The train wound down from the snow-capped mountains all afternoon. Nimue watched the white peaks shrink into the distance, her breath fogging the glass wherever she touched it. She wiped the pane with her sleeve and pressed her face back to the cold glass, determined to miss nothing.
Gradually, the landscape flattened. The deep snow vanished, replaced by bare, frozen fields of brown earth, which eventually gave way to sprawling suburbs. The buildings grew closer together, their walls a uniform soot-stained grey. Their windows were dark against the fading winter light.
"Mama," Nimue said, her voice small. Jane turned to look at her. "Are we there yet?"
"Soon, petite," Jane replied.
The train began to slow, the rhythm of the tracks changing to a heavy, grinding thrum. Nimue pressed her face to the window again, her breath immediately fogging the glass once more.
Outside, the city spread out, low and sprawling under a sky the colour of dull lead. Buildings pressed tightly against one another, their dark shutters closed firmly against the December chill. Stiff, frozen washing hung from a few iron balconies, shivering in the cold air.
Nimue had been watching the transition for the past hour, ever since the majestic mountains had disappeared behind them. The train was warm, perhaps too warm, and she had bunched her puffy blue coat on the seat beside her. Cinder had slept through most of the journey, curled into a tight russet ball against her thigh. His amber eyes flickered open now and then before closing again.
Jane sat across from her with a book open in her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in a long while. Jack sat by the window, watching the grey buildings pass with a quiet, focused intensity, the white streak in his black hair stark in the shadows. Saoirse had leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes, her mouth slightly open.
"We are here," Jane announced as the train slid under the vaulted glass roof of the station.
Nimue turned away from the window, her heart giving a small thump. "Paris?"
"Paris."
The train pulled into the station with a heavy, echoing hiss of steam. The platform was a surging sea of people in thick wool coats dragging heavy suitcases and calling out to one another in rapid fragments of French.
Nimue found she caught most of what was said. The words seemed to settle into her head the same way English had years ago. It didn't feel like she was learning a new language. It felt like she was remembering something she had forgotten.
Jack lifted her down from her seat, and Cinder jumped after her, landing on the floor with a soft click of claws. The cold hit them immediately as they stepped onto the platform, sharper and more honest than the train's warmth. Nimue pulled her coat tight, the hood's fur tickling her chin.
They followed the surging crowd toward the exit. A woman in a heavy wool coat pushed past them, smelling of lavender and old paper. In the distance, the jaunty sound of an accordion echoed near the stone stairs. The air hung thick with the scent of roasted coffee, damp concrete, and cigarette smoke.
Their driver was waiting outside the station doors, holding a white sign with KEITH written in bold black marker. He was a small man with silver-grey hair and a thick moustache that twitched when he spoke. He took their bags without a word and loaded them into a sturdy grey sedan.
"L'appartement est dans le sixième (The apartment is in the sixth)," he said as they pulled away from the kerb. "Près du jardin (Near the garden)."
Jane answered him in fluent, melodic French. The driver nodded and expertly navigated the car into the chaotic, honking flow of Paris traffic.
The city was loud. The streets were narrow and the buildings tall, constructed of pale limestone with dark green or black shutters. Cars lined both sides of every road, and the city felt alive with a nervous, electric movement. A woman pushed a pram across a crossing without a second glance at the traffic, and a man on a bicycle wove daringly between the idling cars.
Nimue watched it all, while Cinder sat on her lap with his nose pressed to the glass and his tail twitching against her knees.
The apartment was on the fourth floor of an old, grand building with a heavy, impressive wooden door that required a massive iron key. The driver carried their bags up the winding stairs, breathing hard by the time he reached the top landing. Jane tipped him with a few notes, and he took his leave with a polite tip of his cap.
The rooms were small but charming, with high ceilings and creaking parquet floors. There was a sitting room with a sagging, comfortable sofa and a kitchen featuring a white gas stove and a small round table. There were two bedrooms: one large and one very small tucked away at the end of the hall. The windows looked out over a central courtyard where bare branches of plane trees scratched against the grey sky.
Nimue immediately claimed the smaller bedroom. The bed was narrow, and the sheets smelled faintly of lavender and starch. She set her green canvas bag on the floor and pulled out the Cold Light stone. It was still freezing, a steady pulse of winter. She tucked it under her pillow.
Cinder jumped onto the bed, turned in two quick circles, and settled down with a contented sigh.
"Hungry," Nimue said, wandering back into the kitchen where the light was dim.
