The cottage in Normandy served as their base. They slept there most nights, even when the day's drive had been long and exhausting. By now, Nimue had learned to wake to the rhythmic cry of gulls circling the harbour instead of the familiar tolling of bells. Her bare feet found the cold, knotted floorboards and the slight grit of salt-dusted wood as soon as she opened her eyes.
After breakfast, Jane usually spread a large, creased map across the kitchen table. Her pale finger traced the winding coastal roads that hugged the shoreline like loose stitching. Jack often leaned over her shoulder to look, his dark hair falling forward to reveal the distinct white streak that marked his family line. Saoirse sat on the wooden bench with her tea, her own black hair also marked by that same shock of white as she watched them plan the day's route.
"Falaise first," Jane said, her voice carrying the soft, rolling lilt of her French accent. "Then the beaches. Mont-Saint-Michel if we have time."
"That's a bloody lot of driving," Jack noted.
"We have a car, and we have plenty of days. Ne t'inquiète pas (Don't worry)."
Nimue stood on a chair, bringing her chin level with the scarred wooden surface of the table. The map was a sea of blue lines and tiny red dots that looked like spilled ink. She reached out to touch the spot where Jane's finger rested, her nail clicking against the paper.
"What is there?"
"A castle," Jane replied, looking down at the girl with a soft expression in her green eyes. "A very old one. A king was born there."
Nimue looked closely at the map. The name was written in small, elegant letters: Château de Falaise. She didn't really know what a king was, but she liked the sound of the word in her mouth.
. . .
The castle rose atop a steep hill, a massive structure of grey stone with thick walls and towers that cut into the muted sky.
Nimue walked up the stone ramp with her small hand tucked securely into Jack's larger one. The rubber soles of her trainers scraped against the old, uneven cobblestones, sending small echoes bouncing off the ramparts. The walls felt bitingly cold, an ancient chill that seeped into her skin when she pressed her palm against the rough stone.
Inside, the rooms stood empty and echoing, filled with the smell of damp earth and old dust. There were heavy stone floors and narrow windows that allowed only thin slivers of grey light to pierce the heavy gloom.
One fireplace was so large that Nimue could stand comfortably inside it. She tilted her head back to look up at the soot-blackened stone of the chimney, where the sky was a tiny, distant square of light.
"A king lived here?"
"William the Conqueror," Jack explained, his hand resting on the stone mantle. "He crossed the sea and became King of England."
Nimue thought about that for a moment, her brow furrowed. She had crossed the sea too, but she certainly wasn't a king.
She wandered the narrow corridors with her hand trailing along the wall. The stone was rough and worn smooth in patches by centuries of hands that had left no trace. At the very top of a tower, the wind cut sharp and whistled through the battlements. The sea appeared as a thin, shimmering grey line in the far distance. She stood at the edge of the stone and looked down at the world below.
"Careful," Jane said, appearing silently behind her.
"I'm careful."
She really was. She gripped the cold stone with both hands and watched the town clustered at the foot of the hill. The cars moved like tiny, brightly coloured toys and people walked between buildings like columns of ants. From this height, everything looked small, quiet, and wonderfully simple.
. . .
The D-Day beaches were different. Nimue felt it the moment they stopped the car.
The air remained the same, smelling of salt and cold brine, but the adults moved with heavy slowness. Jack walked ahead with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the breeze. Jane stayed close to Nimue, keeping a steady, grounding hand on the girl's shoulder.
The beach was wide and desolate, with pale sand stretching toward the churning water under a leaden, overcast sky. There were no sunbathers here, and no children playing with buckets. There was only the endless sand, the rhythmic thrum of the sea, and a long, haunting row of white crosses in the distance.
"What happened here?" Nimue asked softly, her voice barely a whisper against the wind.
Jane was quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "A battle took place here, a long time ago. Many people died."
Nimue looked at the crosses. There were so many of them, stretching on and on, that she couldn't possibly count them all.
"Why?"
"Because there was a war. Bad people wanted to take everything, and good people fought to stop them."
Nimue processed this in silence, the cold wind whipping her white hair across her face. She thought about the manor, the towering iron gates, and the complex wards that kept people out.
"Did we fight?"
"Our family? Some did. Not here, but in other places."
Nimue didn't ask anything else. She walked down to the water's edge, letting the freezing waves lap over the toes of her trainers. The sand felt wet and unstable beneath her. She stood there, watching the foam retreat, until Jane eventually called her back to the car.
. . .
At the Pegasus Memorial, they walked across a bridge that spanned a quiet canal. The original was gone, Jane explained, but this one was an exact replica. A glider had landed here in the dark of night, and soldiers had come to take the bridge from the enemy.
Nimue touched the metal railing, which felt cold and damp with the afternoon mist. She looked down at the canal, watching the slow, turgid current of the brown water as it swirled around the supports.
"Were there children?"
Jane's hand rested gently on Nimue's head, smoothing her hair. "Yes. There are always children."
