Chapter 108: The Language of Fire
Time passed, but the ache did not.
Eva was six now — more eloquent, more confident, more deliberate in the way she adored Seraphina. But that ache — the strange, glowing warmth in her chest — only deepened with every month, every look, every moment spent tucked beneath her Ina's arm.
She had become a melody with only one listener.
And Seraphina? Seraphina, just turned eleven and composed, never brushed her off. Never laughed at her declarations. She only listened, gently, the way one holds the fragile wings of a moth.
The Langfords' estate shimmered under late spring light. Roses ran riot along the stone borders. Wisteria trailed like lilac veils from the wrought iron arches. The wrought iron fences wore creeping jasmine like perfume. Their estates weren't mere houses — they were gardens stitched together by childhood and fortune, two neighboring homes with winding paths that felt like shared veins between hearts.
Eva — barefoot in the garden, wearing white stockings and a pale lavender pinafore — held a small leather book in her arms. Her hair was brushed and braided, but already wisps had escaped to kiss her cheeks.
Inside the book: her newest poems.
Written in L••••, of course. Because E•••••• couldn't hold it all. Not the way she felt for Seraphina.
Seraphina had scaled back the grueling regimen of her earlier training, but still woke at five for kickboxing or boxing drills three times a week. She swam laps in the Langford pool nearly every afternoon, her limbs long and sleek in motion. Every third day, she ran the garden paths with Eva skipping beside her or waiting at checkpoints with water bottles and cheers. Fencing had become their shared pursuit — an elegant game of steel and timing. Seraphina trained to be stronger not just for herself, but so she could guide Eva one day, gently and precisely.
Today, though, she reclined on a quilt beneath the olive tree, a novel folded in her hands, the breeze softening her expression. Her shoes were off. Her blouse unbuttoned at the collar. Her limbs loose and stretched in the dappled shade.
And when she saw Eva, her lips curved into that slow, familiar smile.
"There's my darling shadow."
Eva didn't respond with words. She rushed forward, dropped the book beside her, and climbed onto her lap without asking.
Her arms wrapped around Seraphina's waist. Her cheek pressed to her chest. Her breath slowed, like the world no longer demanded attention.
"I wrote something," she murmured. "For you. Just this morning."
Seraphina set her book aside and brushed a hand through Eva's braid. "Did you?"
Eva opened her notebook between them and flipped past crossed-out stanzas until she found the page. She didn't read it aloud — she recited it, low and reverent, whispering against Seraphina's collarbone as if conjuring a charm:
"Ignis in corde sine nomine vivit,
tactus levis flammae tuae sopit timorem.
Osculum tuum — signum aeternitatis,
et ego, captiva in luce tua, libenter ardeo."
A fire lives in my heart without a name,
the soft touch of your flame soothes all fear.
Your kiss — a sign of eternity,
and I, captive in your light, gladly burn.
She glanced up, watching Seraphina's lashes flutter.
"That's beautiful," Seraphina said softly after a moment.
Eva didn't lift her head. "You make me write things like that."
"Do I?"
"You're always in my poems."
"I think I'm very lucky, then."
Eva sat up slightly and straddled her lap properly, arms hooked around her neck now. Her eyes were wide and serious, their usual spark quieted by intensity.
"You're not just in them. You are them. If you didn't exist, my poems wouldn't either."
It was such a dramatic thing to say. Saturated with sincerity. The kind of line that would sound absurd on anyone else's lips.
But Seraphina didn't laugh.
She only tilted her head and asked, "May I hear another?"
Eva flipped the page immediately. She didn't need coaxing — only proximity.
"Sub nocte, cum omnes dormiunt,
vigilat cor meum in memoria tua.
Capilli tui, flamma noctis—
oculi tui, fenestrae ad misericordiam."
Beneath the night, when all others sleep,
my heart stays awake in your memory.
Your hair, a flame of midnight —
your eyes, windows into mercy.
"I couldn't sleep last night," Eva added quietly. "I was thinking about you. I missed you."
"I was just across the garden," Seraphina replied, brushing a curl from her forehead. "You could've come."
"I wanted to. I stood by the path for a little while," Eva whispered. "But the lights were off, and Mère said I shouldn't sneak over."
