Chapter 112: Where Her Heart Sleeps
The Ainsley's estate had never felt quieter than the week after Eva's parents left.
Not because anyone spoke less mére — Aunt Vivienne was still brisk and teasing, the staff moved like clockwork, and Seraphina's younger cousins often visited for fencing practice in the back garden — but because Eva herself, once a hummingbird of chatter and breathless facts, had gone mostly silent.
She understood now. Her parents weren't coming back for a long time.
That morning, she had watched from the window as the car disappeared down the lane, her little face pale and serious. Seraphina had wrapped her arm gently around her and asked, "Are you alright?"
Eva had nodded, but her eyes hadn't moved from the gravel drive. Not until the car was gone.
That night, she cried soundlessly into Seraphina's shirt, curled so tightly on her lap that it was difficult to tell where one girl ended and the other began. Her fingers clutched Seraphina's blouse like she was trying to fuse into her. And in the hush of the bedroom, Seraphina simply held her and stroked her hair, her voice silent but her presence unwavering.
Mére — Aunt Vivienne had stood at the door, quietly recording the scene on her phone, one hand pressed to her lips to hide the grin. The video would later be sent to Evelyn with the caption:
"The Langford daughter has become one with our daughter. We've lost custody to an eleven - year - old."
But Eva didn't stay broken. She transfigured.
It wasn't a cheerful rebound. Nor the stoicism of denial. It was something deeper, stranger — like she had been tipped fully into her truest form. More attached. More aware. Her sweetness became more aching, like it was laced with a longing too large for her frame. It wrapped tighter around Seraphina, like ivy around a column — steadfast, stubborn, and always reaching for the light.
She still attended her lessons. Still mastered everything her tutors could offer.
She still practiced violin daily, and balanced that with time composing melodies on the baby grand in the east salon. She had started setting her L•••• verses to music — matching rhythm with breath, harmony with hope. Her poems had grown longer, more intricate, shaded with melancholia that hadn't existed before.
And she still trained.
Her Papa had ensured it. Advanced fencing three days a week, private self-defense on the other two. The schedule never faltered. Eva, always with her long lashes and untied shoes, obeyed with quiet discipline — despite hating every minute of the drills that bruised her body and stiffened her shoulders.
She didn't love the footwork. Or the jabs. Or the pressure. But she did it anyway.
Because somewhere inside, she still wanted him to say, "I'm proud of you."
But then there was Seraphina.
Seraphina's fencing was different. When her cousins came over, their practice matches in the back garden were unstructured, almost wild. There was a musicality to it — fluid, fierce, poetic. Not a drill, not a test. Seraphina moved like firelight, like something half - story and half - storm.
Eva would perch in the window seat or sit cross - legged in the grass, watching with wide eyes and a silent heartache she couldn't name.
Her lessons made her stronger. But Ina's swordplay made her dream.
Sometimes, after training, Eva would show Seraphina a new bruise and say, "It hurts here."
And Seraphina would kiss it gently. "You're very brave."
"But I don't want to be brave," Eva would murmur. "I want to be yours."
One morning, while Seraphina was reading under the linden tree, Eva came wordlessly and nestled into her lap. Her small frame was warm and solemn, her curls still damp from fencing drills. She smelled like lavender and sweat and longing.
"Ina," she whispered, "can I read you something?"
"You always can."
From the folds of her sketchbook, Eva pulled out a poem. She read softly, voice steady like a siren:
"Cor meum in nocte errat,
quaerit flammam tuam in somniis.
Vocem tuam sequitur inter umbras,
donec aurora te mihi reddat."
My heart wanders in the night,
searching for your flame in dreams.
It follows your voice through shadows,
until dawn returns you to me.
Seraphina didn't answer right away.
She simply kissed Eva's forehead and let her lean in closer, stroking the edge of her cheek with reverence.
"You always write me poems," Seraphina murmured.
"Because you're my muse," Eva whispered.
Seraphina laughed, lips brushing her temple. "You little romantic."
"Say it again," Eva said.
"What?"
"That I'm yours."
"You are," Seraphina said, barely audible. "You always are."
Despite the ache in her chest, Eva bloomed.
Vivienne, amused and unrepentant, began letting her read through real financial reports. It had started as a game — "Which stock, little oracle?"— and evolved into something unsettlingly prophetic. Eva would peer at charts, frown with concentration, then mutter, "Too much volatility. Exit at 4%," and scamper off to have biscuits with honey.
Vivienne tracked it all. Secretly moved money. Opened an account in Eva's name. Used the rest of the profits on music books, rare inks, and tiny gifts Eva thought appeared by magic.
It was their secret. Just like the poems. Just like Seraphina.
There were afternoons when Eva would fall asleep mid - rhyme, draped over Seraphina's legs, her notebook clutched like a talisman. Vivienne would stroll past, grin, and film them again.
"She's not even pretending anymore," she texted Evelyn. "Our daughter skipped naptime just to stare at Seraphina breathing."
One gray day, Eva woke from a nap on the chaise, her cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. The house was quiet.
She padded barefoot through the hall until she heard humming — Seraphina's voice, soft and warm like a lullaby. Eva pushed open the library door.
"Ina."
Seraphina looked up. "Hello, sweetheart."
Without a word, Eva walked over and climbed into her lap, straddling her waist. She buried her face against Seraphina's neck.
"Did you think I was leaving?" Seraphina teased.
Eva nodded. "I dreamed it. That Maman and Papa were taking me. You waved. But you didn't run."
Seraphina's arms locked around her.
"That will never happen," she said.
"I would've screamed," Eva whispered. "And kicked. And bitten."
She sniffled into Seraphina's shirt.
"Would you like to write something?" Seraphina asked. "Sometimes writing helps."
Eva pulled the miniature leather notebook from her hip, scribbled a few lines, frowned, scratched them out. Then rewrote.
When she was done, she held it out.
"Noli me relinquere, flamma mea,
etiam si caelum cadat in mare.
In tenebris, solum tu ardes,
et sine te, etiam lux est nox."
Do not leave me, my flame,
even if the sky falls into the sea.
In darkness, only you burn,
and without you, even light is night.
Seraphina read it slowly. Then again. Then leaned forward and kissed her.
"You are more than I ever expected," she whispered.
Eva's lip trembled. "And you're all I ever want."
By the time summer faded, Eva's days found their rhythm — fencing drills and bruises, self - defense she despised, L•••• poems and piano improvisations, secret trades with Mére — Aunt Vivienne, and her eternal seat in Seraphina's shadow.
Every evening, she found her way to her Ina.
One night, dragging her pillow behind her, she climbed into Seraphina's bed. She didn't ask.
She just curled into her, her tiny frame fitting perfectly in the crook of her arm.
"Ina," she whispered. "Will you still be here when I'm grown?"
"I'll always be here."
Eva searched her face in the dark. "Promise?"
Seraphina kissed her knuckles. "Promise."
And in the hush, where moonlight traced silver bars across the floor, Eva pressed her lips to the warmth of Seraphina's neck and whispered:
"Then I'll never be alone."