Chapter 107: The Langfords' Garden Was Still Her Sanctuary
The Langfords' garden was still her sanctuary.
Even as winter retreated and the first golden blush of spring brushed the estate's hedgerows, the garden remained unchanged in its magic. The old trees sighed with memory, the fountain babbled secrets only Eva could understand, and the stone benches carried the warmth of countless afternoons passed between laughter and poetry.
And Seraphina was always there.
Lounging on a quilt beneath the olive tree, she flipped through books — everything from de Botton to Dickinson — her usual off - shoulder blouses slipping down one arm, her soft linen skirts draped like lazy waves around her legs. Her dark pale red eyes would lift lazily at the sound of tiny slippers crunching on gravel.
"Good afternoon, little one," she'd purr, her tone always affectionate, never mocking.
"Hi, Ina!" Eva would chirp, arms full of things — ribbons, sketchbooks, a new embroidery hoop, or sometimes just herself. "Can I sit?"
"You never have to ask."
And just like that, she'd climb onto Seraphina's lap. Every time.
No hesitation. No shame. Just a child's innocent certainty that this lap was hers.
Seraphina never minded. In fact, she seemed to welcome it, always adjusting her posture to fit Eva more comfortably, draping a shawl around them both if the breeze grew bold.
Sometimes, Eva would point to her lips and pout — a silent demand in the most dramatic fashion.
Seraphina would arch a brow, amused. "What is it now, madame?"
Eva's pout would deepen. "You forgot my kiss."
"Oh no," Seraphina would gasp with theatrical dread, before pecking her lips once, then twice more for good measure. "Tragic mistake. Has the spell broken?"
"I'll consider forgiving you," Eva sighed, melting against her like a swooning heroine. "But only if you kiss my nose too."
Eva's days bloomed with melodies and verses.
She'd begun composing longer pieces on the piano and violin — some mournful, others fiercely joyful. Each note was a living emotion, a tender confession hidden in arpeggios and rests. She no longer played for applause. She played to say I love you, again and again.
One afternoon, beneath the dappled shade of the olive tree, Eva presented Seraphina with a folded piece of parchment. The ink was slightly smudged from her fingers, her handwriting small but precise, deliberate.
She cleared her throat and recited:
"Unda capillorum tuorum—tempestas dulcis,
et ego naufragus laetus in amorem."
"Wave of your hair — a sweet storm,
and I, a happy castaway in love."
Seraphina blinked at the words, then at Eva, and then again at the parchment.
"Did you write this?"
Eva nodded, solemn and proud. "It's about you. Your hair is like waves. I'm happy to drown."
Seraphina chuckled softly, then gathered her into her arms, planting a kiss to her temple. "You're quite the poet, my Eva."
"I only write what's true," Eva murmured, nuzzling closer, "Even if it sounds too big."
Seraphina brushed a curl from her face. "No love is ever too big for me to hold."
Some days, they did nothing but lie there.
Seraphina would braid flowers into Eva's curls while Eva invented words in dead languages and pretended to know them deeply. She'd bring out her mother's French perfume and dab a bit onto her wrists, then offer her arms to Seraphina dramatically.
"Kiss them," she'd say. "Or the spell won't work."
Seraphina, with great solemnity, obeyed. "What does the spell do?"
"It makes you love me forever."
"I think it's already working."
Eva beamed. "I knew it."
Later, while sipping peach juice from a teacup too big for her hands, Eva asked, "Do you think I could make tea like Mère someday?"
"Of course," Seraphina replied.
So Eva tried.
It was her first time making tea from scratch — selecting the herbs herself, measuring with great care, her tongue between her teeth in concentration. She nearly dropped the honey jar, but caught it just in time with a triumphant giggle.
When she finally brought the cup to Seraphina, her eyes were wide with nerves. "Do you like it?"
Seraphina took a sip. Then paused. Then another.
"This is… incredible."
Eva gasped. "Really?"
"I'd trade all my books for another cup."
Eva clapped her hands and danced in place. "Then I'll make it every day!"
The sun cast a golden hue over the garden as they sat beneath the old oak tree. Seraphina's auburn hair shimmered in the light, catching Eva's attention as always.
"You shine like the sun," Eva said softly, head resting on Seraphina's lap.
Seraphina raised an eyebrow. "Then what are you, little poet?"
