The first week in Paris blurred into a cycle of biting mornings and long walks through the limestone-grey streets.
Nimue soon learned to recognise the distinct sounds of the city from their fourth-floor window. There was the low subterranean rumble of the metro beneath the pavement, which made the floorboards hum. There was the high-pitched voice of a woman calling to her dog in the courtyard. And there were the deep resonant bells of a nearby church, marking hours she couldn't yet name.
She grew fond of the bakery on the corner, which always smelled of toasted yeast, melting butter, and caramelised sugar. The woman behind the glass counter had silver-grey hair tied in a tight bun and a single gold tooth that flashed when she smiled. Every morning, Nimue went with Jane to buy fresh warm baguettes. The baker always gave her a small cookie, round and dry, dusted with a fine layer of powdery sugar that clung to her gloves.
The Luxembourg Gardens became a familiar sanctuary. She memorised the weight of the heavy iron gates, the rhythmic crunch of the white gravel, and the scraping sound of the green metal chairs as people dragged them across the paths to find the sun.
She watched the old men sail their wooden boats on the pond with the same quiet concentration she had seen on Aldric's face at the manor when he read his books. On weekdays, the pony track stood empty and quiet, but by Saturday, the air was crowded with the shouts of children and the smell of damp hay.
She even learned to navigate the metro, though the tunnels were loud and stiflingly hot, smelling of ozone-free electricity and old wool. The heavy doors always closed too fast, snapping shut with a violent hiss. Jack had carried her down the steep stone stairs the first time. After that, Nimue insisted on walking herself, though her hand always held his fingers in a tight grip.
The Seine was a broad ribbon of grey, slow-moving water. One afternoon they walked along the quay, where men were selling old books from weather-worn green boxes. Nimue touched the cracked spines of the books as they passed, frustrated that she couldn't yet read some of the elegant French titles.
"Your mother used to walk here when she was young." Jack's hands were deep in his pockets as he watched the current.
Nimue looked at Jane, who was staring out at the water, her green eyes far away. "What did she do?"
"She studied. She walked. She ate a lot of bread." Jack gave a small, private smile. "The same things we are doing now, really. Nothing changes."
They crossed a stone bridge where the wind whipped off the river, stinging Nimue's skin. She pulled her hood up to shield her face from the spray. The cathedral of Notre-Dame was hidden behind a massive cage of metal scaffolding, under renovation.
Nimue stood in the square to look up at the dark weathered stone and the shadowed windows, hollow as empty sockets.
"It's very old," Nimue noted, feeling the weight of the building in her chest.
"Incredibly old," Jane agreed, her hand resting on the girl's shoulder.
Nimue didn't ask exactly how many years had passed. She could feel the weight of the history for herself, rooted deep in the island's rock.
. . .
Life in the apartment remained modest and quiet. The rooms were small, the narrow bed smelled of lavender, and the gas stove let out a long hiss every time Jack lit the blue burner. Cinder eventually found a spot on the sagging sofa where the afternoon sun hit the cushions. He claimed it as his own, his russet fur glowing in the light.
By the fifth day, the novelty of the city had settled into the ordinary. The streets were still strange, but Nimue knew which way to turn at the corner, and the woman at the bakery already knew her order. Even the man at the cheese shop had started calling her "la petite anglaise" and let out a hearty laugh every time she visited to point at the sharpest cheddar.
. . .
On the morning of the ritual, Jane cleared the kitchen table, moving slowly and deliberately.
It was the same table they used for every meal: round, wooden, and scarred with knife marks and water rings. She pushed the chairs against the plaster wall and spread a clean, starch-white cloth over the surface.
Jack checked that the windows were locked and the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the morning light. He raised his wand, traced a sharp pattern in the air, and spoke a quiet word. The air shifted, and the muffled sounds of the Paris street vanished into a heavy, artificial silence.
"Silencing charm," Jack explained, his voice oddly flat in the protected space. "No one will hear a thing."
Nimue sat on the sofa with Cinder in her lap, stroking the fox's soft ears as the air in the room grew heavy and still. Saoirse brought the box from the bedroom. It was the small dark wooden one that came with the Cold Light stone.
Jane opened the lid to reveal a delicate glass vial. It caught the dim lamplight and reflected it in colours Nimue had no names for: a shimmering violet that shifted to silver, a cold blue, and a white so brilliant it almost hurt to look at.
"Phoenix Astra Gelida," Jane whispered, her accent thick with French. "The Starlight Phoenix."
Nimue watched the light move inside the glass like trapped lightning. Jane set the vial beside a white ceramic bowl and began to mix the base liquid just as she had done twice before. When she added the essence, the liquid didn't change colour. It remained clear, but the light within it shifted. It was like looking at the sky on a moonless night, when the stars are the only things visible in the vast darkness.
