The front door clicked shut behind them, and Nimue could hear Saoirse before she saw her. Her aunt's voice carried from the sitting room, sounding high and thin. She was whining like a cat that wanted to be let out into the rain.
"I'm dying. I'm actually dying. Jack, write to Mommy. Tell her I died a hero's death in the attic. Tell her I was reaching for a box of her old love letters and the dust finally took me."
Jack's voice was lower and drier. "You found one box. You opened it. You looked at one photograph."
"A photograph of me. When I was young. When I was beautiful. When I had lungs that could breathe air without choking on a thousand years of dead skin."
"You are thirty-eight."
"Which is practically dead. In attic years, I'm a skeleton. Jack, look at me. I'm a skeleton. I'm dust. I'm—"
Saoirse saw them.
She was sprawled across the sofa, her arms flung out as if she had fallen from a great height. Her hair was tangled into a wild nest, and her face looked grey with a fine layer of dust. One leg hung over the armrest, swinging listlessly. She looked like a fish that had been left out too long in the sun.
Then she saw the ice cream.
She moved with a sudden, violent grace. Nimue didn't even see her stand. One moment she was a corpse on the sofa, and the next she was at the right in front of them. Her hand reached for the paper bag Jane was holding with a desperate sort of hunger.
"Give it to me. Give it to me now. I will trade you anything. My postcard collection. My good boots. My very life. Give me the ice cream."
Jane held the bag out. Saoirse took it as if it were a holy relic. She pulled out the cup, peeled the paper lid off, and took a massive bite.
Her eyes closed instantly. Her whole face changed, the dramatic lines of her mouth softening. She looked like someone who had been walking through a scorching desert for a thousand years and had just found a spring of cold water.
"Oh. Oh, my dearest sister-in-law. My life is yours for at least half an hour. If you say go west, I won't look east. I will carry you on my back across the whole of London. I will—"
"Finish the ice cream," Jane said, her voice full of amusement. "Before it melts into soup."
Saoirse took another bite and made a low, appreciative sound that wasn't quite human.
Nimue took the other cup from the bag and carried it to her father. He was standing in the doorway, watching Saoirse with an expression that was half exasperation and half something softer. He looked tired, his own hair dusted with grey cobwebs.
He took the cup from her and looked at it. "Chocolate?"
"I picked it."
He looked at her, and for a moment his face did something complicated. It was the same look he gave her when she fell asleep on his shoulder, or when she said something that made him stop and realize she was growing up.
"Thank you." He took a bite, the cold sweetness clearly a relief. "It's good."
Saoirse was already finished, her cup scraped empty and her face looking blissful. She lay back on the sofa and rested her hand on her stomach. "I have been resurrected. I'm a new woman. I'm going to live forever."
"You are going to take a shower. You are covered in dust."
Saoirse looked at her arm. The dust was thick enough to write in. She used her finger to trace her name, slowly, watching the letters appear in the grey film on her skin.
"Saoirse. See? I was here. I existed. I climbed into the attic for you. I touched boxes no one has touched since we were children. I found Mommy's wedding dress. I found Daddy's old schoolbooks. I even found a photograph of Jack in nappies."
Jack stopped eating his ice cream mid-bite. "You did not."
"I did." Saoirse sat up, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "You were very small. You were very bald. You were sitting in the garden with a plastic bucket on your head."
Jack put his ice cream down on the side table. "Give it to me."
"No."
"Saoirse."
"No." She was already moving, heading for the stairs with light feet. Her laughter trailed behind her like a bright ribbon. "It's mine now. It's my treasure. I'm going to keep it forever. I'm going to show it to Morwenna when she's older. I'm going to show it to her children."
Jack went after her, his voice rising in protest. Jane was laughing, and Nimue stood in the hallway with Cinder at her feet, listening to the sound of her family filling the house with noise.
. . .
Lunch was fresh bread, sharp cheese, and the last of the red tomatoes from the market. They ate at the small table in the kitchen with the windows open. The sounds of the street—distant car engines and the calls of birds—drifted in.
Saoirse was clean now, her hair wet and smelling of herbal soap. Jack still wasn't speaking to her, though the silence was more theatrical than real. He was eating his tomato in pointed silence, and Saoirse kept looking at her younger brother with a twitching mouth.
She held up a slice of crusty bread. "Peace offering?"
Jack took it. He didn't smile, but he took it.
After lunch, Jane sent Nimue upstairs for her rest. Her room was warm, the sun falling in a bright square on the white quilt. She lay down with Cinder curled beside her and closed her eyes, the rhythm of the city outside acting as a lullaby.
