Nimue woke to the tickling sensation of Cinder's cold, damp nose pressed firmly against her cheek. She tried to push him away without opening her eyes, but the fox huffed in protest. His warm breath brushed her skin before he settled across her ankles, a comforting solid weight through the heavy duvet. Thin light slipped through the edges of the hotel curtains, announcing a dry Paris winter morning.
She lay still for a moment, breathing in the scent of the room. It smelled of beeswax, lavender soap, and the lingering sweet fragrance of Fleur's shampoo. The pillow beside her still held a faint, shallow indentation from where the older girl's head had rested during the night. Nimue reached out and pressed her palm into the fabric. It was cool now, the warmth of the other girl long gone.
"Mama," she called out softly.
Jane appeared in the doorway almost immediately, the light from the sitting room silhouetting her frame. She was already dressed in the cream jumper and dark trousers she had worn the day before. Her hair was pinned back, though a few rebellious strands had escaped to curl against the nape of her neck. "You are awake."
"We leave today."
"After breakfast. Come here, ma chérie. Your father is already downstairs."
Nimue sat up, her white hair falling in a chaotic, snowy tangle across her face. She didn't move to fix it, so Jane crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under her weight.
She began working through the knots with her fingers, her movements gentle and practiced as she untwined the mess. Nimue remained still, letting her mother work. Cinder watched them from the foot of the bed, his amber eyes tracking the rhythmic motion of Jane's hands, his ears twitching at every small sound from the corridor.
"Big sister will be at breakfast?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
Nimue fell silent, her gaze fixed on the dust motes dancing in the light. Once the tangles were gone, Jane finished a neat braid and secured it with a small silver clip. Nimue leaned back against her mother for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender soap. Jane kissed the top of her head before standing.
.
The breakfast room was quieter than it had been all week, occupied by far fewer guests. The sharp clink of porcelain against saucers and the low, melodic murmur of French voices drifted across the white tablecloths.
A waiter in a black vest was busy pouring dark coffee for an elderly woman near the window, the steam rising in curls. The chandeliers had been dimmed once more, casting a soft, muted glow over the grand salon.
Fleur was already seated beside Apolline, wearing a grey dress with a crisp, starched white collar. Her silver-blonde hair hung loose and shimmering over her shoulders. When she saw Nimue enter, she straightened in her chair. Her hand lifted slightly from the table as if to wave, but she settled it back down on her lap, her blue eyes tracking Nimue's approach.
Nimue walked straight to the empty chair beside her and climbed up, her boots scuffing the carpet. "Bonjour."
"Bonjour," Fleur replied. Her ears turned a faint shade of pink, but she didn't look away.
Nimue reached for the basket of croissants, the pastry warm and flaky against her fingers. She tore one in half and placed the larger piece on Fleur's plate. Fleur looked at the bread and then back at Nimue, her expression unreadable for a second.
"Mange."
Fleur picked up the croissant and took a small, careful bite. Nimue watched her chew for a second, noticing the way her throat moved as she swallowed, before turning to her own half of the pastry.
The adults talked around them, their voices a background hum to the quiet interaction between the girls. Jack asked Philippe about the drive back to their residence, his voice steady and calm. Apolline mentioned a gallery Margaux wanted to visit before the month ended, her French accent lilting and elegant.
Jane spoke about the apartment keys and the requirements of the rental agency, but Nimue didn't listen to any of it. She simply ate her croissant and watched Fleur's hands. The silver ring with the tiny blue stone caught the light every time the older girl lifted her porcelain cup.
After breakfast, they gathered in the lobby where the luggage had already been brought down. The Keiths' cases sat in a neat, sturdy row near the revolving door.
The Delacours' bags were being loaded into a separate car by a porter in a long coat, his breath fogging in the cold air. Fleur stood beside Apolline, her hand tucked into her mother's, while Nimue stood beside Jane. Only a few metres separated them, yet the polished marble floor felt like a river they were not allowed to cross.
"À bientôt." Apolline offered Jane a warm smile. "Demain."
(See you soon. Tomorrow.)
Jane nodded. "Demain."
Fleur looked at Nimue, her blue gaze steady and focused. "À demain."
Nimue nodded once but didn't wave. She watched Fleur walk through the heavy revolving door and disappear into the grey street outside. The glass spun once more, a flash of reflected light, and then went still.
. . .
The apartment on the fourth floor felt smaller and colder when they returned. Jack lit the gas stove, the small blue flames hissing into life. Jane opened the windows to let in fresh air, and the curtains fluttered. Saoirse dropped her bag on the sagging sofa and declared she would sleep for a hundred years. Cinder claimed a patch of weak sunlight on the rug.
Nimue stood in the middle of the sitting room. Without the hotel's grandeur, the walls pressed closer and the ceiling felt lower. She walked to her bedroom. The sheets still lay tangled from the last time Fleur had sat there. She touched the pillow where her friend had rested.
"Mama."
