Morwenna woke to the familiar, heavy weight of Cinder curled at her feet and the unfamiliar, echoing absence on her left wrist. She lay perfectly still for a long moment, staring at the shifting shadows on the nursery ceiling.
She lifted her arm, turning it in the pale morning light that filtered through the curtains. There was only bare, pale skin where the silver band had been. The spot felt strangely hollow where the metal usually rested. She rubbed the area with her other hand, her thumb tracing the faint, ghost-like indentation where the metal had sat for a year.
Cinder stirred at the movement, blinking his amber eyes as he let out a long, silent yawn that showed his sharp teeth. His ears swiveled forward, then back, and then forward again, tracking the muffled thuds and clinks of the house waking up below.
"Three," Morwenna told him, her voice a soft rasp.
His ears swiveled forward and stayed there, locked on her face. His tail thumped once against the heavy blankets, a muffled sound in the quiet room.
She climbed out of bed, her nightgown swishing softly around her ankles. The floor felt bitingly cold under her feet, but she didn't reach for her slippers. She went to the window instead, her toes curling against the chill of the floorboards.
The garden below was still silver with a heavy coating of dew, the snowdrop patch visible even through the lingering morning mist. She counted them slowly, her lips moving with each number. Thirteen flowers now. No, fourteen. There was a new one near the edge, smaller than the others, its white head barely open against the dark, damp soil.
She pressed her palm flat against the glass. It was freezing, a sharp contrast to her warm skin. She waited for something to happen—for a spark of magic or a sign of the change she felt inside—but the glass remained just glass.
She pulled back and looked at her hand. This was the same hand that had held the Algiz stone yesterday and felt it pulse with a living rhythm. It was the same hand that had touched the pressed flower from Morgana's garden and felt three centuries of silence vibrating under her fingertips.
Nothing happened now.
She turned away from the window. Cinder had already jumped off the bed and was waiting by the door, his russet tail sweeping the floor in slow, rhythmic arcs.
"Breakfast," she said.
His ears swiveled forward, and he followed her out into the hall.
The morning room was warm and filled with noise when she pushed the heavy door open. The fire crackled in the hearth, radiating a dry, steady heat, and the scent of toasted bread and wild honey filled the air so thickly it felt like a physical presence. Tilly was busy at the sideboard, arranging a platter of fruit with intense, trembling concentration. His large ears twitched with every precise movement of his small hands.
Saoirse was already there, sprawled in a chair with her feet propped carelessly on the table. She held a piece of toast in one hand while gesturing wildly at something Luelle had just said. She saw Morwenna and grinned, her green eyes bright with mischief, the white streak in her dark hair catching the light.
"Look who it's. The birthday girl. The three-year-old. The ancient one."
Morwenna climbed onto her high stool, the polished wood cool against her legs. "Not ancient."
"Three is ancient, pet. Ask anyone."
Morwenna looked at her mother, who was busy pouring tea at the sideboard. Jane's mouth twitched as she crossed the room with a steaming cup, her movements graceful.
"Is three ancient, Mama?"
"Positively prehistoric, I should think," Jane said.
Morwenna considered this with a serious frown, her white hair falling over her shoulder. She looked back at Saoirse. "You are more ancient."
Saoirse clutched her chest in a theatrical display of shock, nearly dropping her toast. "An attack! I have been attacked by a three-year-old." She looked around the table at the others, her voice rising. "Did everyone see that? She attacked me with words."
Luelle laughed, the sound bright and ringing through the room. The spoon she had been balancing on the bridge of her nose clattered against her porcelain plate. "You walked right into that one, Saoirse."
"I walked into nothing. I was sitting perfectly still."
Morwenna picked up her silver spoon and examined her distorted reflection in the bowl. Then she looked at her aunt. "You weren't sitting still. Your feet were on the table."
Saoirse's eyes widened. "She is three and she is already a stickler for rules. Whose child is this?"
"Your niece," Aldric said as he appeared in the doorway. He came in with Seraphina, his hand resting gently on the small of her back. "Clearly. She has your energy for chaos, even if she uses it for order."