Eva giggled. "A moonbeam. I follow you everywhere."
She pulled out her notebook and began to pen another poem, this one longer, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
Pallor rubens in pupilla tua,
ignis frigore tectus, me allicit.
Saepe in nocte, cum somnus fugit,
te memoro, lumen dulce, ne obliviscar.
Amor meus, ut flamma sine timore,
te sequitur in diem et noctem.
Non vacillat cor meum, nec umbra metuit.
Lucem tuam amplector sine fine.
Reddish pallor in your pupil,
a fire covered by frost, it lures me.
Often at night, when sleep flees,
I remember you, sweet light, lest I forget.
My love, like a fearless flame,
follows you through day and night.
My heart does not falter, nor does it fear the shadow.
I embrace your light without end.
Seraphina read each line carefully, her eyes misting.
"You're not just writing poems, Eva. You're leaving pieces of your soul on paper."
Eva touched her chest. "Then I hope it's a good soul."
Seraphina kissed her brow. "The best one I've ever known."
Then, with a flick of mischief, Eva tilted her face up and tapped her lips with a single finger.
Seraphina smiled knowingly and pecked her lips. "For the brave poet."
*****
The chill of the late afternoon crept in, and Seraphina wrapped them in the old garden shawl. They sat in comfortable silence, broken only by the scratch of Eva's pencil and the rustle of leaves.
Suddenly, Eva stirred.
"Ina… do you think love is a kind of promise?"
Seraphina tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
Eva frowned, thoughtful. "Like… when I love you, is it a promise I'll never stop? Even if I'm six now and a hundred later?"
Seraphina paused. "Yes, I think it can be. A kind of promise made with the heart."
"Then I've already promised." Eva reached up, wrapping her arms around Seraphina's neck. "Forever."
Seraphina closed her eyes, holding her close. "And I accept."
Eva's introspection deepened with each passing day.
Her music changed subtly — less showy, more sincere. Her poems, though still romantic, began to reflect the delicate ache of growing. She was starting to understand that love wasn't just a warm lap or a forehead kiss — it was longing, distance, the hunger to be known and the joy of being held.
One crisp morning, after breakfast at the Langford veranda, she slipped Seraphina a longer parchment scroll, tightly tied with a silk ribbon. Seraphina untied it slowly.
Amor meus non timet flammae coloris,
nec fluctus capillorum rubentium.
Oculus tuus, ut lacuna secreta,
speculum est mentis meae.
Cum in tenebris ambulo,
memini te, candela in manu.
Et si vox tua desit,
in corde meo resonas.
Tu mihi es aurora,
et ego, infans aurorae,
sequor te in diem qui nondum est.
My love does not fear the color of flames,
nor the waves of reddening hair.
Your eye, like a secret lagoon,
is a mirror of my mind.
When I walk in darkness,
I remember you, a candle in hand.
And if your voice is absent,
you echo in my heart.
You are my dawn,
and I, the child of dawn,
follow you into the day not yet born.
Seraphina sat in silence for a moment, letting the verses settle around her.
"I don't know what I did to deserve poetry like this," she whispered.
Eva leaned in close. "You were kind to me. That's what started it."
Seraphina laughed through her tears. "Then I'll keep being kind forever."
"Good," Eva said decisively. "Because I'm not stopping either."
That evening, just before supper, they lingered in the garden despite the chill. Maman called for Eva once or twice, but she stayed nestled in Seraphina's coat, arms tucked around her middle.
"Ina, do you think I'll change too much?"
Seraphina shook her head slowly. "I think you'll grow, but the heart of you? That stays."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Eva tilted her head up, her lips already puckered.
Seraphina grinned. "Ten kisses again?"
"No," Eva said solemnly. "Eleven. Because I missed one yesterday."
And so Seraphina kissed her — eleven soft kisses on both cheeks, each counted aloud in dramatic whispers.
"One… two… three… all the way to eleven," Eva whispered back, smiling with her eyes closed.
Later that night, after her bath and bedtime tea, Eva lay in bed clutching one of Seraphina's scarves. It smelled like her body wash or perfume — rosewater and jasmine, with a whisper of cedar.
She whispered aloud, to no one and everyone:
"The garden was mine,
because Ina was there."
And then she drifted to sleep, dreaming of olive trees, poems, and arms that always opened.