Jane appeared in the doorway. "Yes."
"We will see them tomorrow."
"Yes, they are coming here to say goodbye."
Nimue turned to face her mother. "And then we go to Clairval."
"Yes. To your great-aunt's village. The mundane Evans branch."
Nimue sat on the edge of the bed as Cinder jumped up beside her, curling into a tight, warm ball against her hip. She stroked his soft fur, feeling the vibration of a low purr. "I want to write to Fleur."
Jane leaned against the doorframe. "You do not know how to write yet."
"I can learn."
Jane offered a small tired smile. "You can. I will help you. When we are settled at the château, we will write your first letter."
Nimue's expression turned serious. "She has to write back."
"She will."
"How do you know?"
Jane crossed the room and sat beside her, the mattress dipping under her weight. "Fleur did not look away when you gave her that croissant. She looked at you as if she were memorising you. People who look like that do not forget to write back."
Nimue considered this. She did not need proof. Her mother certainty was enough.
The rest of the morning was spent cleaning. Jack swept the parquet floors with a broom he found in the narrow closet, the bristles scratching against the wood. Saoirse wiped down the kitchen counters with a rag that smelled sharply of vinegar and lemon. Jane stripped the beds and folded the white sheets into neat, precise squares.
Nimue helped by carrying the folded linen to the basket, her movements slow and careful. The sheets were heavy, so she had to hold the bundles against her chest to keep them from dragging on the floor. Cinder followed her back and forth, his claws clicking rhythmically on the wood. He did not understand why everyone was moving things around, but he seemed to understand that it was important.
By early afternoon, the apartment looked bare and hollow. Their personal belongings had been packed away, and the Cold Light stone was tucked safely back in the depths of Nimue's bag. Her green canvas bag sat by the door, slumped and ready to go. The kitchen table was empty except for a single chipped mug that Saoirse had forgotten to wash.
They ate lunch sitting on the floor of the sitting room, sharing bread, cheese, and cold sausages they had bought from the market. Nimue sat cross-legged with Cinder in her lap, feeding him small pieces of sausage whenever she thought Jane wasn't looking. Saoirse saw and winked at her but stayed silent.
Jack leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, his black hair falling across his forehead. The silver streak in his hair caught the afternoon light, and he looked tired in a way Nimue hadn't noticed before. She watched him for a moment and then looked away.
The evening arrived slowly as the grey sky darkened to charcoal and finally to a deep, ink-black. Streetlights flickered on outside the window, casting orange squares on the floor. Nimue sat on the sofa with her knees drawn up, bathed and changed into her nightclothes.
The apartment was warm now that the stove had been burning for hours. Jane sat beside her with a book, reading aloud in French. It was a story about a girl who could speak to animals, and Nimue listened with her head against her mother's arm. She understood most of the words now, and the ones she didn't, she simply let pass through her mind.
When Jane closed the book, Nimue didn't ask for another chapter. Instead, she said, "I will miss Paris."
Jane set the book on the cushion. "What will you miss?"
"The gardens. The ponies. The boats on the water." She paused for a beat, her voice dropping. "Big sister."
Jane put her arm around Nimue's shoulders and pulled her close. "You will see her again."
"When?"
"I don't know. But you will."
Nimue leaned into her mother's side. The fabric of Jane's jumper was soft and smelled of lavender. She closed her eyes as Cinder jumped onto the sofa and settled across their feet.
. . .
The next morning, the Delacours arrived at ten o'clock sharp. Nimue heard the footsteps on the stairs before the knock, counting several distinct sets. She stood by the window and watched the street until the sound reached the landing. Jane opened the door.
Apolline entered first, wrapped in a long grey wool coat, followed by Philippe with a small paper bag in his hand. Margaux and Elodie came next, both dressed in dark wool, and Fleur was last. She wore the same grey dress from the day before, her hair held back by the blue ribbon her grandmother had given her.
Nimue was already there, waiting. The ribbon she wore was tied a little unevenly, the loops crooked and slightly off center, but unmistakably the same shade of blue.
Fleur noticed it at once.
Nimue reached up, touching the bow as if to make sure it was still there, then looked at Fleur's ribbon in turn.
Their eyes met in quiet recognition.
Fleur stepped closer and knelt so they were level, her gaze lingering on the crooked bow before softening. "Tu l'as gardé."
(You kept it.)
Nimue nodded, her fingers still curled around the ribbon. "C'est à moi."
(It is mine.)
Fleur's mouth curved into a small smile. She reached out, not to fix it, but simply to brush the edge of the ribbon with her fingertips. "Il te va bien."
(It suits you.)
Margaux and Elodie moved to the kitchen where Saoirse was busy making coffee, the scent filling the room. Apolline and Jane stood near the sofa, speaking in low, serious voices. Philippe handed the paper bag to Jack. "Des madeleines. Pour le voyage."
(Madeleines. For the journey.)
Jack took the bag. "Merci."
