Chapter 97: Where the Moonlight Doesn't Reach
It began, as many small heartbreaks do, with something that was never meant to hurt.
They were sitting in the garden again — Eva lying across a picnic blanket in a heap of songbooks and cookie crumbs, her head resting against Seraphina's thigh. The early afternoon light filtered through the willows, warm and dappled. Seraphina was humming something aimless, playing absently with a strand of Eva's hair.
"You should make more friends," Seraphina said gently, brushing a petal off Eva's collar. "It could be good for you. Broaden your world a little."
Eva blinked, momentarily frozen. "…But I have you."
"I know," Seraphina replied, smiling. "But I mean others too. You don't have to be as close as us — just someone to laugh with, or share songs. It's healthy."
Eva sat up slowly. Her hands fell to her lap.
"Oh," she said, softly.
Seraphina didn't notice the way her smile slipped. She was already looking toward the stream, distracted by the light on the water. "I think it would be good for your heart."
That was all. The moment passed, sunlight shifted. But in Eva's chest, a storm cracked open.
That night, she didn't say much. She kissed Seraphina's cheek in farewell, her lips barely brushing the skin. She waved goodbye without meeting her eyes. And by the time she was home, she had built a thousand meanings into a single sentence.
Seraphina was tired of her.
Ina didn't want her anymore.
She was too much — too loud, too odd, too attached.
That night, she cried so hard it frightened the wind.
From the hallway, Evelyn and Vivienne stood side by side in the soft gold light of the sconces, watching their daughter crumble in Vivienne's arms. Eva sobbed like something ancient, curled into her mère's chest, fists tangled in the folds of Vivienne's robe.
"She doesn't want me," she choked. "I ruined everything. I knew I was too much."
"Oh, little dove," Vivienne murmured, pressing kisses to her damp forehead. "You haven't ruined a thing."
"I won't speak again. I'll be normal. I'll be so normal everyone will love me more," Eva gasped, hiccupping violently. "I'll make a thousand friends and I'll love them less! Just like she wants!"
Evelyn knelt beside them, gently stroking the tear - soaked strands from her daughter's temple. Her voice was warm and quiet. "No one wants less love from you, Eva. You didn't do anything wrong."
"But I'm so good at wrong things," Eva sobbed, her voice cracking like a cello string too tight. "And now she's gone and it's all my fault and everything hurts —"
She slumped, breath hitching, then stilled mid - sob — exhaustion overtaking grief in one ragged sweep. Vivienne continued to rock her gently, even as her limbs grew heavy and slow.
Evelyn brushed a final tear from Eva's cheek, whispering, "First heartbreak."
Vivienne gave a quiet sigh. "And the worst kind — misunderstood love."
The next morning, Eva moved like a ghost in a silk nightgown.
She ate her soft - boiled egg in silence, eyes vacant. She drank her tea without complaint, though she didn't taste it. Her tutors arrived and departed without a single complaint from her.
But she smiled too much.
"That's not her smile," Evelyn said softly, as she and Vivienne observed Eva from the study balcony. "That's the smile she uses when she thinks she's disappointing someone."
"She's gone flat," Vivienne murmured. "Like a page torn from her own book."
Even during her physical training — normally her most expressive rebellion — Eva barely resisted. She performed the routines like a marionette, her body obedient, her spark vanished.
That evening, Evelyn sat on the chaise, watching her child scrawl furiously into a leather - bound journal, muttering G•••• verses between clenched teeth.
When she peeked over Eva's shoulder, she caught a stanza written in delicate, aching script:
Εἰμὶ φεγγάρου σιωπὴ,
Ἀκτὶς χωρὶς φωνή.
Οὔτε ζῶ οὔτε ὄναρ —
Ἐγώ, ἡ λησμονημένη.
(I am the silence of the moonlight,
A ray without a voice.
Neither living nor dream —
I, the forgotten one.)
Her heart cracked.
