Jane stayed in the nursery for a long time after Morwenna's eyes drifted shut.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, sending tiny sparks against the iron grate. Cinder's tail gave a single, muffled thump against the blanket before the room fell into a heavy stillness. Morwenna's face appeared ghost-like against the stark white of her pillow, her skin pale and her breathing shallow. At the corner of her mouth, a faint pink stain lingered where the blood had been wiped away.
Jane didn't move. She remained in the chair beside the bed with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes never leaving her daughter's face. Then she stood up. Her legs felt stiff and heavy from the day's tension. She walked toward the door, looked back one final time to ensure the child was resting, and stepped out into the corridor.
. . .
The morning room was quiet when Jane entered. Jack stood at the window. Aldric sat with his hands flat on his thighs. Seraphina and Saoirse looked up at once. Tilly appeared with a cup of tea and vanished again without a word. Jane wrapped her cold fingers around the warm cup. No one spoke for a long time.
Jane wrapped her fingers around the ceramic cup. The heat steadied her trembling. For a long time, no one spoke. The only sound in the room was the hall clock's rhythmic ticking.
Saoirse broke the silence. Her voice was quiet, stripped of its usual playfulness. "Is coughing blood like that a normal sign of incompatibility?"
Jane took a slow sip of the tea. The liquid was scalding and burned her tongue, but she swallowed it anyway. "No. Usually, they only feel dizzy or uncomfortable. The worst reaction is typically vomiting."
The room went profoundly quiet. Jane set the cup back down, and the ceramic clicked sharply against the wood. They had all known the statistics and had all read the Alberich's grim historical records.
Those children died young, and the second maturity was always the threshold that few crossed. But those had been abstract numbers. They were names on yellowed pages and words like delicate or fragile that carried no weight until this moment.
Now, they had weight. If vomiting was the worst usual sign, coughing blood was something else entirely. How many steps beyond normal was that? How many times worse?
Aldric drew a long, shaky breath. "At least we know the Ash Phoenix isn't compatible with her. This is better than not knowing. It's certainly better than using it in the second bath only to discover the rejection then."
"Morwenna is strong," Seraphina whispered. "She will survive."
Jack crossed the room and sat on the arm of Jane's chair. He rested his hand firmly over hers. His fingers were warm and steady. She turned her palm under his and held on with everything she had.
. . .
The days that followed blurred into a quiet, slow-moving haze.
March slipped into April. The snow melted and green shoots appeared near the lake. Morwenna slept often and ate little, but she began to move through the manor again. She spent long hours in the library with Cinder in her lap, watching dust dance in the golden light. The family let her rest without questions.
. . .
The Floo flared repeatedly over the following days, painting the entrance hall in bursts of emerald light. Luelle arrived first, her red coat vivid against the grey stone, followed closely by Raphaël. They found Morwenna on the stairs.
Luelle spotted her and offered a wide, warm smile. "Ma puce."
Morwenna descended the steps slowly, her small hand gliding along the banister. Luelle crouched down and opened her arms. Morwenna walked into the embrace, burying her face in her aunt's shoulder.
"You have grown taller," Luelle murmured into her hair.
Morwenna didn't answer. She just held on. Raphaël placed a warm hand on her head, and his palm was steady and comforting. "Bonjour, petite."
"Bonjour, Raph."
. . .
Celestine and Lucien came a week later. Celestine stepped through with her back straight, but her features softened the moment she saw the girl.
"Ma chérie."
Lucien followed behind her. His presence seemed to fill the hall with a melodic, quiet warmth. He didn't speak immediately; he simply looked at Morwenna with eyes that carried a world of unspoken meaning.
Morwenna went to Celestine first, pressing her face into her grandmother's coat and breathing in the familiar lavender and old parchment scent.
"You have been very brave," Celestine said, her hand stroking the back of the girl's head.
Morwenna nodded against the thick wool. Lucien waited until Morwenna turned to him, then touched his ear and hers in their quiet greeting.
"Tu as grandi," he said, his voice carrying that melodic lilt.
(You have grown.)
"Un peu."
(A little.)
His mouth curved into a gentle smile. "Un peu."
. . .
Viviane arrived on the twenty first, stepping through in pressed robes, her gaze steady and unreadable. She didn't kneel or lower herself; she simply stopped before Morwenna and opened her arms, offering something solid to step into.
"Mon trésor."
Morwenna went to her at once, slipping her arms around Viviane's waist. Viviane's hands settled on her shoulders, firm and sure, holding her in place rather than pulling her closer.
"I'm here," she said. "I will stay until it's over."
. . .
Elara came the very next day. She stepped out of the green flames and surveyed the entrance hall with her careful, grey eyes until she found Morwenna standing by the fountain.
"Bonjour, petite."
"Bonjour."
She knelt and touched the silver bracelet on the girl wrist. "It recognises you," Elara said softly. "It will hold."
Morwenna looked at the bracelet. The warding script was too fine for her to read, but she could feel the steady, rhythmic hum beneath the silver surface. "Thank you," she said.
Elara stood up without another word, her presence a silent promise of protection.
. . .