When she woke, the light had shifted across the walls. The sun was lower and the shadows were longer. Cinder was no longer beside her. She sat up, feeling a bit groggy. The house was quiet. The clock in the hall gave a steady tick. It was twenty minutes to three.
She went down the stairs, her socks silent on the wood. Jane was in the kitchen with her back to the door, washing a few stray dishes. Jack was reading in the sitting room. Saoirse was asleep on the sofa again. Her mouth was slightly open, a small line of drool at the mouth's corner, her arm thrown over her face.
Nimue went to the front window and looked out at the world.
The street was quiet. The plane trees moved in a light wind. Number eleven had its curtains open. She could see the edge of a table, a vase of flowers, and a discarded book. No one was at the door yet.
She waited.
The clock in the hall ticked.
Three o'clock.
The street remained still for a heartbeat. She pressed her face to the glass, her breath fogging the pane in a small circle, and watched number eleven's blue door.
A minute passed. Then two. Then three. Finally, the door opened.
Hermione came out first. Her hair looked even bigger than it had that morning, appearing like a dark cloud around her head. Her dress was the same floral one from the morning.
Her mother was behind her, saying something, and Hermione turned to say something back. Then she was walking down the path, her steps quick and her eyes fixed on the house with the green door.
Nimue went to the door. She opened it before Hermione even had a chance to knock.
"You are late," she said.
Hermione stopped on the step. Her face did something complicated, as if she weren't sure if she were being scolded or welcomed. "Mum wanted me to brush my hair again. She said it was a mess."
Nimue looked at the hair. It was brushed. It was very brushed, which only seemed to make it take up more space.
She stepped back to let her in. "Come."
The garden was at the back of the house, reached through the kitchen. It was a small, neat rectangle of grass with a single tree in the middle and a stone bench against the brick wall. The grass was long in the corners where the mower couldn't reach, and there were bright yellow dandelions near the fence. The wall at the end was covered in a thick layer of dark ivy.
Hermione stood at the grass's edge and looked at the space. "It's small."
Nimue looked at it. She hadn't thought about it being small. It was just the garden. "It's enough."
"My mum says our garden is small too. She says we can't have a dog because it's too small for a dog to run around properly."
Nimue thought about that. She had never had a dog. She had Cinder. Cinder didn't need to run in large circles. Cinder was small and fast, and he ran in the house whenever he pleased.
"What do you want to play?" Hermione asked, her hands clasped in front of her.
Nimue looked at the grass. She looked at the dirt under the tree's shade, where the grass was thin and the soil was dark. She looked at the stones at the wall's base—small, grey, and smooth.
She picked up a flat stone. "Hopscotch."
She had learned it in Thornwell from Lucy. She knew the pattern and the way you had to hop on one foot and turn without falling. She had never made the squares herself, though. The other children had always drawn them.
She began to draw them in the dirt with the stone's sharp edge.
The lines were thin and a bit wobbly, but she could see them clearly. When she stood back, Hermione was nodding with a critical eye.
"That's good. The squares are a bit small, though. My mum says you have to make them big enough for your feet or you will trip."
Nimue made them bigger. She drew the lines again, and this time Hermione came and stood beside her. She pointed out where the lines should go to keep them straight. When they were finished, the squares were large and the numbers were clearly etched into the soil.
Hermione went first. She was surprisingly good at it. She threw the stone into the first square, hopped on one foot with perfect balance, bent to pick it up, and hopped back. She did it without stepping on a single line. When she finished, she looked at Nimue as if she were waiting for a grade.
Nimue took the stone. She threw it, and it landed right in the center of the square. She hopped, but her foot came down right on the line. She had to start again.
She tried three times. Each time, her foot betrayed her. On the fourth try, she didn't fail. She hopped through the squares, bent to pick up the stone, and hopped back. When she finished, Hermione was smiling.
"You did it."
"I did."
They played for a while, taking turns and drawing new squares when the old ones got smudged by their trainers. They counted the hops out loud, laughing when one of them nearly fell over. The sun moved across the garden, and the tree's shadows stretched toward the house. Nimue's trainers were dark with dirt, and her hands were grey.
Hermione eventually sat down under the tree's branches. "I'm tired."
Nimue sat beside her. The ground was cool, and the tree's roots made small lumps under her legs. Cinder came over and lay down in the space between them, his amber eyes half-closed.
"What's his name?" Hermione asked, reaching out a hesitant hand.
"Cinder."
"Like the fire?"
Nimue looked at her. She hadn't thought about the name having a meaning. Cinder was just Cinder. He was a gift from Saoirse, and he was hers. "Yes. Like the fire."