*****
Back in the Maxwell — Lioré — lab — white walls, chrome lines, glass everywhere —Evelyn and Vivienne stood flanking a sleek prototype that looked more like a miniature High Tech technology than a child's toy.
"Well," Vivienne said, one hand on her hip, "it's ridiculous."
Evelyn beamed. "It's perfect."
The toy car was sun-powered, air - conditioned, with hand - sewn leather interiors, a music system synced to Eva's compositions, and a mini-tablet loaded with musical notations, A drink holder with thermal insulation to keep beverages hot or cold, and even a built-in poetry editor.
"And this one's for Seraphina?" Evelyn asked, gesturing to the second prototype beside it.
"Of course," Vivienne said, her voice softening. "Our beloved's royal golf cart. Same power, same tech, same exclusivity — never to market."
"A pair of private heiresses riding through rose gardens in solar - powered poetry machines," Evelyn muttered. "Utterly obscene."
Vivienne grinned. "And completely ours."
They turned solemn.
"Do you think the car will help?" Evelyn asked quietly.
"I don't know," Vivienne replied. "But I do know she needs to feel something again. Something other than heartbreak."
They were still planning. Still hoping.
Maybe a new friend. Maybe a new kind of wonder.
That evening, Reginald arrived. The hallway darkened slightly when he stepped in — like some winter chill passed through.
He found Eva in the music room, staring at a half - written score.
He didn't crouch or soften like Evelyn or Vivienne. He simply stood behind her, tall and unreadable.
"Stop thinking useless things," he said.
Eva startled. She turned halfway but didn't meet his eyes.
"You're not built for sulking," Reginald continued. "It's a waste of potential. There are better choices than crying over one person."
He placed a hand on her shoulder — not cruelly, but not tenderly either.
"I'm increasing your training and your reading schedule. If your mind is this free, you're not being challenged enough."
Eva closed her eyes. For a moment, she imagined him leaning down and hugging her. Just once. Just to remind her she was small and loved.
But of course, he didn't.
So she smiled, bright and broken, and whispered, "Yes, Papa. I'll do my best to meet your expectations."
He nodded once. "Good girl."
*****
Later that night, Eva curled on her bed in her softest pajamas, scribbling one last stanza in G•••• before sleep:
Μία λέξις: ἐρημία.
Καὶ παίζει μουσική,
Χωρὶς νὰ ἀκούεται.
(One word: emptiness.
And it plays music,
Without ever being heard.)
Evelyn appeared in the doorway, her eyes soft with worry. She crossed the room and sat beside her.
"Maman," Eva whispered, looking smaller than her five years, "Will you and Mère sleep beside me tonight?"
Evelyn nodded. "Always, my little dove."
Vivienne came not long after, carrying an extra blanket and a soft, lemon - scented pillow. They curled up on either side of Eva, a warm haven in the cold hush of confusion.
And for the first time in two nights, Eva slept without tears.
At the Langford estate, Seraphina lay awake, her eyes fixed on the star - scattered ceiling of her bedroom. The breeze teased her curtains. The quiet was heavy.
She missed Eva.
Of course she did. That little moonbeam had etched herself into Seraphina's bones like a melody too beautiful to forget.
She hadn't meant to push her away.
She just… wanted Eva to know there was a world beyond her shadow. That it was okay to stretch, to grow in more than one direction.
But Seraphina knew Eva loved deeply. Fiercely. She tangled herself into people like ivy — soft, tender, inescapable.
And now she had misunderstood.
Aunt Evelyn and Aunt Vivienne were worried, she knew. They had gently hinted, in the way only adults could, that perhaps she ought to let Eva learn how to fall.
She was too loved, they said. Too protected. She needed to understand disappointment before the world gave it cruelly.
Seraphina had agreed, reluctantly. Because Eva was not hers alone.
But oh, if she falls, Seraphina thought, I'll catch her.
She always would.
That night, in the hush between sleep and dreams, Eva murmured:
"Ina…"
And across the gardens, in a room lit only by moonlight, Seraphina whispered back:
"Soon, little moonbeam."
Soon.