James came behind her, tall and lanky, carrying a thermos of leek soup that Steph swore was made with "actual care and not just panic." He set it on the stove to warm. "Smells like Peter's been at the Welsh cakes," he said, sniffing the air. "I can already taste defeat."

Peter's uncle arrived next, announcing himself with a trumpet sound made with his own lips and a bag of marshmallows raised in triumph like a flag. He swept in with the energy of someone who'd been awake for hours already.

"For the barbecue," he said solemnly to Papa, setting the marshmallows on the table with ceremony. "Or the fire. Or to keep the sheep happy. I haven't decided yet."

Papa grinned. "Last time you said the sheep were vegetarian."

"They are. But they're optimists. They hope."

The door opened again, letting in a gust of cold air. Peter's parents arrived together, his father tall and stern-eyed, his coat buttoned to the neck, but his hands already extended in warm welcome. His mother followed, her own scarf fluttering like a bird, a large tin of something warm clutched to her chest. When she saw Tima, her face softened.

"There's my little daffodil," she said, setting down the tin to kneel to Tima's level. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small golden daffodil, freshly picked, and tucked it gently behind Tima's ear. "For St David's Day. You wear the cennin, you remember. That's what my mother taught me. Did you sleep through the storm, or did it wake you?"

Tima leaned against Papa slightly. "Scared. But Papa said the stars were listening."

Peter's mother reached out and tucked a strand of Tima's hair behind her ear. "The stars are always listening. You're a smart girl to remember that."

"Well now," Peter's father said from inside, stepping to the side and out of the flow of people. "It smells like someone's trying to out-bake my wife."

"Impossible," Peter called from the kitchen. "I merely stand on the shoulders of giants."

Tima's eyes got big. "Eira! Eira!"

There was Eira, cheeks flushed from the cold wind, her bright scarf trailing like a ribbon behind her. She broke into a grin when she saw Tima.

"Tima!" she shouted, and the two of them collided in a hug, suddenly absorbed in that way only best friends can be, whispering something urgent about fairy doors and daffodils—though to them they were cennin, yellow cennin, the flowers that meant spring and St David's Day were here.

Behind Eira came her parents, shaking off the cold.

Tima grabbed Eira's hand and they ran before anyone could ask them to help with coats. "Decorations! We make decorations!" Tima shouted, already being pulled by Eira toward the living room. Eira was already planning, already had the big ideas—her voice carrying back through the cottage about "the best daffodils ever" and "we'll make them talk."