Hermione reached out and touched the fox's fur. Cinder opened his eyes, looked at her for a long moment, and then closed them again. Hermione's hand was small and careful. Her fingers were very gentle. When she pulled back, she was smiling.
"He likes me."
"He likes everyone."
"No." Hermione shook her head, her hair bouncing. "He likes me. I can tell. Animals are very selective."
Nimue looked at Cinder. He was perfectly still. He didn't actually like everyone. He barely tolerated Jack and ignored Saoirse's dramatic antics. He only slept at her feet.
"He likes you," Nimue agreed.
Hermione's smile grew wider. She looked at the dirt under the tree, the patch where the grass had worn away. "Do you want to make something?"
"Like what?"
"A castle." Hermione was already on her hands and knees, her fingers digging into the moist dirt. "A castle with a moat. My mum says the castles in Scotland have moats. Big ones filled with water for keeping people out."
Nimue knelt beside her. The dirt was soft and easy to shape. When she scooped it with her hands, it formed thick walls.
Hermione was fast. Her hands moved with a strange, focused energy. Soon she had a tower that was square and tall. She made another beside it and then a wall between them. She sat back to look at Nimue's progress.
Nimue had made a lumpy pile.
"That isn't a castle," Hermione said.
Nimue looked at her pile. It was indeed round and lumpy. "It's a hill."
Hermione considered this. Her face was serious, just as it had been when she was thinking about her name. "A hill with a castle on it. Put it here."
She pointed to the space between her towers. Nimue lifted her hill and set it down. Hermione patted the sides smooth and drew a road up the side with her finger. She made a small square door at the top and sat back.
"There. Now it's a castle."
They worked for a long time. Hermione made more towers, and Nimue built more hills. Together they made walls, a gate, and a courtyard with a tiny tree made from a twig. Hermione found small stones to serve as windows, and Nimue found a long leaf for a flag. When they were finished, the castle sprawled across the bare dirt under the tree.
Hermione sat back on her heels. Her floral dress was now brown at the hem. Her face and hands were covered in dirt, and there were even a few smudges in her hair. She was smiling broadly.
"It's good. It's very good."
Nimue looked at their creation. The towers were a bit crooked and the walls were uneven. The gate was far too small. "Yes. It's good."
They sat in the dirt with the castle between them as the sun turned a low, rich gold. Cinder had moved to the stone bench, watching them with his ears forward.
Hermione leaned forward to add one more stone to the tallest tower. "My mum says we are moving. In a few years. To a bigger house with a much larger garden."
Nimue looked at her. "You don't like your house?"
"I like my room because I have all my books there. But the house is small. And I want a dog." She looked at Cinder. "Maybe a fox. But you can't have a fox in London. My mum says they are wild and bitey."
Cinder's ears twitched at that.
"He isn't wild. He is mine."
Hermione nodded. She touched the castle again, fixing a crumbling wall. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
Nimue thought about the time they had left. Twenty-two days. "Yes."
Hermione smiled. "Then I will come back. Tomorrow. After my rest." She stood up and tried to brush her dress, but the dirt stayed put. "I have to go now. Mum said four o'clock sharp."
Nimue stood as well. Her legs felt stiff and her knees were dark with grass and soil. She walked Hermione to the front door. Hermione gave a final wave and then ran down the path to number eleven, her hair bouncing wildly.
Jane was in the kitchen when Nimue came back inside. She looked at her daughter's hands, knees, and face. She didn't say a word; she just turned on the taps to fill the tub.
The water was warm and soothing. Nimue sat in it and watched the garden's dirt fall away, brown clouds swirling in the clear water. When she was clean and dry, Jane wrapped her in a soft towel and led her to the bedroom.
The new skirt was a pale, soft blue with deep pockets. Jane had bought it at the market, and Nimue hadn't tried it on until now. It fell to her knees. When she turned in a circle, the fabric swirled around her legs.
She looked at herself in the tall mirror.
Her face was pink from the hot water. Her eyes looked very green.
She put her hand in the left pocket. It was deep enough to hold many stones. She put her other hand in the right pocket. She stood there, studying her reflection, and then she went to find her mother.
Jane was in the kitchen, wiping the counter for the tenth time that day. She looked up when Nimue entered, and her face did something soft.
"That's a good color on you," Jane said.
Nimue looked down at the skirt. The blue was soft, like the morning sky or the flowers she had seen at the market. She touched the fabric with her fingers.
"I like it," she said.
Jane smiled. "Good."
===
I will share the ages of some of the adults as of 1984:
Raphael is 33.
Jane is 27.
Luelle is 22.
Saoirse is 38.
Jack is 32.