Chapter 106: The Art of Keeping Close
Mornings began gently now.
With winter threading through the Langford estate like soft silver lace, Eva had developed a fondness for waking early, not to be productive, not for any particular task, but simply to lie there — half - swaddled in blankets, waiting to hear the hush of Seraphina's footsteps in the hallway.
This morning, she was already in Seraphina's bed, curled like a kitten against her side. It had become a routine — Eva slipping across the garden path before dawn in her house slippers, her little satchel of poetry and ribbons slung over one shoulder.
Seraphina stirred, blinking sleep from her eyes.
"You're early again," she murmured.
Eva, wide awake, nodded solemnly. "I missed you all night."
Seraphina smiled, still not fully risen from sleep. Her arms shifted, weaving around the little body pressed against hers. Eva's curls smelled of rosewater and sleep. A faint coolness clung to her cheeks from her dawn crossing, and Seraphina tucked her closer out of instinct, as if gathering the warmth back into her.
"You saw me at bedtime," she said softly.
"That was hours ago," Eva replied, as though this were the most obvious arithmetic in the world. "I needed to check that you still loved me."
Seraphina let out a breath that was nearly a laugh. "You're impossible."
"I know," Eva whispered, eyes luminous. "But you're mine, aren't you?"
"I'm yours," Seraphina answered. She didn't hesitate. "Always."
That was the covenant they had built, quiet and unquestioned.
They lay there a while longer, Eva tracing idle shapes against Seraphina's shoulder with one finger — stars, hearts, sometimes entire L•••• declensions, until the sun crept pale and golden across the canopy of the bed.
Eventually, Seraphina sat up, brushing her hair over one shoulder. "Come on. Let's get dressed before Maman sees you in yesterday's ribbons again."
Eva flopped dramatically onto her back. "But I like these ribbons. They still smell like your dresser drawer. That's like perfume, only safer."
"You'll smell like dust and cedar."
"I like cedar," Eva insisted, now sitting upright with her arms crossed. "It smells like you when you've been reading too long."
Seraphina leaned in close, cupping Eva's cheeks with both hands. "You're very silly today."
"I'm always silly," Eva whispered. "That's how I keep you close."
Seraphina kissed her forehead. "It's working."
Breakfast was taken in the conservatory — Aunt Vivienne had insisted it be opened for the season, despite the cold. Frost twinkled along the glass panes like lacework, and the room smelled faintly of citrus from the potted lemon trees that lined the walls.
Eva sat perched beside Seraphina on the bench, her plate ignored in favor of composing another stanza in her little green notebook. She wrote with her tongue caught between her teeth, humming faintly, while Mère sipped tea and leafed through the Figaro.
"You haven't eaten your brioche," Maman pointed out mildly from across the table.
"I'm feeding my art," Eva said solemnly.
"She's been feeding that thing for three days," Seraphina muttered, taking a sip of hot chocolate.
Vivienne peeked over. "And has it grown yet?"
"Yes," Eva replied. "It's monstrous now. Like a dragon with golden wings, and it only listens to Ina's voice."
Evelyn sighed. "Well, tell your dragon to eat breakfast first."
Eva obeyed, taking the smallest possible bite of brioche, and immediately leaned against Seraphina's shoulder. "My dragon needs warmth. I think it might be sick."
"Oh?" Seraphina smiled.
"Yes," Eva said. "It coughed in iambic pentameter earlier. That means it's very cultured, but also very fragile."
"You're definitely not getting out of violin practice," Seraphina murmured into her ear.
Eva let out a soft, tragic wail.
Later, in the study, Eva knelt beside Seraphina's desk while the older girl worked through geometry problems. She'd insisted on "helping," which mostly meant coloring diagrams in pink and purple highlighters and dramatically sighing whenever Seraphina ignored her suggestions to draw hearts instead of angles.
"I don't know why you need this," Eva grumbled. "You're already perfect."
"That's not how school works."
"It should be," Eva muttered. "They should just grade you on whether you're beloved."
Seraphina reached down, brushing a curl from Eva's eyes. "In that case, you'd be top of the class."
Eva beamed. "You think so?"
"Highest honors."
Eva promptly climbed into her lap and refused to move until Seraphina had finished the entire page. She hummed tunelessly in her ear and occasionally offered philosophical advice like "Circles are just hugs that never end."
That afternoon, they took a walk beneath the bare - limbed trees, bundled in scarves and coats. Eva had insisted on matching mittens, which Seraphina didn't even own, so she'd tied one of her own scarves around Eva's hand instead and declared it "an eternal tether."
"Now you can't wander off," Seraphina teased.
"I don't wander, I linger," Eva corrected her. "Especially near you."
The winter air was crisp, and Eva's breath fogged the space between them as she whispered her newest invention: a Latin lullaby with nonsense verbs and rhyming endearments.
"Dormias in cor meum," she murmured. "Sleep in my heart."
Seraphina nodded approvingly. "That one's real."
"Good," Eva said. "Then I'll sing it to you tonight."
"You're not sleeping over again."
"But I already packed my toothbrush."
Seraphina laughed and gave in, as she always did.
*****
That evening, the letter came.
Not sealed in wax, not written on fine paper, but crumpled slightly from being shoved into the mailbox with little care. It bore the name Evangeline Claire Ainsley in thick, slanted letters.
Eva stared at it.
Seraphina took it from her gently and opened it first. Her face darkened.
"It's from Adrian Wycliffe," she said flatly.
Eva's nose wrinkled. "The rude boy?"
"He's inviting us to his sister's party again. But he wrote —" Seraphina stopped, jaw tight.
"What did he write?"
Seraphina crumpled the letter. "Nothing you need to see."
Eva was quiet for a moment. "Did he say something bad about me again like last time?"
"He called you a silly girl. He said you hide behind L•••• and think you're clever."
Eva's eyes filled. "But L•••• isn't hiding. It's how I say things."
"I know that."
Seraphina rose, crossed the room, and dropped the letter in the fireplace.
The flames caught quickly.
"Then why did he —"
"Because he doesn't know you," Seraphina said simply. "And he never will. Because you're mine."
Eva stood, fists tight at her sides. "Forever?"
"Forever."
She ran into Seraphina's arms and clung like ivy, like breath, like meaning.
"I don't care if everyone else laughs," she whispered. "They don't have my poems. They don't know your laugh. They don't know how to love you in L•••• and G•••• and songs."
Seraphina hugged her tighter, resting her cheek atop the tangle of curls.
"They never will," she said. "That's our language."
That night, Eva sang her lullaby in a whisper beside Seraphina in bed.
Dormias in cor meum.
Dormias in cor meum.
She stayed awake long after Seraphina had drifted off, watching the rise and fall of her chest, keeping close in the only way she knew how.
Love, after all, was an art.
And Eva? Eva was a master.