Fleur didn't come the next morning.
Nimue sat by the window all morning, her knees drawn to her chest as she watched the grey street below. The cold glass pressed against her forehead, and her breath left small fading patches of mist on the pane.
A woman walked a small dog that shivered in its knitted coat, and a man hurried along with a baguette tucked under his arm, the scent of yeast trailing in his wake. Across the road, the bakery let out a plume of white steam every time someone opened the door, a brief cloud that vanished into the chilly Paris air.
"She might come tomorrow.," Jane said from the kitchen. She didn't look up from her coffee, but her voice was soft as she glanced at her daughter's still profile.
Nimue didn't answer. She stayed at the window until the winter light turned thin and yellow, casting long pale shadows across the parquet. Then she went to find Cinder.
. . .
Two days later, the doorbell rang.
Nimue was off the sofa before the sound finished. She ran down the hallway in her socks, her feet nearly slipping on the polished wood, and pulled the door open before Jane could reach the handle.
Fleur stood in the hallway, her grey coat buttoned to the throat and her blonde hair pulled back neatly from her face. In her hands, she held a small paper bag that smelled faintly of sugar and warm butter.
"Bonjour, petite," Margaux said with a warm smile.
Nimue ignored the adult entirely, her focus locked on the older girl. "Grande sœur." She grabbed Fleur's hand and pulled her inside. "Viens. J'ai quelque chose à te montrer."
(Big sister. Come. I have something to show you.)
She dragged Fleur past Jane, who stood in the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed. Jane wore a small, knowing smile as she watched the pair.
"Bonjour, Fleur," Jane called out.
"Bonjour, Madame Keith."
"Jane," the woman corrected softly.
Fleur stumbled slightly as Nimue pulled her toward the bedroom, and the door closed behind them with a soft, decisive click.
.
The paper bag contained madeleines, small golden shell-shaped cakes dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar. Fleur set them on the nightstand, and Nimue ate two before the older girl could reach for the bag.
"Tu aimes ça?" Fleur asked, watching the sugar settle on the sheets.
(You like them?)
"Oui." Nimue's mouth was full, and white sugar dusted her chin. "Tu les as faites?"
(Yes. Did you make them?)
"Ma tante. Elle dit que je dois apporter quelque chose quand je viens. C'est la politesse."
(My aunt. She says I must bring something when I visit. It's politeness.)
Nimue swallowed and reached for a third. "Ta tante est gentille."
(Your aunt is kind.)
Fleur watched her eat, her blue eyes soft and observant. "Elle l'est."
(She is.)
.
The Luxembourg Gardens were almost empty when they visited. The biting cold had kept most people indoors, leaving the gravel paths stretched out white and silent under a sky the colour of old pewter. The fountain had frozen at the edges, the ice jagged and clear, and the bare trees cast long, skeletal shadows across the frost-nipped grass.
Nimue ran ahead, her white hair streaming behind her like a pale banner in the wind. Fleur walked a few paces behind with her hands buried in her coat pockets, watching the younger girl closely.
"Elle a de l'énergie," Margaux said, falling into step beside her niece.
(She has energy.)
"Beaucoup," Fleur agreed.
(A lot.)
Nimue stopped at the pond. The water was grey and still, reflecting the pale, heavy sky. A few toy boats floated near the stone edge, abandoned by children who had grown bored and sought the warmth of home.
"Grande sœur, viens!"
Fleur walked to the edge of the pond. Nimue pointed at a small blue boat bobbing against the stone wall, its paint chipped from many voyages. "On peut le prendre?"
(Can we take it?)
"Je pense que oui."
(I think so.)
Fleur knelt on the cold stone and picked up the boat by its string before handing it to Nimue. The younger girl held it as if it were a great treasure.
"Tu le pousses," Nimue said, handing it back.
(You push it.)
Fleur lowered the boat onto the water. The current caught it, pulling the small craft slowly toward the centre of the pond. Nimue watched it drift, her green eyes following its path with intense focus.
"Il va loin," Nimue observed.
(It's going far.)
"Oui."
"Comme toi. Tu vas loin."
(Like you. You go far.)
Fleur looked at her, puzzled. "Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?"
(What do you mean?)
Nimue didn't answer. She was already running toward the other side of the pond. "Grande sœur, cours!"
(Big sister, run!)