Nimue pulled Fleur toward the bedroom, Cinder following closely. The room was bare now; the sheets were gone and the Cold Light stone was packed away. Only the stripped mattress remained. Nimue sat on the edge, and Fleur sat beside her as the bed creaked under them.
"Je vais t'écrire."
(I will write to you.)
Fleur blinked in surprise, her blue eyes wide. "Tu sais écrire?"
(You know how to write?)
"Non. Mais Mama va m'aider. Et tu dois répondre.
(No. But Mama will help me. And you have to write back.)"
Fleur's ears turned pink at the demand. "D'accord."
"Promets."
"Je promets."
Nimue reached into the pouch at her waist and pulled out a small, smooth stone. It was grey with a single white vein running through it, a treasure she had found on a beach in Normandy. She held it out. "Pour toi."
(For you.)
Fleur took the stone and turned it over in her palm, her thumb tracing the white vein. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
(What is it?)
"Je l'ai trouvée au bord de la mer. Comme ça, tu te souviendras de moi."
(I found it by the sea. That way, you will remember me.)
Fleur closed her fingers tightly around the stone. Her skin looked very pale against the grey rock. "Je n'oublierai pas."
(I won't forget.)
They sat in silence for a moment as Cinder settled between them, his amber eyes moving between the two girls. In the other room, Margaux laughed at something Saoirse said, and Philippe asked Jack a question about the drive to Clairval.
Nimue leaned sideways until her shoulder pressed against Fleur's arm. "Grande sœur."
"Oui."
"Tu vas me manquer."
(I will miss you.)
Fleur's hand found Nimue's and their fingers laced together. Fleur's skin felt warm. "Toi aussi."
(Me too.)
They stayed like that until Jane called from the sitting room that the car had arrived. The driver stepped onto the pavement. Grey hair and deep lines framed a face that seemed carved by wind and work. He wore a flat cap and a wool coat mended at the elbow.
Matthieu Evans, he said, his French rapid and heavily accented with the rural cadence of the countryside. Jane had mentioned him during the week, a cousin from the mundane Evans branch who had driven up overnight just to help them leave.
He began loading their bags into the boot of the black sedan with Jack's help. Saoirse stood on the pavement with her hands in her pockets, the wind whipping her hair. Jane held Nimue's hand.
The Delacours stood in a small cluster near the apartment door. Apolline had her arm linked through Philippe's, while Margaux and Elodie stood slightly apart. Fleur was in front, her hands clasped tightly. Her face looked pale in the winter light, and her blue eyes were wet at the edges, though she didn't cry.
"Écris-moi."
(Write to me.)
Fleur nodded, her throat moving as she swallowed. "Je le ferai."
(I will.)
Nimue stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around Fleur's waist, pressing her face into the grey wool coat. The fabric was scratchy against her cheek and smelled of winter air and Fleur's floral soap. Fleur's hands came up slowly to settle on her back, one palm between her shoulder blades and the other at the base of her neck.
They stood like that for several heartbeats, the world around them quiet. Then Nimue pulled back just enough to look up. Fleur's cheeks were pink and her mouth was set in a tight line. Nimue rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to Fleur's left cheek. The skin was cold and soft, and she felt Fleur's breath catch.
When she lowered herself back down, Fleur stared at her, the pink on her cheeks deepening into red. Then Fleur bent forward, her blonde hair falling around them like a silver curtain that blocked out the street and the adults. She pressed her lips to Nimue's forehead. The kiss was light, barely there, but the sensation lingered. Nimue closed her eyes to savour the feeling.
When she opened them, Fleur was straightening and smoothing down a stray strand of Nimue's white hair with her thumb.
"Au revoir, grande sœur."
(Goodbye, big sister.)
Fleur's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, but it was gentle. "Au revoir, Nimue."
Nimue stepped back, her boots scraping against the cobblestones. She turned and walked to the car without looking behind her, though she felt the warmth on her forehead all the way to the door. Jane helped her into the back seat, and Cinder jumped in after her to settle on her lap. Jack took the front seat while Saoirse squeezed in beside Nimue.
Matthieu started the engine, and the car began to rumble, the vibration moving through the seats. Through the window, Nimue saw Fleur raise her hand, and she raised hers in return. As the car pulled away from the kerb, Paris began to slide past the window: the grey buildings, the bare trees, and a woman pushing a pram. She saw the bakery where she got her morning cookies and the gates of the Luxembourg Gardens.
Nimue pressed her palm to the cold glass, her breath fogging a small circle. She watched the city move. Cinder's chin rested on her knee, and Saoirse had already closed her eyes. Jane looked out her own window, her reflection pale against the grey sky.
Nimue did not cry. She simply watched the streets narrow and widen as Paris thinned into suburbs and then into bare winter fields. The road stretched ahead, grey and straight under a sky the colour of old pewter.
Somewhere ahead, Clairval waited, a village she had never seen and family she had never met. It was simply another place she would eventually have to leave behind.