Nimue didn't know what to do with that information. It felt heavy in her chest. She walked to the end of the bridge and back, carefully counting her steps to keep her mind busy. Sixty-four. She told Saoirse, who nodded solemnly and said that was quite a lot of steps for such a small bridge.
. . .
Mont-Saint-Michel rose from the sea like a phantom out of an old story.
Nimue saw it from the car window first, a dark, jagged shape silhouetted against the grey sky. As they drew closer, it transformed into a mountain of stone buildings stacked precariously on top of each other, with a slender spire at the very peak and grey water surrounding it on all sides.
"We have to wait for low tide," Jack said, checking his watch. "Otherwise, we won't be able to walk across the flats."
They parked and began the trek across the causeway. The sand was wet and packed hard underfoot, reflecting the sky like polished slate. The island grew larger and more imposing with every step they took. Nimue kept looking up until her neck ached, trying to catch a glimpse of the gold statue at the very top.
Inside the gates, the streets were narrow and winding, smelling of fried dough and damp stone. The steps were cut directly into the rock and worn smooth by centuries of travellers. Shops sold postcards and cheap wooden toys, and tourists crowded together in the narrow alleys, speaking in languages Nimue didn't recognise.
The abbey sat at the very top of the mount. Its halls were cold stone, with high vaulted ceilings and windows that looked out over the vast, empty bay. A monk walked past them in a white robe, his sandals slapping rhythmically against the stone floor in the silence of the cloister.
Nimue stood by a deep-set window and looked down. The car was a tiny speck now, and the road was nothing more than a thin, vulnerable line across the sand. The water was already coming back, creeping steadily and silently across the flats.
"We need to go," Jack said, his voice echoing slightly in the stone hall. "Or we will be stuck here until the next low tide."
They walked down quickly, navigating the steep stairs, and Nimue held her mother's hand tight. The water was much closer now, brown and shallow as it spread across the sand. By the time they reached the car, the path behind them had already vanished beneath the rising tide.
. . .
The last few days in Normandy were quiet, filled with the scent of woodsmoke.
Nimue helped Hélène with the mussels again, her fingers faster and more confident now. The small knife felt natural in her hand, and the tough beards came off clean each time. Mathis sat on his blanket nearby and watched her with wide eyes, his stuffed rabbit tucked securely under his arm.
"Tu deviens une experte (you are becoming an expert.)" Hélène said, a warm smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.
Nimue simply shrugged and dropped a glossy black mussel into the metal bucket before reaching for another.
Jane spent the afternoons packing up the cottage with efficient movements. She cleared the kitchen counters of clutter, stripped the beds of their linen, and folded the white sheets into neat, crisp squares. Nimue helped where she could, carrying heavy piles of laundry to the basket and wiping the sturdy wooden table until the surface was completely dry and gleaming.
. . .
The morning they left, the sky was the colour of tarnished pewter. Nimue stood at the gate and looked at the harbour one last time. The boats rocked gently in the swell, and a man shouted something from a distant deck while gulls turned in endless circles overhead.
"Ready?" Jack asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
She nodded.
. . .
The shopping trip took most of a day and was a blur of bright lights and glass.
They drove to a larger town that had massive department stores and glass windows full of stiff mannequins. Nimue had never been to a shop this big. The lights were dazzlingly bright, and the floors were so shiny she could see her reflection. Everything smelled of new fabric, starch, and cardboard.
Jane pulled heavy coats off the racks, held them up to check the size against Nimue's frame, and put them back. Nimue stood in the middle of the aisle with her arms out while Jane fitted a thick, puffy jacket over her shoulders.
"It's too big."
"You will grow."
"It's huge. I look like a blue bird."
Jane laughed, the sound bright in the quiet shop. "That's the point. It keeps the warmth in."
They bought the jacket anyway. It's a deep blue, with a hood lined in soft fur that tickled Nimue's neck. She wore it out of the shop with the sleeves rolled up twice, feeling like a giant marshmallow. Saoirse told her she looked adorable, which earned her a stern look from Nimue.
Sturdy boots came next. They had thick soles, warm fleece lining, and long laces that took Nimue several tries to tie. She sat on a low bench in the middle of the shop and practised the knots until she could do it in under a minute. They finished the trip with woollen gloves, hats, and scarves, along with a jumper so thick Nimue could barely move her arms. By the time they were done, the bags were heavy and she was exhausted.
"Do we really need all this?" she asked as they walked back to the car.
"The Alps are cold," Jane replied. She looked at Nimue's skeptical face and smiled. "You will wear the jacket."
"Fine."
. . .
The train carried them south through the French countryside.
The car was gone, returned to the rental agency in Caen. Nimue watched the countryside slide past the window, seeing green fields give way to low, rolling hills, then higher, jagged peaks in the distance. The sky remained a stubborn grey, and the temperature outside the glass began to drop steadily as the altitude climbed.