"J'ai froid," Fleur called out, her breath hitching in the cold.
(I'm cold.)
"Courir réchauffe."
(Running warms you up.)
Fleur shook her head but quickened her pace. She caught up to Nimue near the pond's edge, where the water had turned to grey ice and a few brave pigeons huddled near a wooden bench.
Nimue stopped at the edge of the frozen water and peered at the surface. "On peut marcher dessus?"
(Can we walk on it?)
"Non. Il n'est pas assez épais."
(No. It's not thick enough.)
"Comment tu sais?"
(How do you know?)
"Parce que je suis plus âgée."
(Because I'm older.)
Nimue considered this for a moment and then nodded as if the logic were perfect. She turned and ran toward the pony track, which stood empty and silent. The man in the blue coat was nowhere to be seen.
"Les poneys sont partis," she said, her voice heavy with disappointment.
(The ponies are gone.)
"Ils reviendront au printemps."
(They will return in the spring.)
"Je serai partie au printemps."
(I will be gone by spring.)
Fleur looked at her. Nimue's face was serious, and her green eyes remained fixed on the empty, dusty track.
"Tu reviendras?" Fleur asked.
(Will you come back?)
"Je ne sais pas."
(I don't know.)
The words hung in the cold air between them. Fleur didn't know what to say, so she said nothing at all. She took Nimue's hand instead, and they walked back toward the gates in silence, their fingers interlaced.
. . .
During the next visit, it rained.
Nimue stood at the window with her forehead pressed to the glass, watching the water run down in thin, crooked streams. The courtyard below looked slick and dark, and the plane trees dripped steadily onto the pavement.
Fleur arrived with wet hair and a damp coat. Margaux shook out a large umbrella in the hallway, spraying droplets across the parquet floor.
"À l'intérieur, aujourd'hui," Jane said, handing the girl a dry towel.
(Inside, today.)
Nimue pulled Fleur to the sitting room, where a fire had been lit in the small stove. The glass door glowed a warm orange, and the heat pushed back the damp chill of the afternoon. They sat on the sofa, and Nimue produced a deck of cards. The corners were bent, and the box was torn at the edges from years of use.
"Tu sais jouer?" Nimue asked.
(Do you know how to play?)
"Un peu. Qu'est-ce que tu veux jouer?"
(A little. What do you want to play?)
"Bataille."
They played three rounds. Nimue won the first, Fleur won the second, and the third went on so long that Jane called them for lunch before it could finish. Nimue declared herself the winner anyway, and Fleur didn't argue, her mouth curving into a small smile.
. . .
On their fifth visit, they went to the Seine.
The day was cold but clear, with a sky of pale winter blue. Jack carried Nimue on his shoulders, and Fleur walked beside them, her hand occasionally brushing Nimue's dangling feet. They stopped at the book stalls, those green boxes that lined the quay and were chained shut when the vendors were away. Fleur pointed at a book with a weathered red cover, and Jack lifted it down so she could see the pages.
"Tu lis le français?" Fleur asked.
(Do you read French?)
"Un peu. Les mots simples."
(A little. Simple words.)
Fleur opened the book to a page with a detailed drawing of a castle. "Je peux te lire un passage, si tu veux."
(I can read you a passage, if you want.)
Nimue nodded, her eyes bright with interest. Fleur read in a soft, careful voice, her finger tracing the words as she went. The story told of a princess who slept for a hundred years, surrounded by a forest of thorns. Nimue listened without moving, her chin resting comfortably on Jack's head.
When Fleur finished the page, Nimue said, "Encore."
Fleur turned the page and kept reading. Jack looked at Jane, who was watching the scene with an expression he couldn't quite read. She caught his eye and shrugged, a small, helpless movement.
.
Jane and Margaux walked ahead, their breath fogging in the cold, while the girls followed. Cinder trotted between them, his lead looped around Nimue's wrist. While Jack and Saoirse is in the rear. The river was grey and slow, and the bare trees along the quay looked like skeletons against the bright sky.
"Tu sais nager?" Fleur asked.
(Do you know how to swim?)
"Oui. Pas très bien."
(Yes. Not very well.)
"Je te montrerai. L'été prochain."
(I will show you. Next summer.)
Nimue looked up at her. "L'été prochain, je serai en Angleterre."
(Next summer, I will be in England.)
Fleur's steps slowed. "Tu reviendras quand?"
