Chapter 75: Like Flowers in the Wind
Eva had, with innocent determination and unmatched affection, established herself as a permanent fixture in Seraphina's life. She wasn't merely a frequent visitor to the Langford household anymore—she was the shadow that trailed Seraphina's steps, the sunlight through her windows, the soft voice humming lullabies in French before she even fully knew the words.
She was Seraphina's little moonbeam.
Eva brought her world with her wherever she went—a kaleidoscope of handmade drawings that fluttered like fragile petals across the table, scribbled equations she was oddly proud of, and small stacks of folded paper she referred to as her "poetry books." They were crooked, sometimes smudged, and always full of feeling. Inside them, stars danced with numbers, the sky wept with metaphors, and names—especially one name, Seraphina—appeared often in looped, reverent strokes that spoke louder than words.
Every visit was a gift and a question.
She asked questions that never seemed to end, her small voice bright with curiosity and wonder:
"What are stars made of, really? And do they ever get tired of burning?"
"Why do people cry if they're happy?"
"Why does love make people act so silly? You're never silly, Ina. Or… maybe only for me."
Seraphina would answer when she could, guess when she couldn't, and always, always listen. The questions were never just words, but windows into Eva's vivid mind and tender heart. One day, as they lay in the sunroom surrounded by pillows and stray ribbons tangled in the afternoon light, Eva looked up from a picture she was drawing of them holding hands beneath a rain of stars.
"Ina," she asked thoughtfully, "do you ever get lonely?"
Seraphina glanced at her, startled not by the question itself, but by the raw, quiet worry behind it. "Sometimes," she admitted. "But not when you're here."
Eva nodded solemnly, as if filing the truth carefully away. "Then I'll fix it."
"And how exactly will you do that, little one?" Seraphina teased, brushing a stray curl from Eva's flushed face.
Eva let out an exaggerated huff, abandoned her drawing, and promptly clambered into Seraphina's lap, straddling her waist like it was her birthright. With the serious focus of a general readying for battle, she began to place kisses on her—counting under her breath with each one.
"One… two… three…"
Neck. Nose. Eyelid. Cheek. Collarbone.
"Four… five… six…"
Seraphina barely had time to laugh before Eva wrapped her arms tight around her neck, burying her face close and whispering with soft intensity, "I'll kiss your lips five times until I'm satisfied. That's how I'll fix it."
And she did. Five feather-light kisses on the lips, counted out carefully on her fingers. After the fifth, she smiled, clearly pleased with herself.
"There," she said. "You're fixed now."
Seraphina didn't speak for a moment, her hands resting lightly on Eva's back, feeling the steady, warm heartbeat beneath. "I think I am," she whispered.
Eva brought her warmth, too—not just metaphorical warmth, but real, tangible heat. She'd press herself into Seraphina's side during cold evenings, crawl beneath her coat in the garden, or sprawl across her lap on slow mornings. Sometimes she would come just to cry—quiet, muffled tears for reasons she couldn't always name. Other times, she fake-napped, peeking slyly through half-lidded eyes just to make sure Seraphina hadn't moved away.
And Seraphina… she never did.
She never asked Eva to stop, never told her to sit properly, never once denied her space. Instead, she simply adjusted—posture shifting, arms opening, voice softening. She held the child close without question, without expectation.
Because Seraphina knew. She knew what the world would eventually demand of Eva—her mind, her light, her genius. The world would not be kind. It never was to children who burned too brightly.
So, for now, she let Eva be soft.
*****
One warm afternoon, sunlight spilled through sheer curtains like honey, painting the room in golden hues. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine from the garden just beyond the window. The room was silent except for the gentle turning of pages as Seraphina read a worn hardcover novel with gilded edges. Her posture was regal as always, legs folded beneath her, the book balanced delicately in one hand.
Eva, fresh from a nap and still rumpled in her blue cotton dress, wandered in with sleepy eyes. Without a word, she climbed onto the bed and onto Seraphina's lap, her arms wrapping instinctively around her waist.
"Ina," she whispered, her voice hoarse and dream-laced, "I had a dream you turned into a star. You floated away and I had to catch you."
Seraphina smiled faintly and set her book aside. "Did you manage to catch me?"
Eva nodded, curls bouncing. "I tied a ribbon around your light and tucked you into my pocket."
Her words struck something deep inside Seraphina, something that ached with both joy and fragility. She smoothed her hand gently over Eva's hair, feeling the softness and warmth beneath her fingertips.
"You always know just what to say."
"I like saying things to you." Eva blinked up at her, eyes wide and earnest. "Can I say another?"
Seraphina chuckled softly. "Of course."
Without hesitation, Eva leaned in and began to place kisses on her face—soft, deliberate, and tender—as she recited in her clear, small voice:
"Capilli undantes, color autumnalis,
more florum in vento cor meum tangis.
