The days in Clairval blurred into a quiet, rhythmic routine, marked by the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the shifting winter light.
Nimue woke each day to pale light slipping through her curtains. She ate breakfast in the warm kitchen before walking the vineyards with Cinder, her breath forming small white clouds in the cold air. The fox always raced ahead, his russet fur bright against the brown earth and frost-covered vines. His amber eyes scanned the ground for movement, and his paws left small, delicate prints in the silver morning frost that crinkled underfoot.
One morning, she helped Marcelle feed the chickens. The hens were brown and fat, their feathers ruffled up against the biting winter chill until they looked like round cushions. They pecked curiously at the toes of her boots, their movements jerky and sharp as Nimue scattered handfuls of grain across the damp earth.
One morning she helped Marcelle feed the fat brown chickens that pecked at her boots. Another day she followed Étienne into the barn, where he showed her the huge tractor and stacks of wooden crates reached toward the rafters, smelling of the wine that had soaked deep into the grain years ago, a scent that was heavy, sweet, and slightly musty.
During the afternoons, Nimue sat on the floor of the sitting room, where a small fire crackled in the hearth to keep the dampness at bay. She spread her papers out and drew pictures of the endless vineyards and the stone walls of the house. She even drew Cinder, though her version of the fox looked more like a lumpy potato with four thin sticks for legs.
Marcelle looked at the drawing one day, leaning over Nimue's shoulder, and let out a bright, melodic laugh that filled the room.
"C'est lui?" she asked, pointing a flour-dusted finger at the sketch.
(Is that him?)
"Oui."
"Il ressemble à une patate."
(He looks like a potato.)
Nimue looked down at Cinder. The fox lay sprawled on the rug, his russet chin resting on his paws. He kept his ears flat and his eyes half closed, looking entirely unimpressed by his likeness. "Un peu," she admitted with a small smile.
. . .
Two weeks passed, and Nimue stopped counting the days as they slipped by. The rhythm of the house remained constant and comforting: Marcelle was usually in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up, Étienne was busy in the barn or the sheds, and Jane spent her time reading at the long wooden table, her green eyes moving steadily across the pages.
Jack often walked the very edge of the vineyard with his hands deep in his pockets, his dark hair with its signature white streak messy from the wind. His expression was always thoughtful, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon.
Saoirse left for two days and returned with a heavy burlap bag of oranges from the market in Tours. She found Nimue in the hallway and put one of the fruits in her hand. The peel felt pebbled and icy against her palm.
"Eat," Saoirse said firmly, her eyes bright against her pale skin. "It's good for you."
Nimue peeled the fruit carefully, the sharp, citrus scent cutting through the winter air. She pulled the segments apart, letting the sweet, sticky juice run down 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?" she asked.
(Do you want to see the cellars?)
Nimue stopped chewing her crust of bread, her interest piqued. "Les caves?"
"Où le vin dort. Sous la terre."
(Where the wine sleeps. Under the ground.)
Nimue looked toward Jane, seeking permission. Her mother offered a small, encouraging nod, her expression soft.
"Oui," Nimue said, sliding down from her chair.
Marcelle led her through the kitchen, past the lingering scent of breakfast, and out a low back door. It was made of thick, ancient wood with grey, peeling paint that flaked off under Nimue's touch.
Beyond it, stone steps descended into the darkness. The air changed instantly as they went down, becoming colder, stiller, and heavier with a scent of damp earth and something sharp and sour.
Nimue held Marcelle's hand tightly, her small fingers disappearing into the older woman's grip, while her trainers scraped loudly against the narrow, uneven stone steps. At the bottom, Marcelle reached for a string, and a single yellow light bulb flickered on, casting long, swaying shadows.
The cellar opened into a wide, low space where the stone ceiling curved overhead like the inside of a shell. Wooden barrels lined the walls, their iron hoops rusted and dark. They were taller than Nimue head, and the damp air smelled of wet earth and old fruit. The floor was made of packed dirt that felt slightly soft, and Nimue's feet sank a little with each step she took.
"C'est ici," Marcelle explained, her voice echoing slightly in the subterranean quiet. "Les vignes donnent les raisins. Les raisins donnent le vin. Et le vin dort ici, parfois pendant des années."
(This is it. The vines give the grapes. The grapes give the wine. And the wine sleeps here, sometimes for years.)
Nimue looked up at the barrels, which were much bigger than she was, held together by rusted iron hoops. "Il est vivant?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
(Is it alive?)