Seraphina sat in her usual chair, smoothing her dark robes. "That's one word for it."
Morwenna watched them all settle into their morning rhythms. Celestine and Lucien were already by the window, speaking in low, measured French. Celestine's voice was steady and cool; Lucien's had that unmistakable melodic quality beneath it, the Veela lilt that made his words flow.
Raphael read at the far end of the table, his tea forgotten and cooling beside him. He kept one finger marking his place in a book that looked older than the manor itself. Luelle was busy attempting to retrieve her fallen spoon from the floor.
Tilly appeared at Morwenna's elbow with a bowl of porridge. The honey was drizzled in a perfect, golden spiral that shimmered under the light. He placed it before her with both hands, his large eyes shining with pride.
"Happy day after birthday, little miss."
"Thank you, Tilly."
He bowed low, his ears brushing his knees, and disappeared back toward the kitchen.
She ate slowly, letting the warmth of the food settle in her stomach. The honey was sweet and the porridge was thick and creamy on her tongue. She watched the adults move around her. Jane refilled the cups, Jack came in with the morning paper, and Aldric kissed Seraphina's cheek before sitting down. They folded into the room as if they had always been there.
Lucien came over and took the chair beside her. He touched her white hair as he settled, a brief, warm brush of his fingers. "Bonjour, petite. Three suits you."
Morwenna touched her own hair, tracing the strands. "It's the same."
"It isn't the same." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for her, the melodic lilt of his accent more pronounced. "You are three now, Morwenna. Everything is different, though you can't see it just yet."
She looked at him, searching his face. She saw the warmth in his dark eyes and the strange, shimmering quality of light that seemed to follow him even indoors.
"Can you see it?"
He smiled, a gentle expression. "Yes."
She thought about this while she finished her breakfast. When the bowl was empty, she carried it to the counter, just as she did every morning. Tilly took it from her with both hands.
"Thank you, little miss."
"Welcome." She wiped her hands on the silk of her dress, then remembered the rule. She looked at her mother, who was watching her with raised eyebrows.
"Napkin next time," Jane said.
Morwenna nodded obediently.
. . .
The greenhouse was warm and humid, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and living things. Lucien was crouched by the rose bush, his fingers moving gently against the dark soil. A new shoot was visible, a tiny point of pale green against the wood. She stood beside him and looked at the growth.
"Still there."
"Still growing." He glanced at her with a smile, his voice melodic and unhurried. "Just like you, I think."
She crouched beside him, her knees pressing into the damp stone floor. The warmth of the greenhouse wrapped around her, soft and heavy like a blanket. She reached out and touched the shoot, the lightest brush of her finger.
"It's soft."
"It's new. New things are often soft."
She thought about this for a moment. "Am I soft?"
Lucien looked at her. His eyes were warm, and the Veela light in them felt gentle in the grey afternoon light. "You are many things, Morwenna. But soft is not one of them."
She considered this, then nodded, accepting the assessment.
They stayed there for a while in a comfortable silence. She watched him check the moisture in the soil, his hands moving with grace among the plants. He showed her how to tell if a leaf needed water by the way it felt between her fingers. She tried it on three different leaves, decided they all felt fine, and told him so.
"Good," he said. "Then they are fine."
She helped him water the small pots near the door. He handed her a small watering can. It was heavy, but she was three now, and she felt stronger. She carried it to each pot, tipping it carefully as he had shown her. Water splashed on her dress and her shoes, puddling on the stone floor, but she kept going until every pot was done.
"Good job," Lucien said.
She set the can down with a thud. "I helped."
"You did."
She stood there for a moment, looking at the rows of pots and the green things growing within them. Her hand went to her bare wrist, rubbing the spot where the silver used to sit. The skin was warm from the greenhouse air, but the area felt different. Exposed. Lucien watched her, but he didn't ask.
