Chapter 59: In the Presence of a Star Unfolding
Vivienne and Evelyn's Point of View
The house was quiet in the way only early evening could allow—a soft hush settled over the walls, as if the day itself was exhaling. The scent of lavender drifted from somewhere unseen, mingling with the last golden rays pouring through the high windows. Vivienne stood at the edge of the doorway to Eva's playroom, her hand resting on the frame, watching.
Inside, their daughter was on the floor, surrounded by scattered books, open notebooks, and a small mountain of colored pencils, most of them uncapped and already worn to stubs. Eva was singing softly to herself in Latin—actual Latin—as she worked, one hand moving with near-ritualistic precision over a page.
Evelyn came up behind Vivienne silently, her chin settling on her wife's shoulder. "She's still going," she whispered.
"She hasn't stopped since lunch," Vivienne murmured. "She barely touched her food."
Evelyn exhaled. "Do you think she's alright?"
Vivienne tilted her head. "She's more than alright. Look at her." Her voice was hushed, reverent. "She's… making something. I don't even know what it is yet, but it's all there. In her head."
Eva didn't notice them. She was too far inside the world she was creating, too immersed in whatever strange, beautiful thing was unfurling from her mind. The air around her seemed to shimmer with quiet purpose. She hummed again, a soft, haunting tune neither of them recognized but both would remember.
"She's terrifying," Evelyn whispered.
Vivienne glanced at her.
"I mean it," Evelyn said, eyes fixed on their daughter. "Not in a bad way. Just—God, Vi. She's four. And she writes like someone with a hundred years of memories. Do you remember what she said to Reginald the other day? About the moon?"
"She said, 'It isn't lonely, just far away enough to listen better.'" Vivienne's lips curved. "I nearly cried."
"She meant it."
"I know."
They fell silent again.
It wasn't just intelligence. It wasn't even genius. Eva had something in her that felt ancient and untamed, like she'd touched something outside of time and brought it back with her. But she still had the wide, wondering eyes of a child—still squealed when she saw ladybugs, still tripped over her own feet when she ran too fast, still needed kisses on her forehead to sleep.
"She's not just brilliant," Evelyn said after a long pause. "She's… good. I think that's what terrifies me more."
Vivienne nodded slowly. "Because we can't protect her from everything."
"Because we shouldn't try," Evelyn whispered. "But I want to."
Vivienne's breath caught. "Me too."
They stepped inside quietly. Eva didn't look up—her tongue poked out slightly in concentration as she outlined a drawing of the magnolia tree near the Langfords' garden. Around it, she'd written a poem in both English and Latin, like a spell meant to summon something sacred.
Evelyn knelt beside her. "Sweetheart," she said gently. "Are you writing a new one?"
Eva nodded, her curls bobbing. "It's for Ina. But it's secret."
Vivienne sat cross-legged on the other side of her. "Another poem for Ina?"
"I thought maybe if I write enough," Eva said solemnly, "I'll understand why my tummy feels funny when I look at her."
Vivienne and Evelyn exchanged a glance.
"She makes you feel warm?" Evelyn asked, brushing a leaf from Eva's skirt.
Eva nodded. "Like I'm the garden and she's the sun. Or maybe the moon. I can't tell."
Vivienne swallowed the ache rising in her chest. "That's a beautiful way to say it."
Eva looked at them with sudden seriousness. "Is it strange that I love her?"
"No," Evelyn said at once, her voice steady. "It's not strange."
"It's real," Vivienne added. "Even if it doesn't look like other kinds of love yet. It's yours."
Eva seemed to accept that, returning to her drawing. But before they could speak again, she looked up, her eyes wide with wonder. "Did you know that bees dance to tell each other where flowers are?"
"I did," Evelyn said, smiling.
"Do you think I could learn to dance in poem-language?"
Vivienne blinked. "You mean… write a poem that's also a map?"
"Yes." Eva was already reaching for another page. "Like if I wrote about lavender in the shape of a spiral, maybe a bee would understand."
Evelyn sat back slowly, her expression unreadable. "She's not going to stay small, is she?"
Vivienne shook her head, her hand brushing Eva's hair. "She's already halfway to somewhere we can't follow."
"But she still needs us." Evelyn's voice was gentle. "To hold the ground beneath her. To keep her safe while she climbs."
Vivienne nodded. "To catch her, too. If she falls."
They stayed with Eva as the sky turned amber, watching her scribble and sketch and hum her secret music, and in their hearts there was a kind of prayer—not to any god, but to time itself.
Please let us have her longer.
Please let her be small just a little while more.
*****
Later, when Eva had finally drifted to sleep curled between them, her notebook tucked beneath one arm like a secret diary, they lay in silence. The ceiling above the bed faded to dusk, and neither woman moved.
"She talks in her sleep," Evelyn murmured.
"She dreams like a prophet," Vivienne said.
Evelyn turned toward her. "Do you ever wonder what we've given her?"
Vivienne met her gaze. "Everything."
"I mean… the brilliance, the hunger, the loneliness that sometimes follows."
Vivienne's eyes softened. "You think she'll be lonely?"
Evelyn looked away. "People like her always are. Until they find their echo."
"Ina?" Vivienne guessed.
"Maybe." Evelyn shrugged. "Maybe not. I just… I hope someone stays close to her."
Vivienne nodded. "We'll stay."
Evelyn smiled faintly. "Until she outgrows us."
They watched their daughter, her lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks, her breath even and slow. The glow of her inner world had dimmed for now, replaced by the simple stillness of sleep.
"She terrifies me," Evelyn whispered again.
"She makes me feel like a girl again," Vivienne admitted.
"She reminds me of why I write."
"She reminds me of why I fell in love with you."
They didn't need to say more. The silence between them was full—of awe, of fear, of fierce, encompassing love. And though they knew Eva would one day grow beyond this moment—would walk into brilliance and heartbreak and mystery—they were here now.
Holding her in the quiet before it all.