Chapter 58: A Little Poet's Spell
Seraphina's Point of View
The garden felt different after she left.
It wasn't in the wind, which still moved gently through the trees, or in the lazy hum of bees circling the lavender. It was something quieter, more internal. As though the absence of Eva had left a small but perceptible echo inside Seraphina's chest—like the closing note of a song that lingered longer than it should have.
She hadn't meant to let her stay so long in her lap. Truly, she hadn't. She wasn't used to children, didn't particularly care for their noise or chaos or insistence on being seen. Most of them made her itch with impatience. But Eva…
Eva was not like other children.
There was something about her that stilled the world. Something so strange and soft and vast that it made Seraphina feel smaller in its presence—and she liked it. She liked the way Eva approached her, not like a child seeking permission, but like a creature who had already decided the world belonged to her, and that she had chosen Seraphina to be part of it.
And that poem…
Seraphina hadn't expected it to hurt.
It hadn't hurt in a painful way, but in the way something beautiful can hurt—how it can split you open unexpectedly and pour golden light into places you'd forgotten to dust. The Latin had caught her off guard, yes, but it wasn't just that. It was Eva's voice. The small, deliberate weight of it. The melody—fragile, homemade, and haunting. And the look in her eyes, the way she'd reached up and touched Seraphina's cheek so gently, as if afraid it might shatter under her fingers.
You are the moon. And stars. And I like your eyes the most.
Seraphina had barely known how to respond. She'd joked, of course. That was the safest route. But something inside her—something quiet and unguarded—had stirred when Eva said those things, and now, sitting alone beneath the magnolia tree, she felt it again: that shimmer of something unnamed curling in her ribs.
She pressed her hand lightly to her chest, as if trying to find the place where Eva had rested. It was still warm.
She should go home. She should return to her books, or write in her journal, or do anything else that didn't involve thinking about a four-year-old's blush or the way her curls tickled Seraphina's collarbone. But instead, she just sat there, staring at the patch of grass where Eva had been moments before.
She was ridiculous.
Not Eva. Her.
She was eight—almost nine—and already acting like one of those tragic heroines from her favorite stories. But even as she thought it, her mouth curled against her will. Because it was ridiculous. And wonderful.
Eva had looked at her like she was made of miracles.
Seraphina wasn't used to that. Adults looked at her with a wary kind of respect—sometimes admiration, sometimes discomfort, like they weren't sure whether she was a clever girl or a dangerous one. Other children usually kept their distance, put off by her quietness, her sharp words, or her disinterest in their games.
But Eva wasn't afraid of her. She didn't shy away or try to change Seraphina or ask her to be anything she wasn't. She simply came, like wind to a window, and stayed.
And Seraphina let her.
No, she corrected silently. I wanted her to.
The breeze stirred again, brushing through the magnolia branches above. A few pale petals fluttered to the ground. Seraphina watched them fall, one by one, like pieces of a thought she hadn't quite formed yet.
She hadn't known it was possible to miss someone so quickly. And it wasn't like Eva had gone far—she was probably already back at the Ainsley Estate, wrapped in Vivienne's arms, retelling her adventure with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Seraphina imagined her now, bouncing on her feet, talking a mile a minute, perhaps asking for kisses and saying things like "She said I was ridiculous!" with pride in her voice.
And she'd be right.
Because Seraphina had meant it lovingly.
You are ridiculous, she thought again, as if Eva could hear her across the hedges. And breathtaking. And absurd. And mine—
She blinked, stopped herself, shook the thought away.
Not mine. That was too big a word. Too dangerous.
But still, the feeling clung to her like honeysuckle. A quiet, golden thread wrapping around her spine.
Maybe someday… she'd kiss her.
That thought rose unbidden, soft and startling. Not like the desperate kisses she read about in books—those were always messy, always tangled in longing or heartbreak. No, she imagined a kiss the way Eva might imagine one: simple, sweet, like a pressed flower hidden in a notebook. A secret. A gift.
Not now. Not even soon. But maybe someday, when Eva wasn't so small, and Seraphina wasn't so uncertain, and the world didn't feel quite so delicate.
She stood slowly, brushing grass from her dress, and gathered the book she'd dropped when Eva arrived. But she didn't open it again. Instead, she wandered toward the edge of the garden, to the part where the hedge dipped low and you could just barely see the distant spire of the Ainsley Estate if you tilted your head.
She thought of Vivienne, of Evelyn. Of the way they looked at Eva—with so much love, so much patience. And she thought of how Vivienne had said her name that first day Eva had come to the Langfords' property: This is Eva. She's curious. Be kind.
Seraphina hadn't needed the warning.
She'd felt it even then, when the child was still shy and careful, hiding behind a braid too large for her head. She'd sensed something—some glimmer that made her pause. And now, a year later, the glimmer had turned into something brighter. A flame. A little sun.
No… not a sun.
A poet's moon.
She laughed to herself and felt the heat rise faintly in her cheeks. It was embarrassing, the way this little girl occupied her thoughts, but it wasn't a bad kind of embarrassment. It was warm. It was golden. It was hers.
She turned back toward the tree.
The place where Eva had curled against her was still imprinted in the grass, and for a brief, foolish moment, Seraphina knelt there, pressing her palm into the shape like it might still be warm.
It was not.
But the memory was.
She stayed a little longer, letting the sun dip lower, until the garden began to darken at the edges.
And then she rose, dusted her knees, and walked home—quiet, thoughtful, and a little changed.
*****
Later, in her room, Seraphina found her notebook.
She sat cross-legged on the floor beside the window, where the light was soft and gold, and began to write.
Not in Latin. Not today.
She wrote in plain English, because that's what her heart needed. She didn't try to make it rhyme. She didn't worry about stanzas or structure. She just let the words spill out, like water from a glass tipped gently on its side.
"A Little Poet's Spell"
You came with dirt on your knees
and poetry in your hands,
a melody made from nothing
but heart and wind and wonder.
You said my eyes were stars.
I've never been told that before.
I've never believed it—
until now.
I am not made of moonlight.
But you look at me like I am.
And somehow,
that's more true than anything
I've ever known.
You curled into me like
you'd done it a thousand times.
You whispered spells in Latin,
and I—
I forgot to breathe.
You said I was ridiculous.
But you meant lovely.
And I said it back.
Because I meant breathtaking.
I don't know what this is yet.
But it matters.
And maybe,
just maybe,
someday…
I'll kiss you for it.
She paused, tapping the pencil against her lip, then underlined the last line once—just once—and closed the notebook gently, like tucking a secret to bed.
Outside, the sky darkened.
Inside, Seraphina lay back on her bed and closed her eyes.
Eva's voice still rang softly in her ears, repeating the lines like a lullaby.
Pulchra es, ut luna in caelo…
You are beautiful, like the moon in the sky.
And Seraphina—tired, enchanted, and no longer entirely sure where her world ended and Eva's began—fell asleep smiling.