(When will you come back?)
"Je ne sais pas."
(I don't know.)
They walked in silence for a while. A barge passed beneath the bridge, its engine rumbling, and a man on the deck waved at them. Nimue didn't wave back; she was too busy watching Fleur's face.
"Tu viendras me voir?" she asked.
(Will you come see me?)
"En Angleterre?"
(In England?)
"Oui."
Fleur thought about it. She had never been to England. She had heard that the food was terrible and the weather was even worse. But Nimue was looking at her with those steady green eyes, and Fleur found that she couldn't say no.
"Peut-être," she said.
(Maybe.)
Nimue nodded, satisfied with the answer.
. . .
By the sixth visit, Fleur no longer hesitated at the door. She knocked, and when Nimue opened it, she stepped inside as if she belonged there. Her coat went on the hook beside Nimue's, and her boots lined up next to the smaller pair.
The apartment no longer felt strange to her. She knew where the cups were kept, that the third stair from the top creaked underfoot, and that Cinder would always be found on the left side of the sofa.
She also knew Nimue would be watching the window for her arrival. Every time. Without fail.
"Tu m'attendais?" Fleur asked as she stepped inside.
(Were you waiting for me?)
"Oui." Nimue's voice was matter-of-fact. "Tu viens toujours le matin. Jamais l'après-midi."
(Yes. You always come in the morning. Never the afternoon.)
Fleur blinked in surprise. "Je n'avais pas remarqué."
(I hadn't noticed.)
"Moi, oui."
(I did.)
This time, Fleur had brought a gift. She reached into her coat pocket and held it out, not quite meeting the younger girl's eyes. A narrow ribbon of pale blue silk lay across her palm, soft and shimmering in the winter light.
"Je l'ai vu au marché. Ça m'a fait penser à toi."
(I saw it at the market. It made me think of you.)
Nimue took it, lifting the silk toward the window. It caught the light, looking as pale as a winter sky. She studied the texture for a moment and then looked at Fleur. "Attache-le."
(Tie it.)
Fleur hesitated only a second before stepping closer. Her hands were careful, though not practiced. She gathered Nimue's white hair and drew it back, her fingers brushing lightly against the girl's skin as she tied the ribbon into a bow. It came out uneven, with one loop clearly larger than the other.
Nimue slipped away and ran to the mirror in Jane's room. She turned her head left, then right, and then left again, watching the blue silk move. "Tu as fait un noeud moche," she announced when she returned.
(You made an ugly bow.)
A deep pink colour rose to Fleur's cheeks. "Je peux le refaire—"
(I can redo it—)
"Non." Nimue cut her off, already turning toward the sitting room. "Il est à moi. Je le garde comme ça."
(No. It's mine. I'm keeping it like this.)
The ribbon bounced lightly against Nimue's neck as she walked. Fleur watched her for a moment and then followed. Nimue was already settling onto the sofa by the time Fleur reached her. Nimue reached back without looking and caught Fleur's hand, pulling her down beside her.
"Raconte-moi quelque chose," Nimue said, curling against the older girl's side.
(Tell me something.)
"Quoi?"
"N'importe quoi. Parle-moi de toi."
(Anything. Tell me about you.)
Fleur leaned back slightly, her hand finding Nimue's hair again. Her fingers threaded through the white strands, brushing once against the crooked bow.
"Quand j'étais petite," she began, her voice low.
(When I was little, I was afraid of the dark.)
"Toi? Peur?"
(You? Afraid?)
"Oui. Je dormais avec une bougie allumée. Ma mère disait que c'était dangereux, mais elle la laissait quand même."
(Yes. I slept with a candle lit. My mother said it was dangerous, but she left it anyway.)
Nimue pressed closer, seeking warmth. "Et maintenant?"
(And now?)
"Maintenant, je n'ai plus peur." Fleur's gaze drifted toward the window. "Parfois, la nuit, je regarde par la fenêtre. Les étoiles. Je me demande si quelqu'un d'autre les regarde en même temps."
(Now I'm not afraid. Sometimes, at night, I look out the window. The stars. I wonder if someone else is looking at them at the same time.)
Nimue tilted her head up. "Moi. Je les regarde. De ma chambre."
(Me. I look at them. From my room.)
Fleur smiled, a faint and quiet expression. "Alors peut-être qu'on regardait les mêmes étoiles."