Saoirse slept across two seats with her coat over her face, her black hair streaked with white and tangled from sleep, while Jack read a thick book he had bought at the station. Jane watched the window, her reflection pale against the glass, her eyes distant. Nimue pressed her hand to the cold pane.
They changed trains twice, navigating busy platforms and the smell of diesel. By evening, the mountains were close, their peaks white with fresh snow against the dark, looming rock. Nimue pressed her face to the window and watched them grow larger and more imposing as the train wound through the valleys.
The station was small and rustic, with wooden benches and snow piled high against the stone walls. A man met them with a van and threw their bags in the back, speaking French too fast for Nimue to follow. Jane answered him in the same rapid, rhythmic French.
The drive was short as the road wound upward through pressing, dark evergreen trees. Then, the chalet appeared. Built of weathered wood and grey stone, it had thick smoke rising from the chimney and lights glowing warmly in the small windows.
Nimue stepped out of the van, and the air hit her face with a sharp, biting intensity that made her gasp. This wasn't the damp, heavy chill of Normandy. This cold bit deeper. It made her nose sting and her ears ache almost instantly. She looked up at the mountains rising on all sides, dark and jagged against the last light of day. The sky was a deep purple at the edges, and the first stars were already visible in the clear air.
"Well," Saoirse said, pulling her coat tighter and shivering. "It's certainly cold."
Nimue didn't answer. She was watching the snow on the high peaks and the way it caught the fading, violet light. The cold in her chest stirred, like something small waking from a long nap and stretching its limbs.
She smiled.
The chalet door opened to reveal an old woman with white hair and a face creased like parchment. Her eyes, when they found Nimue, were green.
"Entrez, entrez (come in, come in)," she said, stepping back into the warmth. "It's cold outside."
Nimue walked inside and the dry heat hit her immediately. The air smelled of woodsmoke, melted wax, and cooking herbs. A fire crackled in a large stone hearth, and thick, colourful rugs covered the wooden floor.
She dropped her bag by the stairs and walked straight to the window. The peaks were dark now, the snow a faint, ghostly white against the night sky.
"We are really here," she said, her breath hitching slightly.
Jane came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "We are really here."
Nimue pressed her palm to the glass. It was cold, but there was no frost bloom beneath her touch. She didn't need it. The bitter cold outside was more than enough to satisfy the itch under her skin.
The next morning, Nimue woke to a light she had never seen before. It wasn't the dull, flat grey of Normandy or the pale gold of the farm. It was a brilliant, blinding white that reflected off the snow and flooded through the bedroom window in a silent burst.
She sat up in the soft bed. Cinder was curled at her feet, his russet fur standing out against the white duvet. His ears were flat and his body was tucked into a tight ball. He clearly didn't like the cold. He had refused to step off the rug the night before, until Jack carried him to the bedroom, his amber eyes wide with suspicion.
"Snow," she whispered.
Cinder's ear twitched, but he didn't uncurl.
She climbed out of bed and went to the window. The world had turned completely white overnight. Trees, roofs, and the narrow road were all buried under a fresh, pristine layer. The mountains looked sharper in the morning light, their peaks cutting like glass into the deep blue sky.
She dressed quickly, pulling on the puffy blue jacket and the thick fleece-lined boots. As she hurried downstairs, her breath fogged in the cold morning air. Jane was at the stove with a pot of coffee, while Jack stood by the window looking out at the deep drifts of white. Saoirse was still asleep on the sofa, her coat thrown over her like a heavy blanket.
"Can I go outside?" Nimue asked, her hand already on the door latch.
"After breakfast," Jane said firmly.
Nimue ate as fast as she could. She had bread with cold butter, a bowl of thick porridge, and a cup of tea so hot it burned her tongue. She barely noticed. She just wanted to touch the snow.
When the door finally opened, a rush of freezing air flooded the house. Nimue stepped onto the porch, and the snow crunched under her boots. She walked to the edge of the wooden deck and looked out at the valley below, which was white, silent, and perfectly still. A stream ran somewhere beneath the ice, its sound faint and tinkling when she stopped to listen.
She knelt and scooped up a handful of snow. It was light and powdery, cold even through her gloves. She packed it into a firm ball and threw it at a nearby pine tree, watching it burst apart into a cloud of white dust.
She did it again, then again, her movements quick and energized.
The cold in her chest stirred once more, stronger this time. It wasn't painful or frightening. It was simply present, as if the frozen landscape called to something deep within her.
Jane came out with a mug of steaming tea, wrapped in her own thick coat. "You will freeze out here."
"I'm not cold."
Jane looked at her closely. Nimue's cheeks were pink and her breath fogged in the air, but she wasn't shivering. She stood in the deep snow as if it were the height of summer.
"You really aren't," Jane noted, her voice full of quiet surprise.
Nimue shrugged. She bent down and began to craft another snowball, her breath steady and her hands sure in the cold.