Nimue fell so many times on her first morning of skiing that she stopped counting.
Jack helped her up every time. His patience never cracked, even when she slumped into the snow and lay there like a starfish. "You are leaning back again," he said, looking down at her.
"I'm not."
"You are. Look at your skis."
Nimue looked. The tips were pointing straight at the sky, and she was practically sitting down on the backs of them.
"That's why you keep falling," Jack said. "Lean forward. Let the skis do the work."
She planted her poles and leaned. This time, the skis slid forward smoothly. She stayed upright for three seconds, then five, then ten. Jack skied right beside her, staying close enough to catch her if she tipped over. She didn't tip. She wobbled and her arms flailed like a bird trying to take off, but she stayed on her feet.
"I'm doing it!"
"You are doing it."
When she finally made it to the bottom of the slope, she fell on purpose, lying in the snow and laughing. The cold began to seep through her puffy jacket, but she didn't care. Jack stood over her, shaking his head.
"Get up."
"No."
"We have to go back up."
"Carry me."
"Absolutely not."
She stayed in the snow for another minute before pushing herself up. Her legs ached, her arms ached, and her face hurt from smiling so much.
The second day was even better. She fell less often and began to learn how to turn by leaning her weight to one side and letting the skis follow the lead. Jack taught her to stop by pointing the tips of her skis together to make a pizza slice. She tried it and stopped inches from a tree trunk.
"Good," Jack said. "Now do it again."
She did it again, and then again. By the end of the day, she could ski from the top of the beginner slope to the very bottom without falling once. She was still slow and a bit wobbly, but she remained upright.
. . .
The skating rink was outdoors, nestled between two buildings in the heart of the village. The ice was often rough, chopped up by the morning skaters. But every afternoon, the man who ran the place dragged a hose across it and let the water freeze overnight. By the next morning, it was smooth and glassy again.
Nimue rented a pair of skates that reeked of old leather. The blades were dull and scratched from years of use. She sat on a wooden bench to lace them up, her fingers feeling cold and stiff.
Saoirse glided past her, skating backwards with her hands in her pockets. "You are taking forever."
"The laces are frozen."
"They aren't frozen. You are just slow."
Nimue pulled the laces as tight as she could and stood up. Her ankles wobbled. She grabbed the rail.
"Bend your knees," Saoirse advised. "Don't lock them."
Nimue followed the instruction, and the wobbling stopped. She pushed off, sliding forward with a soft, scraping sound. She made it halfway across the rink before her ankles gave out and she grabbed the rail again.
"Better," Saoirse said. "Now let go."
"I will fall."
"So fall. The ice is soft enough."
Nimue took a breath and let go. She pushed off, found her balance, and glided. Her ankles held firm this time. She made it all the way to the other side without touching the rail once. She turned, pushed off again, and skated back.
Saoirse clapped her hands. "There you go!"
Nimue skated another lap, and then another. Her breath fogged in the crisp air while the mountains rose on all sides, white and majestic against the blue sky. She didn't fall a single time.
. . .
The old woman who owned the chalet was named Marguerite. She had lived there for forty years, ever since her husband died and she moved up from the valley. The chalet belonged to her, and while she rented it to tourists when she needed the money, she mostly lived a quiet life with her cat, her books, and the mountains.
Jane had found her through a recommendation from someone who knew the family. The arrangement was simple. Marguerite would let them stay in exchange for help with the woodpile and clearing the snow. Jack handled the wood, Saoirse took care of the snow, and Jane did the cooking.
Nimue's job was to handle the cat. It was a fat, grey tomcat with one torn ear and a missing claw. It spent most of its time sleeping on the hearth and ignored everyone except Nimue, who made a habit of feeding it scraps of fish.
Marguerite had hair as white as the snow outside and a face creased like old parchment. Her eyes were green, but not a dull or dark shade. They were a bright, luminous green, the exact same colour as Jane's eyes. They were the same colour as Nimue's.
Nimue noticed the resemblance on the second night, when Marguerite sat by the fire with a book. Its pages were yellowed and the binding cracked. She held it close to her face, squinting in the low light. The fire caught her eyes and made them glow like embers.
"Grand-mère," Nimue said. "Your eyes."