"It's the same as before," Jane said softly, her eyes meeting Nimue's. "Lie down."
Nimue climbed onto the table, feeling the cool crisp cloth under her hands. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, where a thin jagged crack in the plaster caught her eye. She had never seen it before.
Jane dipped her brush, and the liquid felt piercingly cold as it touched Nimue's skin. It wasn't the biting, aggressive cold of the Glacial or the silent, heavy cold of the Void. This was different. It felt like standing outside on a clear night, looking up into the infinite shivering space between worlds.
"Nous appelons la lumière qui tombe du ciel," Jane intoned, her voice echoing. "L'étoile qui meurt et renaît. La clarté qui brille sans chaleur."
(We call the light that falls from the sky. The star that dies and is reborn. The clarity that shines without heat.}
The cold spread outward from Nimue's chest in sharp, crystalline waves. It wasn't heavy or silent; it was piercingly clear and fast. It felt like the air after a great mountain storm, when everything had been washed clean and the world stretched clear in every direction.
Nimue's breath fogged in the air. The room wasn't actually cold; the warmth from the gas stove was still there. But her breath came out in thick white clouds that lingered. The light in the room changed, and the walls seemed to vanish into darkness. It wasn't the darkness of closed eyes, but the dark of a sky far from the lights of any city, the kind that makes the stars look close enough to touch.
She saw a bird. Its feathers were black, but not the black of a shadow. It was the black of the empty space between stars, a void so deep it seemed to drink the light around it. Yet, at the very edges of its wings, the feathers caught something: violet, silver, and a blue that burned with a frozen intensity. The bird wasn't flying. It was falling, moving silently and slowly like a dying star.
Then, it opened its eyes. They were the exact colour of the liquid in the vial: clear, piercing, and full of ancient, cold light.
The vision broke as swiftly as it had begun. The room returned to her in a rush of heat: the crack in the plaster, the hiss of the stove, and Jane's warm solid hand on her cheek.
"Nimue."
She blinked and found her face wet and cold. She didn't know when she had started crying.
"It was falling," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The bird. It was falling from the sky."
Jane's hand didn't move, her green eyes searching Nimue's face. "Did it hurt?"
"No." Nimue touched her cheek. Her tears were frozen. "It was beautiful."
Jane looked over at Jack, who was standing by the window with his back to the wall and his hands buried in his pockets.
"She is compatible," he said, his voice quiet and sure.
The cold lived inside her now. There were three of them: the Glacial in her chest, heavy and still; the Void in the spaces between her thoughts, light and waiting; and now, the Starlight. This one wasn't in her chest or the spaces. It lived behind her eyes, sharp and clear, making her feel as if she could see through the very walls of the apartment if she tried.
She sat up, but the room tilted sharply to the left. Jane caught her by the shoulder, steadying her.
"Rest," Jane urged. "Dors, ma chérie (sleep, my dear)."
Nimue lay back down and traced the crack in the ceiling with her eyes. The cold behind her eyes didn't fade; it stayed there, and when she closed them, she saw stars blooming in the dark.
. . .
She woke later on the sofa, the light in the room now a dusty gold. Cinder was resting on her chest with his chin on her collarbone, his amber eyes wide and alert. The light through the window was lower now, well into the afternoon. She had slept much longer than she meant to.
Jane was in the kitchen, and the smell of hot soup, onions, carrots, and something savoury and rich, filled the flat. Nimue sat up slowly, and Cinder slid off her lap to land on the floor with a soft thump of his paws.
"Lunch," Jane said. "Come along."
The kitchen table was already set again. The white cloth was gone, the chairs were back in their places, and the vial was nowhere to be seen. Nimue climbed into her chair, feeling as though her legs and arms were made of lead. Her head, however, felt light, as if it might float away if she didn't keep a firm grip on the table's edge.
Jack placed a bowl in front of her, full of bright orange soup with floating bits of carrot. She picked up her silver spoon, but her hand shook. The soup was hot and tasted of salt, pepper, and fresh herbs. She managed three slow spoonfuls before her head began to dip and the spoon clattered against the bowl.
"Nimue."
She tried to lift her head, but it felt too heavy, as if the starlight in her eyes had gained weight. "I'm eating," she insisted, though the words came out slow and slurred.
Jane gave a small warm laugh. "You are falling asleep, darling."
"No, I'm not."
She tried to lift the spoon again with a determined frown, but the soup spilled over the side, and a hot drop landed on her hand. She didn't even feel the heat of it. Her head dipped again, and this time, it didn't come back up.
She heard her mother say something in French, and her father and aunt offered quiet, muffled replies, but the words blurred into a single, distant hum like the metro. Her cheek pressed against the cool scarred wood of the table, and with the spoon still gripped in her hand, she fell into a deep sleep.