Chapter 61: A Nest of Stars
The days grew longer, and with them, the bond between Eva and Seraphina deepened. What had begun as secret meetings in the garden, exchanging glances over petals and whispered stories, blossomed into a companionship neither girl could bear to part from. They had become each other's stars—distant, luminous, and drawing ever nearer.
Seraphina, whom Eva affectionately called "Ina" in private, began visiting the Ainsley Estate more frequently. These visits, once occasional and tentative, soon became regular sleepovers, much to Eva's delight and quiet pride. It became a rhythm, as natural as the sun tracing its path across the sky: the two would spend their days in play and exploration—reading in sunlit corners, chasing butterflies through the garden, or weaving crowns from wildflowers—and by evening, Eva would insist on sharing her room with Ina.
The guest bedroom, in Eva's mind, was an offense. "It's too far," she would argue earnestly, clinging to Seraphina's hand. "My room is warmer. It remembers you."
And so, Seraphina would stay.
Eva's room, small and full of character, was a sanctuary of quiet magic. Stuffed animals watched over them from little shelves. Storybooks with gilded edges and bent spines lined the walls like faithful companions. The soft amber glow of her star-shaped nightlights cast gentle shadows that danced across the ceiling. The room seemed to sigh with comfort whenever Seraphina entered.
Aunt Vivienne—Mère, as Eva called her in private—often chuckled at the sight of them curled together in the warm hush of the evening. "Yue," she would tease from the doorway, arms folded with amusement, "you've been claimed, haven't you?"
Seraphina would roll her eyes in mock annoyance, but her expression always softened. She would glance at Eva, nestled beside her in sleep, and whisper, "Utterly."
Their bond, though young, had become a shelter.
Eva's parents, too, found quiet joy in the closeness between the two girls. Evelyn, ever watchful and tender, sometimes lingered in the doorway to hear her daughter's lilting laughter. Reginald, though more distant in his affections, had begun to see the calming influence Seraphina had on Eva—how the wild brilliance in their daughter's eyes settled when Ina was near. Though he rarely said it aloud, he was grateful.
And Seraphina noticed.
She noticed how Reginald sometimes forgot to look up when Eva entered a room, how his stern voice softened but never truly warmed. It reminded her of her own parents—busy, powerful, elsewhere. She hated that resemblance. And so, Seraphina vowed quietly to be different. If Eva ever felt unloved, Seraphina would love her twice as much. Enough to make her forget what was missing.
Eva, in her own way, understood none of this and all of it. She simply knew that with Ina, everything was more beautiful. The flowers bloomed brighter. The wind told sweeter stories. The stars above winked more kindly. And most importantly, she never felt alone.
*****
One evening, the sky outside their window melted into lavender and dusky blue. The breeze slipped in through the open pane, carrying the scent of jasmine and night dew. Eva and Seraphina sat atop the quilted bedspread, Eva curled against Ina like a cat folding itself into warmth.
Eva rested her head on Seraphina's lap, eyes wide, fingers tugging lightly at the hem of her soft nightgown. Seraphina brushed her curls back gently, her other hand resting protectively across Eva's small back.
"Ina," Eva whispered, her voice a trembling thread, "can I tell you a secret?"
Seraphina smiled and bent her head, her voice quiet and sure. "Of course, little one. Anything."
Eva took a breath, her chest rising slowly. Then, in the hush of the room, she began to speak—not in common tongue, but in Latin, her favorite language of dreams.
"Aurea sunt lumina tua, sicut ignis in nocte,
Flammae illustres, mentem captivantes,
Oculis tuis rutilis, sublimis in caelo,
Animae aliorum captivum, alma et fera."
The words drifted like music, floating into the warm dark like smoke rising from incense. When she finished, Eva looked up, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, vulnerable in the way only children and poets can be.
Seraphina's throat caught. Her hands, folded calmly a moment ago, now trembled slightly against Eva's hair. It was as though the poem had entered her body and settled into her chest, fluttering like the wings of something new.
"That was beautiful," she said softly, her voice low and thick with wonder. "What does it mean?"
Eva's gaze fell shyly, and she whispered the translation, her voice light as dew:
"Your eyes are golden, like fire in the night,
Flames that shine brightly, captivating the mind,
With your red eyes, high and pure in the sky,
The souls of others held captive, gentle and wild."
Seraphina blinked, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
"Are you proposing to me, little one?" she teased, though her voice shook with something deeper.
Eva blinked in confusion. "I don't know what that means," she said truthfully, "but I like you a lot. You're my Ina. My favorite star."
Seraphina exhaled and leaned down, brushing a soft kiss against Eva's forehead. "And you're my poem," she whispered. "The one I never knew I needed."
They lay down then, curled into one another like matching verses in a quiet song. The moon rose slow and full behind the curtain, casting silver light across the floor.
Even as sleep took them, their hands found each other beneath the covers. The room held its breath.
*****
The next morning, Vivienne stood by the door, half-hidden in shadow, having overheard everything. She didn't mean to eavesdrop—not entirely—but she couldn't help lingering when Eva's voice carried through the wood in that delicate language of old.
She waited until the girls stirred before heading to the kitchen, where Evelyn stood at the stove, slicing pears for breakfast.
"You won't believe what our little poet whispered to Yue last night," Vivienne said, her tone a mix of wonder and amusement.
Evelyn turned, lifting an eyebrow. "Dare I ask?"
Vivienne recited the Latin poem from memory—almost reverently. Her voice dipped with rhythm, her hands gesturing as if the words carried weight.
Evelyn paused mid-slice, her expression softening. "She said that? All of it?"
"She did." Vivienne grinned. "Then told Yue she liked her 'a lot' and didn't know what 'proposing' meant."
Evelyn chuckled softly and shook her head. "That child," she murmured. "Always singing from somewhere beyond."
Just then, Reginald entered, freshly shaven, scanning the morning paper. "What now?" he asked, already half-listening.
"Eva's in love," Vivienne announced.
He looked up.
"With Yue," she added.
He blinked, then offered a small smile. "She has taste."
"She has heart," Evelyn said. "Too much, perhaps."
"No such thing," Vivienne murmured, watching the hallway, where faint footsteps signaled the girls' approach. "Not in this house."
*****
The following nights blurred in honeyed light and shared dreams. Sleepovers became sleep rituals—Seraphina brushing Eva's curls with slow strokes, Eva tracing stars on Ina's arm with her fingertip, whispering the names she gave them: "This one is Brave. That one is Kind. This one's you."
Seraphina never corrected her. Instead, she whispered the names back, placing each into memory like pressed flowers in a book.
Sometimes, they'd stargaze from the window seat, Eva wrapped in Seraphina's shawl, her voice drowsy and poetic.
"I think stars are the letters of someone's love," she mused one evening. "Maybe the sky is writing us down."
Seraphina wrapped her arms around Eva and rested her chin atop her head.
"I hope it writes slowly," she said.
And indeed, it did.
The stars moved slow. The days passed like verses. Their hearts, two soft-lit flames in the hush of night, continued to glow—quiet and boundless in their nest of stars.