Chapter 67: A Morning Made of You
Warmth cradled her.
Not the kind that came from the sun or fire, but something quieter—breathing, listening, waiting. Eva stirred beneath the soft weight of linen and lavender-scented down, her small fingers curling at the edge of the blanket. It wasn't her room. There were no painted birds on the ceiling, no sound of the fountain beyond the nursery window.
But it wasn't unfamiliar.
The air here was different—still, and yet somehow alive. She knew this scent. Pale chamomile and ink, the faintest trace of winter pears. Her lashes fluttered.
Ina.
Her chest swelled with a feeling too big to name. She shifted slowly beneath the covers, and the moment her cheek brushed the cool cotton pillow, her eyes opened wide.
Seraphina's room.
Her Ina's room.
The early light stretched through sheer drapes like silken fingers. Pale and hesitant. Everything glowed silver-gold. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned her head—and there she was.
Seraphina sat at her desk just a few steps away, her auburn waves pulled back with a silk ribbon, face tilted toward a page she was sketching on. But Eva didn't care what was on the paper.
She only saw her.
Her Ina.
And suddenly, she needed to be closer. She didn't think about it, didn't hesitate. She slipped from the bed on quiet feet, her nightdress brushing against her knees, and padded across the rug until she reached her.
"Ina," she whispered.
Seraphina looked up, startled gently from her thoughts.
"You're awake," she said softly. "Did you sleep well?"
Eva didn't answer. She simply climbed into her lap, arms wrapping tight around her neck, straddling her waist like a sleepy koala. Her cheek pressed to Seraphina's shoulder.
"I dreamed of you," she murmured.
Seraphina's heart gave a strange, quiet thud. Her hands, which had been poised for distance, softened around the child's waist.
"I hope it was a good dream," she said, her voice caught somewhere between breath and bloom.
Eva nodded into her collar. "You held my hand. It was warm."
A blush rose, unbidden, to Seraphina's cheeks. She wasn't sure why this child had the power to unmake her with such simple things. But she did.
And then—more softly than any other sound in the world—Eva tilted her head back and whispered, "Ina… may I have a kiss?"
Seraphina hesitated, just for a moment. Her breath caught. But she nodded, pressing a chaste, tender kiss to Eva's forehead.
Eva beamed. That bright, glowing smile that made her feel as if morning had bloomed inside her chest.
"I love you," she said, resting her head back down again. "Even if you're too quiet sometimes."
"And I love you," Seraphina whispered back, her arms tightening just slightly around the small body curled into hers. "Even if you talk to flowers more than people."
"That's because flowers never lie," Eva said matter-of-factly, and Seraphina gave the faintest, fondest smile.
They stayed like that for a long time—just breathing in the stillness.
Eventually, Seraphina stood, lifting Eva in her arms as easily as if she were made of thistledown, and carried her back to the bed. But Eva protested with a sleepy pout, arms clinging tighter.
"No," she murmured. "I want breakfast with you. With just you."
Seraphina gave a soft hum, amused and struck all at once. "Very well. Let's get dressed."
Breakfast was a quiet affair in Seraphina's private sitting room. Sun pooled through the tall windows, kissing the polished floor and casting soft halos around the porcelain dishes. There were crepes with violet preserves, warm brioche, and tea with cream and honey.
Eva sat on her knees in her chair—still wrapped in a pale robe far too large for her—watching Seraphina with unblinking adoration.
Seraphina, elegant even in her simplicity, poured the tea with her usual precision. She did not speak much, but Eva filled the silences with little hums and poetic observations.
"The jam tastes like the color of secrets," she mused, licking a smear from her thumb. "Like something only a moon would understand."
Seraphina blinked slowly. "You always say things no one else would ever think of."
Eva grinned, her eyes glinting with a touch of mischief. "That's why you like me."
Seraphina looked away. "That's… not untrue."
A soft moment passed, and then Eva reached forward, picking up a piece of brioche and gently holding it out.
"For you."
Seraphina blinked again. "You're feeding me now?"
Eva nodded. "Maman says breakfast is a love language."
And how could she refuse that?
With a soft sigh, Seraphina leaned forward and took the offered bite from Eva's small fingers.
The child beamed. "See? Now you'll be happy all day."
Seraphina swallowed carefully, trying not to smile too much. "You're quite the insistent little poet."
"I'm your poet," Eva said, puffing her cheeks with pride. "And your koala. And your star."
Seraphina froze.
Something in those words slipped beneath the quiet she had built like armor. It slipped beneath her ribs, beneath the thoughtful, practiced stillness she wore like second skin.
"I don't know what I did to deserve you," she whispered, almost to herself.
"You were born," Eva said simply, "so I could find you."
The air stopped moving.
Seraphina stood then, quietly, and knelt beside Eva's chair. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind the girl's ear and just stared at her, for a long, long moment.
"What will you become?" she asked softly.
Eva leaned forward, their noses nearly touching.
"I'll become yours."
Seraphina's breath caught, but she said nothing.
There were no answers yet. Only the echo of something inevitable. Something growing, like spring beneath frost. Not now. Not soon. But someday.
And for now—that was enough.
The rest of the morning passed in soft hours. They read together on the floor, Eva curled like a cat with her head in Seraphina's lap, voice rising in animated narration. When she grew tired again, she only murmured, "Ina," and Seraphina carried her back to the bedroom, tucking her beneath the lavender sheets.
This time, Eva kissed her on the cheek.
"Dream of me," she whispered.
Seraphina touched her own face long after the child had drifted off.
She did not know how to say what she was feeling. So she didn't try.
She simply stayed, watching her sleep, while the garden outside glimmered with light that felt like the beginning of something.
Something unnameable.
Something made of her.