Chapter 83: The Weight of Quiet Promises
Seraphina's perspective
The Langford estate had never known a silence like this.
It wasn't emptiness. It was aftermath. The hush that follows a miracle you weren't sure you deserved. I wandered its marble corridors with bare feet, every window humming with the memory of her laughter. Light spilled across the floor like it missed her.
And I did. In ways I couldn't name.
Eva had fallen asleep curled atop my chest, limbs sprawled like a small, victorious monarch claiming new land. She'd traced the freckles on my shoulder and called them "Ina's constellation," then kissed my cheeks with the sacred solemnity of a girl who meant every vow she didn't know she was making.
"You're my favorite weather," she whispered just before sleep took her.
"What does that mean?" I'd asked, brushing curls from her eyes.
"It means you make me feel warm, even when I'm sad."
She had worn my shirt—oversized, soft, with the collar drooping wide—and when I tried to adjust it, she scowled and said, "It's perfect like this. It smells like you and books and bread."
I didn't correct her. I didn't say I am not made for this. I just held her. And when she whispered, "I love you bigger than Jupiter," I let myself believe it.
Not because I was foolish.
But because she was five, and five-year-olds don't lie when they say love.
Morning came with slow light and a tray of breakfast no one had ordered — scones shaped like stars, chamomile tea, a single peeled pear.
Eva stole my ring from the nightstand and looped it onto a chain she wore now like armor, tapping it against her sternum.
"It belongs near my heart," she said with a grin. "That way I don't forget you when I'm at Maman's house, my place."
"I'm not easy to forget," I teased.
"But I might grow too fast," she said quietly.
My throat ached. "Not before I catch up."
Aunt Evelyn arrived midmorning, wrapped in quiet elegance. The kind that made even the walls seem to rise straighter when she passed.
Eva ran to her without hesitation, her joy immediate and unclouded.
But before she let go of me, she reached back and gripped my sleeve — just for a second.
"I'll come back," she said.
"You always say that."
"That's because I always do."
And then she left me with Aunt Evelyn's eyes, watching.
There was no coldness in them. Only caution. And something older than time.
"I won't undo her," I said, barely louder than breath.
"I know," she replied. "I'm just afraid you'll love her too much." She repeated "Don't love too much, Seraphina. I don't want you to be hurt."
"I already do."
Aunt Evelyn's mouth curved, something too sad to be a smile.
"Then be careful. The world is not kind to that kind of love."
She leaned in. Before I could understand what was happening, she kissed my cheek. I stood frozen — until something soft cracked inside me, and I hugged her back, pressing a kiss to her face in return.
I stayed in the sunroom after they left, wrapped in the throw she had once napped under. I didn't read. I didn't move. I just watched the bracelet on my wrist—her creation, tiny moons woven through with sunstone, a clasp she'd designed herself. It still smelled faintly of her.
She had called it The Forever Loop.
And I believed her.
Because when children love, they don't measure consequence. They don't plan for pain. They just love — fierce and foolish and full of grace.
Maybe that's what made it real.
At the Ainsley estate, Eva was curled like a cat beneath a pile of books about hummingbirds and strange stars. Maman smoothed her hair as she read aloud from an old field guide, pausing only when Eva asked, "Where do they go when the world gets cold?"
"South," Maman replied. "They follow the warmth."
"Like Yue, my Ina," Eva murmured. "Yue, my Ina is warm."
Maman didn't speak at first.
Then: "Do you miss her?"
"I always do. Even when I'm with her, I miss her. Isn't that funny?"
"It's very human," Evelyn said gently.
Eva stared at the ceiling for a long time.
"I think I'm going to marry her. That way she can't leave."
Maman tucked a curl behind her ear. "Marriage is complicated."
"But love isn't," Eva said, confident as sunrise. "Love is just showing up and staying."
That night, Maman lingered alone by the fire, a glass of pear brandy untouched in her hand. The estate felt emptier than usual — Vivienne her wife in S••••, Reginald her brother in law "her pretend husband" off charming F••••• diplomats and hiding Eva's training behind velvet curtains. She missed her wife. But the silence gave her space to think.
She stepped into her study. A portrait hung crooked — Eva's latest creation, crayon and gold leaf. Beneath it: a sealed envelope, Reginald's handwriting on the front.
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
Inside, a report: training milestones, coordination scores, threat maps. And a single note scrawled in the margin.
She's beyond brilliant. But she's still five. Keep her heart safe, Evelyn. That's the one thing I can't train.
Evelyn folded the letter and locked it away.
Her daughter was no ordinary child.
Evangeline "Eva" Claire Maxwell — Lioré — the true heir to a name that hadn't been spoken in public in a generation. Royal blood and allegedly goddess bloodline hidden behind curated eccentricity. A legacy washed clean with silk and starlight and sleight of hand.
They had let the world assume she was a brilliant oddity. The product of too much money and too many tutors. Better that than the truth. Better misunderstood than targeted.
No one kills what they think is ornamental.
Two days later, a letter arrived at Langford. Child's script, painstakingly neat.
Seraphina Yue Langford
To Ina the Sun,
I missed you more than I miss mango season. That's A LOT. I made you a planet. You can live there with me and never be sad. It has velvet trees and pancake oceans and you're the queen. I'm your knight. I'll bring you violets and protect you from dragons and nightmares.
Love,
Your Moonbeam Knight
(Eva)
There was a drawing: two figures beneath a sky of star-shaped hearts. One had a sun crown. The other, a sword made of ribbon.
I cried.
Quietly.
Then kissed the letter and placed it between the pages of my favorite poetry book.
When Aunt Evelyn returned to Langford with Eva later that week, the wind had picked up, tossing leaves like confetti.
Eva clutched her mother's hand tightly.
"You think she missed me a lot or just medium?"
"Medium people don't send you velvet trees," Aunt Evelyn replied.
Eva grinned, bolted forward.
I knelt to catch her, arms open like home.
"You're back," I breathed.
"I told you I would be."
We walked inside together, and I felt Aunt Evelyn watching us — eyes shining with both certainty and fear.
Too much love. Too soon.
But better that than the world outside.
Later, Eva showed me a new invention: a solar-powered brooch that pulsed with color when you held someone's hand. She called it "The Honesty Light."
"It only works if you mean it," she said.
I put it on.
"I missed you."
The brooch lit up.
Eva beamed. "Told you."
We played chess, argued about moon trees, shared warm plum tea. When I braided her hair, she whispered, "I'm still your knight. Even if I grow taller."
I pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.
"And I'll still be your sun," I whispered.
The brooch lit again.
And for that moment, it was enough.