are going back to England in a week. I will write to you when we reach the manor. As soon as we arrive.)
Nimue nodded, satisfied.
« C'est bien. »
After listening to the letter once more, she took the pen and carefully wrote her name at the bottom. The letters were large and slightly crooked, but she managed to write each one.
Jane sealed the envelope with a drop of red wax. Then they went outside to find the owl waiting patiently on the barn roof.
Nimue tied the letter to its leg, her fingers feeling a little clumsy as she fastened the pouch.
« Va. » (Go.) She gave the bird a gentle pat.
The owl spread its wings and soared over the vineyards, gradually disappearing into the wide sky.
Nimue watched until it was gone. She continued looking at the empty sky for a little longer as the wind picked up, tugging at the hem of her coat.
"She will write back," Jane said, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Nimue nodded.
"I know."
She turned toward the house, with Cinder racing ahead of her. But every now and then, her eyes drifted back toward the empty horizon.
===
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