(Then maybe we were looking at the same stars.)
"Oui." Nimue's voice softened. "Peut-être."
(Yes. Maybe.)
They stayed in the apartment that day. The rain had started in the morning and didn't stop, drumming against the windows and turning the courtyard into a muddy mess.
Nimue sat on the floor of her bedroom with a box of crayons and a piece of paper. Fleur sat across from her with her legs folded, watching the process.
"Tu sais dessiner?" Nimue asked.
(Do you know how to draw?)
"Un peu."
(A little.)
"Montre-moi."
(Show me.)
Fleur took a blue crayon and drew a butterfly. Her lines were careful and precise, the wings perfectly symmetrical and the antennae thin. She added small dots along the edges and then handed the crayon back.
Nimue looked at the butterfly and then at Fleur's face. "Tu are douée."
(You are talented.)
Fleur shrugged, looking pleased despite herself. Nimue picked up a green crayon and began to draw. Her shapes were less controlled, with a circle for a head and a line for a body. But when she finished, she had clearly drawn a fox.
"C'est Cinder," she said.
(It's Cinder.)
"Il ressemble à un champignon."
(He looks like a mushroom.)
Nimue frowned at her drawing. "Non. C'est un renard."
(No. It's a fox.)
Fleur laughed, and although Nimue's frown deepened, she wasn't truly angry. She picked up a red crayon and added a bushy tail.
Later, they were on the sofa. The fire was low in the stove, and the afternoon light was already fading toward evening. Nimue had been telling a long story about the farm, something about a sheep that followed her everywhere, but her voice had grown slower until the words stopped altogether.
Fleur looked down and saw that Nimue's eyes were closed. Her white hair was spread across Fleur's knees, and her mouth was slightly open as she breathed deeply in sleep. Cinder lay on the back of the sofa, his chin resting on Fleur's shoulder. His amber eyes were half closed, and his tail hung down over the cushion.
Fleur didn't move. She sat perfectly still, afraid that any shift would wake the girl. Jane came to the doorway and stopped. She looked at Fleur, then at Nimue, the fox, and the dying fire.
"Tu veux que je la porte au lit?"
(Do you want me to carry her to bed?)
Fleur shook her head. "Elle est bien."
(She is fine.)
Jane lingered for a moment before nodding and walking away. Fleur stayed where she was, watching the fire die down to embers and feeling the small, warm weight of Nimue's head on her knees. The room grew darker as the street outside turned quiet. She didn't wake the girl.
. . .
The last visit before the New Year was different. Fleur arrived with Margaux, but the aunt didn't stay. She spoke quietly with Jane in the kitchen and then left, saying she would return in two hours. Fleur stood in the hallway, looking uncertain.
"Elle revient?" Nimue asked.
(She is coming back?)
"Oui. Dans deux heures."
(Yes. In two hours.)
Nimue nodded and took Fleur's hand. "Alors on a deux heures."
(Then we have two hours.)
They spent the first hour in Nimue's room. Nimue showed Fleur her treasures: the smooth grey stone from Lucy, a pressed flower from the LeFay garden, and a silver locket with her parents' portraits inside. Fleur held each object carefully, turning them over in her hands and asking quiet questions about where they had come from.
"Tu gardes tout ça?" Fleur asked.
(You keep all this?)
"Oui. Ce sont les choses importantes."
(They are the important things.)
Fleur set the silver locket down on the bedspread. "Et toi? Qu'est-ce qui est important pour toi?"
(And you? What is important to you?)
Nimue looked at her with steady, unblinking eyes. "Ma famille. Cinder." She paused for a beat. "Et toi."
(My family. Cinder. And you.)
Fleur's throat tightened. She looked away toward the window, where the light was already beginning to fade. "Tu me connais à peine," she said.
(You barely know me.)
"Je te connais assez."
(I know you well enough.)
Fleur didn't argue. She had stopped arguing with Nimue's certainties. There was no point. The girl spoke as if the world arranged itself around her beliefs, and somehow, impossibly, it seemed to listen.
They spent the second hour in the sitting room, where Jane had set out hot chocolate and a plate of biscuits. Cinder sat between them on the sofa, his tail curling around Fleur's thigh as they enjoyed the warmth together.
===
I just add Fleur and Daphne image. You can visit the Pictures Chapter!!!