"And what do you think?" Seraphina asked gently.
"I think I'll sneak over if I want to," Eva murmured. "Because I love you."
"I still missed you."
Her voice was growing thinner now, like sugar dissolving in water. Her eyes shimmered in the late spring light. That ache again — bright and wild and too large for her small frame.
"I wanted to sleep in your bed again. But Mère — Aunt Vivienne — said I shouldn't cling too much."
"And what do you think?" Seraphina asked gently.
"I think I'll cling if I want to," Eva whispered. "Because I love you."
Then — like breath drawn in with too much feeling — she buried her face in Seraphina's neck and let herself dissolve into silence.
There were no answers to this kind of love. No map. No manual. Only the sound of a child's sigh. The warm weight of her devotion wrapped around the one person who never asked her to shrink.
Later that week, Eva's violin was tuned. Her piano bench was properly adjusted. Her ink - stained fingers curled around freshly penciled staves.
She had begun composing — not just in words, but in music.
Every composition — every phrase, every bow stroke — was for Seraphina.
After a long lesson, she burst into the drawing room where Seraphina sat curled up with a textbook.
"Ina! Ina! Come, please — come listen!"
Seraphina set her book down without question. "What is it?"
"I finished something new," Eva said, eyes glittering. "But you have to sit close. You have to hear it the right way."
She dragged her by the hand to the music room, climbed onto the piano bench, and sat with a flick of her braid. Her sheet music waited like a confession.
Seraphina settled beside her, attentive.
Eva placed her hands on the keys and began to play.
It was slow — melancholy, blooming like violets in dusk. The melody swayed gently, echoing her emotions: a quiet plea in musical form.
Then her voice followed, soft and high:
"Lumen tuum — arcus super mare caliginis,
in quo anima mea se ponit sine metu.
Flamma flava, lenis ut flos,
tu es somnium quod oculos meos non relinquit."
Your light — a rainbow over a sea of fog,
in which my soul rests without fear.
Golden flame, soft as a flower,
you are the dream my eyes refuse to leave.
When the piece ended, Seraphina didn't clap.
She reached across and tucked a strand of Eva's hair behind her ear. Then kissed her temple.
"Thank you," she said, as if Eva had gifted her something sacred.
That night, Eva couldn't sleep again. She sat up in bed, arms around her knees, staring at the moonlight spilling across the floor.
Her notebook lay beside her. She opened it and began to write. Slowly, sleepily — like a child reciting a prayer she didn't want to forget.
"Si nox vocaret me sine te,
audirem solum vacuitatem.
Sed vox tua — etiam in somnis —
trahit me ad pacem sicut cantus angelorum."
If the night called me without you,
I would hear only emptiness.
But your voice — even in dreams —
draws me to peace like the song of angels.
She fell asleep with the page open across her chest.
The next morning, Mère — Aunt Vivienne — found her in the drawing room, curled in an armchair with her notebook balanced on her knees.
"Still writing, little moon?" she asked with a smirk, lifting her coffee.
Eva didn't look up. "Yes."
"New odes to your beloved Seraphina?"
"She's not my beloved," Eva replied flatly, cheeks tinged pink.
"Oh?"
"She's my everything."
Vivienne laughed, shaking her head. She made a mental note to text that quote to Evelyn. "If you ever run out of metaphors," she teased, "you could always just marry her."
"I will," Eva said, without blinking.
Vivienne paused. "…What?"
"I'm going to marry Ina when I'm big. I decided already."
Vivienne burst out laughing and wandered off, muttering, "Well. God help Seraphina then."
Days later, more poems appeared. Folded into the pages of Seraphina's books. Scribbled in margins. Left under her pillow. Read aloud in the warm hush of late evenings.
Eva, ever dramatic, ever full of love, never ran dry.
"Sub risu tuo latet sol verus,
qui glaciem cordis mei effundit.
Te videre est iterum nasci,
et manere in luce, sine fine."
Beneath your smile hides the true sun,
which melts the ice of my heart.
To see you is to be born again,
and to remain in the light, without end.
And Seraphina, never mocking, never impatient, always listened.
Because even if she didn't know the name for it —
She understood the language.
And it burned beautifully.