Seraphina came to the nursery on the twenty-third. She knocked once before opening the door to find Morwenna sitting up against the headboard. The child's hair was more black than white now, though the silver streak at her temple remained bright. Cinder was curled at her feet, and a book lay open in her lap.
Seraphina crossed the room and sat on the mattress edge. She kept her hands behind her back. "I have something for you," she said.
Morwenna looked at her hands. "The snake?"
Seraphina brought it out, a long green snake stitched from soft, luxurious velvet. Its scales were worked into the fabric in subtle patterns, the rounded head gentle in shape, with small black buttons for eyes. The body thick and pleasantly heavy, made to be held and around the arms, almost as long as Morwenna herself.
Morwenna took it, and her fingers traced the soft velvet. "It's very long."
"You said you wanted a long one," Seraphina replied.
Morwenna pulled it against her chest. The velvet curved against her ribs like a second spine. She pressed her face into the fabric. "Thank you, Gran-ma."
Seraphina reached out to touch her hair, and her hand was light and affectionate. "You can hug it whenever you need to. The snake isn't alone anymore."
"You are welcome, little one," Seraphina said. She left the room with a soft click of the door. Morwenna lay down with the snake pressed against her side. Cinder sniffed the velvet, sneezed once, and settled against her other side.
That night she slept with the toy pressed to her heart. She dreamed of green scales and dark water. She dreamed of something old and patient waiting in the deep.
She woke once in the middle of the night to find the room perfectly still. The snake was still in her arms, and she closed her eyes to return to her dreams.
. . .
The house filled with voices and hurried footsteps. The morning room echoed with overlapping conversations. House elves moved through the halls carrying trays of bread and polished silver. Morwenna stayed in the nursery. The thick door muted the noise to a low hum.
She lay on the bed with the snake curled beside her, watching golden April light crawl across the ceiling beams. Her body felt heavy, as if the winter hadn't fully left her bones. She didn't have the strength for questions about appetite or sleep. She preferred the quiet. She traced the velvet scales and listened to Cinder breathe. The manor was loud, but her room remained still.
. . .
The twenty-fifth arrived in shades of cold grey. Morwenna woke to the pale light filtering through the curtains, lying perfectly still as she listened to the sounds of the house. It was a strange sort of quiet, one that wasn't the silence of sleep, but a heavy and expectant quiet of waiting. Tomorrow was her birthday.
She eventually sat up, letting the velvet snake slide to the floor for a moment before she retrieved it and set it carefully on her pillow. She dressed herself in trousers and a jumper, tying her hair with the blue ribbon. The bow sat crooked against her head, but she didn't bother to fix it.
When she made her way downstairs, she found the kitchen warm and smelling of toasted bread. Jane stood over the stove while Jack sat nearby with his tea, his expression unreadable. Saoirse was still fast asleep on the settee in the next room.
"Good morning," Morwenna said as she climbed onto a chair.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Jane replied, offering her a gentle look.
The day passed in a slow and expectant crawl. Outside the nursery, the manor filled with voices and the sound of hurried footsteps as the morning room echoed with overlapping conversations. House elves moved through the halls carrying trays of fresh bread and polished silver, preparing for the full gathering of the family.
Morwenna stayed tucked away in her room, where the thick wooden door muted the noise to a low, distant hum. She lay on her bed with the velvet snake curled beside her, watching the golden April light move across the ceiling beams.
Her body felt strangely heavy, as if the chill of the long winter hadn't quite left her bones yet. She didn't have the strength to answer questions about her appetite or her sleep, preferring the stillness of her own company.
She spent the hours tracing the stitched scales of the toy and listening to the rhythmic sound of Cinder breathing at her feet. The manor was loud and bustling, but her room remained a quiet island of peace.
The sun sank at last, and stars spread across the clear spring sky.
Later that evening, the Floo flared to life, its flames turning a sudden, vivid green in the quiet sitting room where the family had gathered. Morwenna lay curled on the settee between Jane and Jack, her eyes heavy as she leaned faintly into her mother's side.
The fire surged and opened.
Roxane stepped through in deep indigo travelling robes, brushing a trace of ash from her sleeve as she straightened. Her dark hair was pinned in its usual elegant twist, and her green eyes swept the room once before settling, steady and intent, on the child.
"Ma petite," she said.
Morwenna sat up a little straighter. "Grand-mère."
"You have grown," Roxane observed, her gaze taking in every detail.
"I'm still four."
"Not for long." Roxane leaned down to kiss her forehead before she straightened up again. "Tomorrow," she said simply.
Morwenna nodded. Roxane reached out to touch her cheek, her palm feeling warm and vital against the cool air. "You will survive this."
Morwenna leaned into the touch, finding a strange strength in the woman's absolute certainty. "I know."
Later that night, Morwenna lay in bed once more, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling in the firelight. The snake rested against her side, its velvet body a comforting weight, while Cinder lay curled at her feet.
Tomorrow she would be five.
She didn't know what the second bath would bring, but she knew it would hurt. She pressed her palm flat against the velvet head of the toy and felt the steady, grounded presence of it beside her.
"I'm not alone," she whispered into the dark. "You aren't alone either."
The room remained quiet, the fire crackled in the hearth, and she finally closed her eyes.