Marguerite looked up. "What about them?"
"They are green. Just like Mama's."
Marguerite set the book down on the arm of her chair. She looked at Jane, then back at Nimue. "Your mother didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"I'm an Evans. From the main branch. The château in the Loire Valley."
Nimue frowned. "But you live here. In the mountains."
"I left." Marguerite said it simply, like it was nothing. "A long time ago. I wanted the mountains. The quiet. The snow."
Nimue looked at Jane, who gave a small nod of confirmation.
"She wrote to me years ago, when you were first born." Marguerite continued. "She wanted to know if I still had the chalet and if she could bring you here someday. I said yes. I have been waiting."
Nimue didn't know what to say. She looked at the fire, then at Marguerite's hands, still holding the book.
"So you are family."
"Distant family. But yes, we are."
Nimue sat down on the rug beside the old woman's chair. The cat was already there, curled into a warm grey ball. She touched its fur and felt the heat of the hearth.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I wanted to see if you would notice on your own." Marguerite smiled, her eyes shining bright. "Evans eyes are quite hard to miss."
"How old are you?" Nimue asked.
Marguerite laughed. "Old enough that your great-great-great-grandmother was my baby sister. I was already grown when she was born. She married, had children, those children had children. I stayed here."
Nimue tried to do the math. Great-great-great-grandmother. That was four greats. She didn't know how many years that meant, but she knew it was a lot.
"So you are..."
"Very old," Marguerite said. "Older than this chalet. Older than the village. The mountains were different when I was young. The snow came earlier, stayed longer."
. . .
The hot spring lay behind the chalet, tucked away under a wooden shelter. The water came from deep underground, bubbling up hot and smelling of minerals. Marguerite said it had been there for centuries and that even the Romans had used it.
Nimue didn't know who the Romans were, but she loved the water. It was almost too hot to bear, and the steam rose in thick clouds that smelled of earth.
They went there at night, after dinner, when the sky was dark and the stars were out in full force. Jane went first, followed by Saoirse and then Nimue. Jack stayed inside, reading by the fire.
The water was deep enough to cover Nimue's shoulders when she sat on the stone bench. The heat seeped into her bones, quickly loosening the ache from a day of skiing. She leaned her head back and looked up.
The stars were everywhere. The mountains blocked the village lights, and the sky was so dark that the stars looked thick as salt. The cold air bit at her face while the hot water kept her body perfectly warm.
"This is lovely," Saoirse said. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, too short to stay neat, with damp strands clinging to her skin.
"It's very hot," Nimue noted.
"That's the point, isn't it?"
Jane sat on the other side of Nimue with her eyes closed. The water lapped gently against the stone edge, and a breeze carried the sharp scent of pine needles through the shelter.
"Grand-mère," Nimue said. "She is really family?"
"Distant family," Jane replied. "But yes. The Evans family is vast. We are everywhere."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted you to meet her first. To see her for yourself. The eyes are usually enough of a sign."
Nimue thought about that. She thought about those green eyes, the exact same shade, being passed down through so many generations. She touched her own face, her cold fingers against her flushed cheeks.
"The old woman's eyes are so bright."
"She is an Evans. We tend to keep our colour."
"I like her," Nimue said.
Jane smiled. "I know you do."
. . .
The days blurred together after that. Some mornings began on the ice, others on the slopes, and more than once they traded one for the other before the day was done. Nights were for the hot springs. Nimue's legs ached constantly, but it was a good sort of ache, the kind that meant she was growing stronger.
She learned to skate backwards, though she crashed into a fence the first time. She learned to ski without constantly looking at her feet, keeping her eyes on the mountains instead. She even learned how to build a snow fort that Saoirse couldn't knock down, no matter how hard she kicked.
Marguerite watched them from the window. The cat sat on the sill, its yellow eyes tracking Nimue's every movement.
One afternoon, Nimue came inside with her cheeks flushed crimson and her hair frozen into tiny icicles. Marguerite made her sit by the fire and gave her a mug of hot chocolate: thick and sweet, with a generous dollop of cream on top.
"You are getting tall," Marguerite remarked.
"I'm growing."
"Evans children grow fast. My own daughter was exactly the same. She shot up like a weed."