Marcelle smiled, the light catching the wrinkles at the corners of 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, looking closer at the wood. "Des bêtes?"
(Creatures?)
Marcelle smiled "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 to the side of a barrel. The wood felt cool and rough.
"Tu veux goûter ?" Marcelle asked.
(Do you want to taste?)
Nimue nodded, and Marcelle found a small glass on a nearby shelf. She turned a brass tap at the bottom of one of the barrels, and a stream of dark red liquid ran out, looking almost black in the dim light.
"Juste une goutte." Marcelle said, holding the glass to her lips.
(Just a drop.)
The liquid touched her tongue, tasting bitter and sharp and strangely sweet all at once. She wrinkled her nose immediately.
Marcelle laughed at the honest reaction. "C'est un goût d'adulte. Tu préfères le jus de raisin ?"
(It is an adult taste. You prefer grape juice?)
"Oui."
Marcelle led her further into the gloom to another barrel with a different style of tap. The liquid that came out this time was a vibrant purple and much thicker. It tasted wonderfully sweet, coating her tongue with the flavour of fresh grapes.
"Ça, c'est le jus avant qu'il devienne du vin. Avant que les petites bêtes le mangent."
(That is the juice before it becomes wine. Before the little creatures eat it.)
Nimue took another thirsty sip, her lips turning a faint shade of violet. "C'est meilleur."
(It is better.)
"Bien sûr. Il faut apprendre à aimer le vin."
(Of course. You have to learn to love wine.)
They walked further into the depths of the caves, where the air felt even more motionless. Marcelle pointed at barrels marked with various years scrawled in chalk. She stopped at one marked 1980.
"L'année de ta naissance," she said, her voice softening as she touched the wood. "Un bon cru."
(The year of your birth. A good vintage.)
Nimue touched the barrel with a sense of wonder. Her birth year. The wine had been sleeping here in the dark since before she could even walk or speak.
"Tu veux aider à nettoyer?" Marcelle asked, looking down at her.
(Do you want to help clean?)
"Oui."
Marcelle handed her a damp, soft cloth and pointed at a row of empty green bottles standing on a wooden shelf. "Tu les essuies. Doucement. Pas de pression."
(You wipe them. Gently. No pressure.)
Nimue took a bottle carefully. It was surprisingly heavy and made of thick, dark glass that felt like ice in her hands. She wiped the layer of fine dust from the sides until her cloth came away a dull grey. She did another, and then another, while Marcelle worked steadily beside her.
The air was cold enough that Nimue's fingers turned a bright pink, but she remained patient, focusing on making the glass shine. She wiped twenty bottles before she finally lost count, her arms starting to feel heavy.
"C'est bien," Marcelle said, surveying the work. "Tu as de la patience."
(That's good. You have patience.)
Nimue looked at the bottles, which were now gleaming under the yellow light of the bulb. "On fait quoi après?" she asked.
(What do we do next?)
"On les remplit. Mais pas aujourd'hui. Le vin n'est pas prêt."
(We fill them. But not today. The wine is not ready.)
Nimue looked back at the rows of sleeping barrels, imagining the invisible creatures inside. "Il est prêt quand?" she asked.
(When is it ready?)
"Au printemps. Quand les vignes donnent à nouveau des raisins."
(In the spring. When the vines give grapes again.)
Nimue traced the pale ring left by the fresh cut. Spring meant the vines give the grapes. Spring meant her birthday, and the quiet expectations that came with it. She pressed her palm flat against the dormant wood, and decided to wait for it like the cellar wine.
"Je peux revenir?" she asked.
(Can I come back?)
Marcelle put a warm hand on Nimue's head, smoothing her hair. "Bien sûr. Les caves sont toujours là."
(Of course. The cellars are always here.)
They climbed the stone steps back into the yard, the sudden brightness of the day making Nimue squint. Cinder was waiting for them near the door, his ears forward and his bushy tail wagging in greeting.
They walked to the house together, and Marcelle poured her a cup of thick hot chocolate in the warm, steam-filled kitchen. Nimue held the ceramic mug in both hands to thaw her fingers and watched the steam rise in swirling patterns.
. . .
The next morning was cold enough that Nimue could see her breath as a thick mist. She stood at the edge of the vineyard with Étienne, who wore a heavy brown coat with the collar turned up against the wind. He held a pair of pruning shears, the metal blades dulled and darkened by old sap.
"Regarde," he said, kneeling in the dirt. He took a long vine branch and cut it with a sharp, echoing snap. The piece fell to the frozen ground. "Elle est trop vieille. Il faut la couper pour que la vigne pousse mieux au printemps."