Jane peered into the small refrigerator, the light glinting in her green eyes. "Eggs. Bread. There's some cheese." She pulled out a small, pungent round of cheese that smelled sharp and earthy. "We will go to the market tomorrow. Tonight, we will eat what is here."
Nimue sat at the small kitchen table while Cinder lay at her feet, his nose pointed toward the stove. The apartment was quiet, though she could hear voices drifting up from the courtyard below: a woman calling out a name and a child answering with a high-pitched shout.
Jane scrambled eggs in a pan with plenty of yellow butter, cut thick slices of crusty baguette, and set the cheese out on a wooden board. Dinner was simple and warm. They all ate together at the table, with the muffled, rhythmic sounds of the city drifting up through the window glass.
After dinner, Jane filled the tub. The bathroom was cramped, and the water took a long time to heat up, sending thick clouds of steam fogging the mirror. Nimue sat in the water with her knees drawn up to her chest, watching the grime from the long train journey swirl down the drain in grey eddies.
"Tomorrow we will see the gardens," Jane said, kneeling beside the tub with a soft washcloth.
"What is there?"
"Trees. Paths. A pond where you can sail boats. There might even be ponies."
Nimue looked at her mother, her eyes wide. "Ponies?"
"Small ones. For children to ride."
Nimue didn't say anything, but she let Jane wash her hair and rinse it with a cup of warm water that smelled of citrus.
The bed was soft and welcoming. Cinder jumped up and curled at her feet, a warm weight through the blankets. Through the window, the courtyard was dark, but she could see golden lights in other windows and the silhouettes of people moving behind their lace curtains. Paris was loud in a different way from London. The sounds were softer, less insistent, like a hum rather than a roar.
She fell asleep to the sound of a woman singing a French lullaby somewhere in the building below.
. . .
The morning light was thin and grey, filtering through the shutters. Nimue woke to thin grey light filtering through the shutters and the persistent beep-beep-beep of a truck reversing in the courtyard, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. Cinder was already awake, sitting on her pillow with his ears pricked forward and his amber eyes bright.
She nudged him off and got dressed: the blue puffy coat, the fleece-lined boots, and the woollen hat whose tassel always tickled her neck.
Jane was already in the kitchen, her hair tied back in a practical knot and a pot of coffee steaming on the stove.
"You are up early."
Jane poured milk into a small pan. "Breakfast first. Then we will go."
The others woke slowly. Jack emerged from the bedroom with his shirt untucked and his hair standing up at the back. Saoirse shuffled past them toward the bathroom with a yawn.
Eventually, the kettle went on. They ate bread with thick butter and strawberry jam, and Jane boiled eggs until the yolks ran yellow when Nimue cut into them.
"Ready," Nimue said as soon as she finished the last bite.
The street outside was freezing. The sky remained the same flat grey as the day before, but the air smelled of damp stone and something sweet from the bakery on the corner.
They walked with Jane leading the way through the winding streets. Jack stayed beside Nimue, and Saoirse followed behind with her hands buried in her pockets. Cinder trotted ahead, tail high, then circled back to check on them, then ran ahead again in a restless loop.
The Luxembourg Gardens appeared at the end of a wide, tree-lined path. Tall black iron gates topped with gold stood open, and bare branches stretched like intricate lace against the sky. Gravel paths stretched out in every direction, disappearing into the mist.
Nimue stopped at the entrance, eyes wide. The garden was enormous, much larger than the small park they had visited in London. Paths lined with statues and green metal chairs seemed to go on forever. A man walked past with a folded newspaper under his arm, and a woman sat on a nearby bench feeding breadcrumbs to a frantic flock of sparrows.
In the distance, Nimue spotted a small, circular track. There were four ponies—mottled brown and white—walking in a slow, disciplined circle with children on their backs.
She grabbed Jane's hand, her fingers squeezing tight. "Ponies."
"I see them."
They walked toward the track, where a man in a sturdy blue coat stood by the gate. He had a weathered face and hands that looked like toughened leather.
"Un tour? (A ride?)" he asked, his voice gravelly.
Jane looked down at Nimue. "Do you want to?"
Nimue nodded vigorously, her tassel bobbing.
Jane paid the man a few coins, and he lifted Nimue onto a small, sturdy brown pony. The animal was warm, its heat radiating through Nimue's trousers, and its fur felt rough and oily against her legs. It smelled of manure and damp hay.