Nimue drank her chocolate, the cream leaving a white moustache on her upper lip. She wiped it away with with her sleeve.
"Where is your daughter?"
Marguerite's hands suddenly stilled on her knitting. "Gone. It was a long time ago."
Nimue didn't ask anything else. She set her mug down and watched the fire. The cat stretched, then jumped into her lap, heavy and warm.
"I'm sorry," Nimue said quietly.
Marguerite shrugged. "It was a long time ago. I have made my peace with it."
They sat in silence for a while. The fire crackled and the needles began to click again. Nimue stroked the cat's fur, listening to it purr.
"You remind me of her," Marguerite said. "The same eyes."
Nimue didn't know what to say to that, so she just kept stroking the cat.
"She would have liked you," Marguerite added quietly.
. . .
On their last night in the Alps, the sky was clear. Nimue stood on the porch after dinner, her coat pulled tight. The stars were out, thick and bright, and the mountains were nothing but dark silhouettes against the sky.
Jane came out and stood right beside her.
"Tomorrow we go to Paris," Nimue said.
"Tomorrow."
"I don't want to leave."
Jane put her arm around Nimue's shoulders. "We will come back. Marguerite said we could."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Nimue leaned into her mother's side. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but the stars remained steady and unmoved.
"Grand-mère said I remind her of her daughter."
Jane was quiet for a moment. "I know. She told me the same thing."
"What happened to her?"
"She died. It was a long time ago, before you were born."
Nimue thought about that. She thought about Marguerite living all alone in the chalet, waiting for family to visit. She thought about the green eyes passed down through the years and the cat sleeping on the hearth.
"That's exactly why she let us stay," Nimue realised. "Because we are family."
"That's exactly why," Jane said.
Nimue looked up at the stars. They were the same stars she had seen in Normandy, at the farm, and in London. They were the same stars Marguerite saw every single night.
"I'm glad we came here," Nimue said.
Jane squeezed her shoulder gently. "So am I."
. . .
The train left at noon the next day. Marguerite stood on the platform, her white hair stark against the grey sky. The cat wasn't with her; it was back at the chalet, likely sleeping on the hearth.
Nimue gave her a hug. The old woman felt small, smaller than she looked in her chair, her arms thin. But she held on tight.
"Come back," Marguerite said.
"I will."
"When you are older. Bring your mother. Bring your father. I will make you hot chocolate."
Nimue smiled. "With cream?"
"With plenty of cream."
The train whistle blew, and Nimue climbed aboard to find her seat by the window. She pressed her face to the glass as the train began to pull away. Marguerite stood on the platform with her hand raised. She got smaller and smaller until she was just a speck, and then the train turned a corner and she was gone.
Nimue leaned back in her seat. The mountains slid past the window, white and grey and deep blue in the shadows. The sky was pale, the clouds thin.
"Paris," she said.
"Paris," Jane agreed.
The train carried them north toward the city. The mountains faded behind them, and the cold in Nimue's chest was quiet and still. She closed her eyes and slept.
===
I want to clarify something about the Keith family rules for children.
From birth until age two, only parents, grandparents, and god-grandparents are allowed to see them.
At age two, their godparent and immediate family can see them as well.
At age four, the child is allowed to enter the mundane world.
And at age five, after their second magical maturity, they can fully appear and interact within the wizarding world.
Some of you might be wondering why Nimue is doing fine in this arc, even though she's still four, especially when interacting with Hermione, Fleur, Marguerite, and other magical people.
That's because her magical core is already stable enough. It's still not ideal for her to be around too many magical individuals at once, but limited contact is fine. After all, when traveling in the mundane world, there's no way to guarantee she won't encounter magical people.
Also, the closer she gets to five, the more stable her core becomes.
.
I also want to ask something.
About the "pictures" I mentioned before. I explained that the images are in the paragraph comments. For example, if you click or tap the small number next to a name like "Young Aldric," it should open the image.
Can you actually see the pictures when you do that?
Someone mentioned they couldn't see them even after I added that explanation. So I want to check. If most of you can't access them, I'll start putting the images directly in the comment section instead.
If they're working fine for you, then I'll leave things as they are.
Thanks.
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Oh, btw can you guess how old Marguerite is?