She dropped her hand and walked to the door. She paused with her palm flat against the frame, feeling the cool, rough wood under her skin. Then she heard it. From somewhere deeper in the manor, the sound was faint but clear—piano notes, slow and searching. It was Jane, working something out as she went. The same phrase repeated, then a different note followed, then the phrase again. The music held an inquisitive quality, each phrase trailing off as if waiting for a response.
Morwenna's hand left the doorframe. She turned toward the sound.
The music room was bright, the glass walls letting in the muted grey light of the afternoon. Jane sat at the piano, her hands moving over the yellowed keys. She looked up when Morwenna appeared in the doorway, but she didn't stop playing.
Morwenna crossed the room and climbed onto the bench beside her. The wood was smooth and cool. She looked at the keys, then at Jane's hands, watching the way they moved.
"Play?"
"You want me to play?"
Morwenna shook her head. She placed her own hands on the keys, copying the way she had seen Jane do it. She pressed one down. The note rang out, loud and startling in the quiet room. She pressed another, and then another. It wasn't music, not yet, but it was sound, and she was the one making it. She pressed the same key four times in a row because she liked the way the vibration felt under her finger.
Jane watched her. She didn't correct her or guide her hands; she simply watched.
"Still good," she said.
"Yes, still good," Jane agreed.
. . .
That evening, after dinner had finished, Jane found her in the nursery.
The fire had been lit, casting a warm, flickering light across the room. Morwenna was already in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Cinder was curled at her feet, his ears twitching as he slept. The small carved serpent was clutched in her hand, and the silver locket rested against her chest. Jane sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.
"Morwenna."
Morwenna looked at her, her green eyes steady and focused.
"You know something's going to happen soon, don't you?"
Morwenna was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded.
"You asked the portrait if it would hurt."
Another nod.
Jane reached out and smoothed the white hair back from her daughter's forehead. "I am going to tell you about it now. Is That's okay?"
Morwenna nodded again. Her small hand found Jane's and held on.
Jane took a slow breath. "You know how you are growing? How you are three now, and soon you will be four, and then five?"
"Yes."
"Your magic grows too. It's been growing since the day you were born. But there are special times when it grows much faster. Those times are called magical maturities. Your third birthday is one of those times. So is your fifth, and your seventh."
Morwenna listened without moving. Her fingers tightened on Jane's.
"In the wizarding world, we have ways to help the magic settle better. To help it fit your body the right way. We do rituals."
"What's ritual?"
"Something we do together. Something with deep meaning." Jane paused. "For you, this time, there will be two parts. The first is a bath. A special bath with herbs and minerals. You will sit in warm water, and the herbs will help your magic."
Morwenna's eyes widened. "I will be boiled? Cooked?"
Jane's composure cracked for a moment. She almost laughed and almost cried, the feeling caught somewhere in between. "No, ma chérie. Not boiled or cooked. It's like soaking in warm water. It's a regular bath. It will feel warm and comfortable at first. But when the herbs start working, when your magic starts absorbing them—" She stopped, choosing her words with care. "It might feel uncomfortable. Strange. Maybe a little bit like when you had the fever."
Morwenna was very still. Her hand squeezed tighter.
"But this's your first time. We chose the gentlest things we could. We made it as soft as possible for you."
Morwenna processed this, her brow furrowing. Then she nodded.
Jane continued. "But That's isn't all. There's another part. A blood ritual."
Morwenna's head tilted. Her eyes went wide, suspicious but curious. "Blood?"
"Yes. There are many kinds of blood rituals. The Evans family has them too. But this one comes from the Keith side. It's something druids do. Every Keith child does it."
"Druid?" Morwenna's brow furrowed deeper. "Mama, Dada wizard?"
Jane smiled, her expression small and warm. "Yes. Your father and I are wizards, but he also have druid blood. We use wands, but druids are different. They work with staffs, and their magic is tied to the land, to ancestors, to old traditions. Your father's family has always been druids, going back to Merlin himself."
"Merlin."
"Yes. Merlin, Myrddin. He was a druid. And because you're a Keith, you carry that legacy too. The blood rituals help prepare you for it. They make the path smoother."
