Chapter 66: And the Quiet Was Not Still
Eva woke slowly.
The sheets smelled like pale lavender and summer grass. The room was dim, touched only by early light leaking through gauzy curtains. Her small body shifted beneath the linen coverlet, and she blinked as her gaze adjusted to the softness around her.
This wasn't her bed.
It was Ina's.
She knew it by the warmth that lingered in the pillow beside her, by the faint scent of ink and wildflowers, and by the delicate hum of quiet that always seemed to hover around Seraphina's room like a breath half-held.
She turned her head and saw her.
Seraphina was sitting near the headboard, knees drawn up beneath her, reading in silence. Her long auburn hair spilled like paint across one shoulder, catching threads of light in its waves. Her pale red eyes flicked toward Eva once—and in that glance, a small, rare smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Eva's cheeks flushed immediately. Not brightly, but enough to feel warm behind her ears.
"Ina…" she murmured sleepily.
Seraphina tilted her head. "You're awake."
Instead of responding, Eva scooted closer, dragging the blanket with her until she was near enough to crawl—straddling her lap as easily as if she were climbing a favorite tree. She wrapped her arms around Seraphina's neck and nuzzled in, her little face pressing into the curve just beneath her jaw.
"Koala," Seraphina said under her breath, one hand hovering before settling gently on Eva's back.
Eva's voice was muffled. "I like waking up here."
Seraphina said nothing at first. She only held her. Her heart beat a little faster—so subtly that Eva might never notice, but Seraphina did.
When Eva pulled back just enough to look up at her, her expression was soft and searching.
"Ina," she whispered. "Can I have a kiss?"
Seraphina blinked. Just once. A quiet heat bloomed in her cheeks—barely a tint, but it was there.
"You always ask for one like it's a spell," she murmured, voice barely audible.
Eva only tilted her head. "Is it?"
Seraphina hesitated. Then leaned down and kissed her brow—softly, reverently, like it might disappear if she touched too fast.
Eva smiled like a secret, then pressed her cheek to Seraphina's collarbone. She sat there a moment longer, breathing her in.
"Are we eating breakfast?"
"I suppose we should," Seraphina replied, and gently slid Eva off her lap.
They padded to the kitchen barefoot. The chef prepared something simple: toasted brioche, apple slices dusted with cinnamon, soft-boiled eggs, and warm tea with milk and honey. The maid set everything with quiet precision, seraphina's eyes flicking occasionally to Eva, who had climbed onto one of the stools and was swinging her legs, watching every motion.
When they sat, Eva didn't eat immediately.
Instead, she picked up one of the apple slices, reached across the table, and held it to Seraphina's lips.
Seraphina blinked. "What are you doing?"
"Feeding you."
A pause.
"I can feed myself."
"But I want to," Eva said, as though that settled the matter.
Seraphina's eyes lingered on her—so serious, so full of something ancient and impossible and beautiful—and she leaned in, taking the apple slice between her lips. Her fingers brushed against Eva's.
A flicker passed between them.
"Another?" Eva asked softly.
"Yes."
So she did. An apple slice. Then a bite of toast. Then a bit of egg. She fed her with care, occasionally humming beneath her breath, delighted by the little smiles Seraphina gave—quiet, restrained, but real.
When they finished, Seraphina wiped Eva's hands with a warm cloth and kissed her knuckles. "You should rest more."
"I'm not tired."
"Then sit with me."
They moved to the parlor, where morning light began slipping fully into the world. Eva curled up beside her on the velvet settee, head tucked beneath Seraphina's arm, while the older girl resumed reading.
The book was poetry this time. Something old. Something soft.
Eva didn't ask what it was—she only listened, letting the sound of Seraphina's voice paint images across the canvas of her mind.
*****
Later that day, when the sun climbed higher and Eva had been returned to the Ainsley house next door, she was quieter than usual.
Vivienne noticed it first. The way Eva walked through the halls like something in a dream. The way she kept turning toward windows, as if looking for something.
Or someone.
Vivienne waited until they were alone. She'd drawn a bath and brushed Eva's hair into soft curls, dressing her in a linen shift stitched with tiny moons.
Only then did she ask gently, "Did you sleep well at Ina's?"
Eva nodded.
"Did you dream?"
Another nod. "Wings again. But this time they were made of paper. With ink on them."
"What did the ink say?"
"I don't know." Eva leaned against Vivienne's shoulder. "They flew away before I could read them."
Vivienne wrapped her arms around her. "Maybe next time, they'll wait."
Eva smiled faintly, and for a moment, the silence between them wasn't hollow—it was full of everything unsaid and understood.
*****
That night, Evelyn returned.
She came not with apology in her mouth, but with shadow under her eyes. She did not announce herself. She came quietly, pausing in the threshold of Eva's room where she found her daughter already curled against Vivienne, half-asleep in her arms.
The fire in the hearth glowed low, casting their faces in golden hush.
Evelyn knelt by the bed and reached out.
Eva stirred.
"Maman?"
Her voice was not startled. Just soft.
"I'm here, mon trésor."
There was a long pause before Eva whispered, "I missed you."
Evelyn closed her eyes. "I missed you more than anything."
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, letting her fingers trail through those soft dark curls she hadn't touched in what felt like days but hurt like years.
Vivienne rose quietly and left them, giving the mother space she needed and deserved.
Eva reached out and tugged Evelyn's hand. "Stay with me tonight?"
"I will," she breathed. "Always."
And in the stillness that followed, there was no guilt, no shame—only the echo of a promise beginning again.
*****
Eva dreamed again.
This time, Seraphina's hand didn't vanish when she reached for it.
It held her steady as the wings of paper carried them higher, past stars and stories and the hush of waiting things.
She did not know what it meant.
But she woke with the feeling of someone else's heartbeat still inside her chest.