Risus tuus lumen inter nebulas est,
et in silentio tuo, pax habitat."
Seraphina inhaled slowly, caught between awe and quiet fear—because how did a five-year-old write that? Feel that?
"Translate for me?" she asked, breathless.
Eva gave her a pleased smile and pressed their foreheads together.
'Waves of hair, autumn in their hue,
like flowers in the wind, you brush against my heart.
Your smile is a light among the mist,
and in your silence, peace dwells.'
Seraphina laughed softly, a sound fragile and full of affection. "You're going to ruin me, little one."
"I love kissing you," Eva said suddenly, a flush spreading across her cheeks. "When I grow up, I'm gonna marry you."
Seraphina didn't move, but her heart did. It clenched with that aching tenderness that Eva always seemed to summon so easily. She wrapped her arms around the child, resting her chin lightly on her head.
"You don't have to marry me," she whispered. "Just stay as you are. That's more than enough."
"But I want to," Eva insisted, pouting. "I want to stay with you always. You make me feel like a real princess."
Seraphina kissed her hair. "You are a real princess."
The weight of Eva melted into her arms as the child murmured soft things—"Ina is soft," and "Your heart beats nice"—until her words slurred and finally vanished into the hush of sleep.
*****
Later that evening, Seraphina led Eva to the bathroom, where a warm bath awaited. The room smelled faintly of lavender and chamomile, and the soft glow of light flickered against the tiled walls. Eva climbed into the water with a little sigh, splashing gently.
"Can you brush my hair when I'm done?" Eva asked, looking up at Seraphina with big, hopeful eyes.
Seraphina smiled and nodded, wrapping a towel around her shoulders. After Eva's bath, she carefully helped lift her from the tub, wrapping her in the towel and drying her soft curls. Then came the brushing—slow, careful strokes that untangled knots without tugging. The warm hum of the blow dryer filled the room as Seraphina gently dried each strand, her fingers delicate as if afraid to break the fragile silk.
Eva giggled as the warm air tousled her hair, her cheeks flushed rosy from the bath.
"Thank you, Ina," she whispered.
Seraphina smiled, leaning down to kiss her gently on both cheeks.
"Ten kisses," Eva said proudly, counting on her fingers. "Five on this cheek… and five on this one."
Seraphina obliged, each kiss a soft promise. Eva's laughter was the kind that felt like sunlight—bright and pure.
*****
That night, Seraphina didn't move Eva from her lap. She shifted only enough to cradle her better, brushing curls from her face and singing lullabies too soft to last past the stars.
The next morning, Eva stirred with a small yawn, blinking her eyes open.
"Ina?"
Seraphina smiled down. "Good morning, moonbeam."
Eva blinked. "I fell asleep again…"
"You did."
"I'm sorry…"
"You never have to be," Seraphina said, kissing her brow. "I liked it."
Eva lit up. Then her pout formed. "You forgot something."
Seraphina gave in with a smile, cupped her chin, and kissed her lips gently.
Eva giggled sleepily and curled tighter into her. "I love you, Ina."
Then, quieter, almost a breath, "Don't wanna go home. Wanna stay in Ina's room. With my Yue… my moonlight Ina…"
Seraphina's heart tugged painfully, fiercely.
Still holding Eva, she picked up her phone and dialed Vivienne. The call connected quickly.
"Hello?" Vivienne sounded half-awake.
"It's me," Seraphina said softly. "Eva wants to stay again. She's still asleep in my arms."
There was a pause.
"Letting us know?" Vivienne teased. "Not asking?"
"I assumed permission was a formality."
Vivienne chuckled. "She's claiming you, you know. And I think… I think you're claiming her right back."
Seraphina said nothing.
She looked down. Eva was tucked into her side like she belonged there. And maybe… maybe she did.
Maybe some love was quiet and early. Like flowers in the wind—too soft to catch, too wild to tame, but somehow still exactly where they needed to bloom.
*****
Later that evening, over wine and roasted figs, Vivienne leaned back in her chair and showed the photo to Eva's parents.
"She's got her wrapped around her tiny fingers," she said, smirking. "Our little poet tamed the Lady of the Moon."
Evelyn—Maman, as Eva called her—covered her mouth, stifling a laugh. Reginald, "Papa," tilted his head (the pretend Papa).
"She's always been attached," he said. "But that's… different. That's devotion."
"Silently thinking I really need to get Eva back to France and be the heir. She doesn't need this softness, the world will be on her knees."
"She threw a tantrum last week over a croissant," Vivienne added. "Sobbed in Seraphina's lap until she got cuddled to sleep. Who else does that?"
It wasn't concern—not yet. They trusted Seraphina. Trusted her with their daughter's genius, her fragility, her wild, blooming heart.