"Tenez-vous aux poignées (hold the handles.)," the man instructed, pointing at the saddle.
Nimue gripped the leather loops on the saddle as the pony began to walk. Its hooves made soft, rhythmic thuds on the dirt track as the man led it by a short rope. The garden drifted past her in a slow blur: the bare trees, the green benches, and the large pond in the distance. She saw a woman pushing a pram and a child running after a bright red ball that bounced across the gravel.
The pony completed the circle three times before the man stopped and lifted Nimue back down to the ground.
"Encore?" he asked with a small smile.
Nimue shook her head. She liked the warmth of the animal, but she wanted to see the rest of the gardens.
The pond was octagonal and surrounded by a low stone wall. Children knelt at the edge, using long wooden sticks to push colourful boats across the rippling water. Some had crisp white sails that caught the breeze, while others were simple hulls decorated with tiny, fluttering flags.
"Can I?" Nimue asked, her gaze fixed on the boats.
Jane pointed to a small wooden building near the water. "We can rent one there."
Jack went to the building and returned a moment later with a bright green boat and a long wooden stick. The boat had a small mast and a jaunty red flag that snapped in the wind. Nimue carried it to the water's edge, knelt on the cold stone, and carefully set it afloat. The water looked dark, murky, and very deep.
She pushed the boat with the stick, watching it move slowly away from the wall. She pushed again, and it drifted toward the centre of the pond.
"Use the stick to turn it," Jack advised, kneeling beside her. "Just push on the side of the hull."
She angled the stick and the boat turned obediently to the left. She pushed again, and it moved toward the far edge of the pond. A boy beside her had a blue boat and was intent on ramming hers, his face set in a mischievous grin. She pushed her boat away, but he followed, his blue hull clipping the water.
"Non," she said firmly, giving him a stern look.
The boy simply grinned and pushed his boat faster. Nimue turned her boat sharply, allowing it to slip past his and head toward the opposite wall with a smooth glide.
"Good girl," Jack said, patting her back.
She kept pushing until the boat reached the other side, then walked around the pond to retrieve it. They did this four times until her arms ached from holding the stick and her knees were damp from the cold stone.
Saoirse was sitting on a green metal chair nearby, watching two old men play a silent, intense game of chess. The pieces were wooden and worn smooth by years of play, and the men didn't speak a word; they simply moved a piece and waited with their chins resting on their hands.
"Who is winning?" Nimue asked, leaning against Saoirse's knee.
Saoirse shrugged. "No idea. They have been sitting there like stone statues for twenty minutes."
The playground was located near the north entrance, featuring heavy swings, a seesaw, and a large sandpit with a wooden climbing frame. Nimue ran to the swings first. The metal chains were cold and bit into her palms, but she pumped her legs until the swing went high, her feet reaching for the grey sky.
A girl on the next swing looked a bit older than Nimue, perhaps seven. She had dark braids tied with ribbons and a bright red wool coat, and she was swinging much higher than Nimue, her laughter ringing out.
"Tu es lente (you are slow.)," the girl said, looking over as they passed each other in the air.
Nimue pumped her legs harder, her heart racing with the effort. The swing went higher, the wind whistling past her ears. She wasn't quite as high as the other girl, but she was close enough to see the girl's smile.
"Better," the girl noted as they slowed down.
The seesaw was empty, so Nimue sat on one end and the girl sat on the other. They went up and down in a steady, heavy rhythm, and the girl laughed at the sudden jolts. Nimue didn't quite laugh, but the feeling was there, bubbling warmly in her chest.
The sandpit was a square of grey sand dotted with abandoned plastic buckets and rusted spades. Nimue sat on the wooden edge and watched a younger girl build a castle. The child was perhaps four, with blonde hair and a nose that had gone bright red from the cold. Her castle was lopsided and the damp walls kept crumbling, but she didn't seem to mind the failure. Nimue didn't offer to help; she just watched the quiet, repetitive process of filling and dumping the bucket.
Near the palace, a group of old men played boules on a long gravel court. They stood with straight backs and their hands buried in their pockets, watching the heavy metal balls roll across the stones. One of them threw with a flick of his wrist, and the ball landed with a soft, heavy thud, stopping right near a smaller wooden target ball.
"Bien," one of the men muttered, nodding slowly.
Nimue stood at the iron fence and watched. The men didn't look at her. They were entirely focused on the game, the weight of the balls, the way the gravel shifted under their feet.
"What are they doing?" she asked Jack.