(Look. It is too old. You have to cut it so the vine grows better in spring.)
Nimue leaned in to look at the fresh cut, noticing that the wood inside was surprisingly pale and clean. "Je peux essayer?" she asked.
(Can I try?)
Étienne handed her the shears. They were heavy, the metal cold against her skin, and 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. And cut.)
Nimue gripped a thin branch with her left hand and squeezed the handles with all her might. The blades pressed into the wood, resisting at first, and she squeezed harder until it finally snapped. The cut was jagged and crooked.
"C'est bien," Étienne said, his voice encouraging. "La première est toujours de travers."
(It's fine. The first one is always crooked.)
He showed her another branch, and she focused, cutting it much straighter this time. She cut several more until the muscles in her hands began to ache from the effort. Étienne didn't rush her, simply watching with a quiet smile.
"Pourquoi tu les coupes?" she asked, looking at the pile of discarded wood.
(Why do you cut them?)
"Pour que la vigne donne plus de raisins. Pas trop, pas trop peu. Juste ce qu'elle peut porter."
(So the vine gives more grapes. Not too many, not too few. Just what it can carry.)
Nimue looked at the vine, which still looked like nothing more than dead brown sticks poking out of the dirt. "Elle dort," she said.
(It is sleeping.)
Étienne nodded, his eyes crinkling. "Comme le vin dans les caves."
(Like the wine in the cellars.)
. . .
A few days later a soft tap sounded at the sitting-room window. A large owl waited on the sill with a letter tied to its leg. Nimue rushed to open the window, letting in a rush of freezing air.
"Mama!" she called, voice bright with hope.
Jane came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth, and untied the letter. The owl shook its wings once more and flew back out into the pale sky. Jane looked at the envelope, her eyes softening. "It's for you."
Nimue took it, seeing her name written in careful, pretty handwriting that looped across the paper. She couldn't read all of it herself yet. "Can you help me read it?" she asked, holding the paper up to Jane.
Jane untied the letter and sat with Nimue tucked under her arm on the sofa. She read aloud in her gentle voice.
"Chère Nimue," she read, her voice carrying a slight French lilt. "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 am glad you arrived safely. Clairval sounds very pretty. Here, it rains all the time. Mama says it's because it's winter. Marcelle seems very kind. I would like to taste her hot chocolate if I can. I am thinking of you too. I miss you. That is what you asked, right? So okay, I miss you too. Write to me when you can. I keep your stone on my nightstand.
Fleur.)
Jane read the words slowly, letting them settle in the quiet room. Nimue did not move at first. Her fingers traced the edge of the paper, finding the slight indentation where Fleur pen had pressed down.
A tiny smile grew on her lips. "She said okay," she whispered. "She misses me too."
She took the letter back and studied the elegant curves of the handwriting. The words matched the feeling in her chest. "I want to reply," she said.
They sat at the kitchen table a few minutes later with a fresh sheet of paper and a pen. "What do you want to say?" Jane asked, uncapping her pen.
Nimue thought about the grey, frost-covered vineyards and the cold stone of the cellars. "Tell her I went to the cellars and saw sleeping barrels. I tasted wine but it was not good. I cut a vine with heavy shears. Marcelle makes omelettes with eggs from her chickens." Nimue paused, then added softly, "Tell her we go back to England in one week. I will write again as soon as we reach the manor."
Jane set the pen down and blew on the ink to dry it. "Do you want to read it?"
"Oui."
Jane read the letter aloud, the words flowing together. "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 big shears, and they were very heavy. Marcelle makes omelettes with eggs from the chicken coop. We go back to England in a week. I will write to you when we are at the manor. As soon as we arrive.)
Nimue nodded, satisfied. "C'est bien."
When she finished reading the letter back, Nimue took the pen and carefully wrote her name at the bottom in large, slightly crooked letters.
Jane sealed the envelope with a blob of red wax, and they walked outside to find the owl waiting patiently on the barn roof. Nimue tied the letter to its leg, her fingers feeling a bit clumsy.
"Va," she said, giving the bird a gentle pat.
The bird spread its wings and soared over the vineyards until it vanished into the wide sky. Nimue watched until it was gone. She looked at the empty sky for a moment longer. The wind had picked up, tugging at the hem of her coat.
"She will write back," Jane said, squeezing her shoulder.
Nimue nodded. "I know."
She turned toward the house with Cinder racing ahead, but her eyes kept drifting back to the empty horizon.