Jane paused. She took Morwenna's hand, opening it gently, and traced a line across her palm with one finger.
"The blood rituals make paths. Like... you know how water flows? When you pour juice, it goes where the cup's tilted."
Morwenna nodded.
"Magic is like that. It flows. But if there isn't a path, it flows everywhere. It splashes and makes a mess. The blood rituals carve paths under your skin so the magic knows where to go. So it flows smooth instead of flooding."
Morwenna looked down at her palm. The line Jane had traced was already fading. She pressed her thumb into it, hard.
"It won't hurt?"
"It will feel strange. Like something's happening deep under your skin. But the first time, it will be just a little. Just a taste. A few runes, nothing more. It will feel strange—numb, maybe, like your arm fell asleep. But not sharp pain. Not like the fever."
Jane cupped her face again. "We start slow. We do a few runes each year. By the time you are eleven, the paths will be there, ready. They will be like rivers that have been digging their beds for years." She held Morwenna's cheeks in her hands. The child's skin was warm. "Ma chérie. You know you are different, right? Special?"
Morwenna looked at her. "Yes."
"We have to do things a little differently for you. The rituals will be a bit different than for other children. But we have made them as gentle as we could. We will do them every year after your birthday, from now until you are eleven. And each time, they might hurt a little more than the time before."
Morwenna absorbed this. Her eyes moved over Jane's face, reading her.
Jane's voice softened. "Baby, are you scared?"
Morwenna was quiet. Her fingers tightened on the carved serpent until the edges pressed into her palm. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but it wasn't hard enough to feel it. She needed to feel something solid that wasn't going anywhere.
The fire popped in the grate with a sharp, sudden crack. Morwenna flinched, just a fraction—a tightening of her shoulders—but Jane felt it because she was holding her. Morwenna looked past Jane's shoulder at the door. She looked at the hallway beyond, where tomorrow would come from. The doorway was dark, and the firelight didn't reach that far.
She looked back at her mother. Her face was still, but her breath came shallow and quick. She was counting without meaning to.
One, two. One, two.
It's the way she counted snowdrops or steps on the stairs.
"Scared," she said. Her voice was small and real. "But I'm brave." She squeezed Jane's hand. Her palm was damp. "Mama, Dada, all will be with me, right? I will be brave."
Her thumb pressed into Jane's knuckles and held there. Jane's eyes glistened. She blinked once, and then twice, and the wetness was gone. She leaned down and pressed her lips to Morwenna's temple.
"Always," she whispered. "We will always be there."
Morwenna nodded against her.
"And after each time," Jane said, "you will be stronger. The magic will fit better. You will grow into who you are meant to be."
Morwenna thought about this. She thought about the snowdrops, fourteen now, spreading across the dark soil. She thought about the rose shoot, pale green and soft. Then she reached up and touched Jane's cheek, the same way she had touched Viviane the day before.
"Good," she said.
Jane laughed, a soft and wet sound. "Yes. Good."
She stayed until Morwenna's breathing went slow and even. Then she kissed her forehead one more time and went to find her husband.
In the bedroom, the fire burned low. Jack looked up when she entered. He was in his chair by the hearth with a book open on his lap, but he hadn't turned a page in a long while.
"How was it?"
Jane sat across from him. "She asked if she would be boiled."
Jack blinked in surprise. Then he laughed. "Boiled?"
"The medicinal bath. She thought—" Jane shook her head, smiling despite the weight of it. "She is three. Of course she thought that."
"What did you tell her?"
"That it would feel warm at first. Then strange. Maybe uncomfortable." Jane paused. "I told her the blood ritual would be very gentle this time. Numbness, not pain."
Jack reached across and took her hand. "And?"
"She said she's scared. But she will be brave. Because we will all be there."
Jack squeezed her fingers. "She is right."
Jane looked at the fire. The flames danced, casting long shadows across the room. "I know."
They sat together in the firelight, listening to the clock tick.