"Playing boules. You have to throw the metal ball as close as you can to the small wooden one."
Nimue watched another man take his turn. His ball landed short and rolled past the mark with a dry crunch. He shook his head and said something in rapid French that Nimue didn't fully understand, though his frustrated tone was clear enough. She watched for ten more minutes, but none of the men acknowledged her presence. They were too busy arguing about which ball was closest.
The bread from breakfast had left a few dry crumbs in the bottom of a paper bag. Jane handed it to Nimue and pointed toward a cluster of grey pigeons gathered near a bench.
"Feed them," she suggested.
Nimue tore off a small piece of bread and threw it onto the gravel. The pigeons didn't move at first, their heads bobbing. She threw another piece, closer this time. One pigeon turned its head, eyed the bread with a glassy eye, and pecked at it. A dozen more arrived in a flurry of feathers, crowding around her boots.
She threw more bread, and the pigeons flapped and jostled for position, their wings making a sound like crumpling paper. A tiny sparrow landed at the very edge of the group, darting in quickly to snatch crumbs before the larger, slower birds could react.
When the bread was gone, Nimue dusted the crumbs from her gloves and stood up. The pigeons scattered with a frantic flapping of wings before settling again a few metres away.
The gravel paths were wide and white, crunching loudly under her boots. Nimue suddenly began to run. She didn't really know why; her legs simply wanted to move after the long train ride.
The cold air burned her pink cheeks, and her breath came in short, white puffs. She ran past a woman pushing a pram, a man walking a small dog, and the old woman feeding the pigeons. The bare trees became a brown blur on either side of her.
Jane didn't call her back, and Jack didn't try to catch her. They simply let her run until she was a small blue speck in the distance.
She stopped at the end of the path, chest heaving. A brown, curled leaf lay on the gravel at her feet. She picked it up and saw that it was dry and brittle, with veins that looked like tiny roads on a map. She tucked it into her coat pocket and walked back to the others, her pace much slower now.
The light was fading by the time they left the gardens. The sky had turned a pale dusty purple, and the streetlights glowed with a soft orange light. Nimue's legs ached and her face was frozen, but her pockets were now full of dry leaves.
The street was busier now, filled with people in heavy coats and colourful scarves rushing home. She saw a woman carrying a fresh, steaming baguette under her arm and a man walking a small dog on a very long leash. Cinder stopped to sniff a lamppost, and Saoirse waited patiently for him to finish, her breath visible in the air.
"Tired?" Jane asked, taking her hand.
Nimue shook her head, though her legs felt heavy and her eyes were starting to droop. Jane took her hand firmly, and they walked back through the winding streets, past the warm, buttery light of the bakery and the shuttered shops.
They climbed the four flights of creaking wooden stairs. The old oak steps were worn smooth in the middle from years of use. Inside, the apartment was still chilly. Jack lit the gas stove, and Jane put the water on for tea.
Nimue sat on the sofa with Cinder in her lap. She pulled the leaves from her pocket and laid them out carefully on the cushion. There were five of them. She touched each one in turn with her finger. The round one was smooth and waxy, while the long one had veins that reminded her of the coastal roads in Normandy.
"What are they?" She asked
Jane came over with a steaming cup of tea, the scent of bergamot filling the air. "Plane tree leaves."
"They are dead."
"They are finished with their work. They fall so that new leaves can grow in the spring."
Nimue looked at her collection and began to line them up by size, starting with the smallest jagged leaf. Then she arranged them by colour, brown on the left and yellow on the right. Cinder leaned forward to sniff the dry leaves and let out a small, muffled sneeze.
Nimue laughed, a small bright sound that filled the room. Jane sat beside her, the tea steaming between her hands, while Jack leaned against the kitchen counter watching them. Saoirse was already asleep on the other end of the sofa, her feet hanging over the armrest.
She picked up the round leaf and held it up to the lamp light. The veins showed through, thin and dark.
"I will keep these," she said.
"In your bag?"
"In the pouch. With the other things."
She tucked them carefully into the pouch at her waist where she kept her treasures. They were flat and sturdy, and wouldn't break as long as she was careful.
Nimue leaned against her mother on the soft sofa. Cinder was a warm, heavy weight on her lap.
"Tomorrow," she said sleepily, "can we see the boats again?"
"If you want."
"And the ponies."
"And the ponies."
Nimue closed her eyes. The apartment was quiet, save for the low hiss of the stove and the distant muffled traffic of Paris. She fell asleep.