Chapter 85: Only Seraphina
Seraphina's Perspective
The days after my birthday returned to their usual rhythm, though I carried Eva's presence like a warmth I could summon at will.
She came over nearly every day now, usually after her lessons. Sometimes Evelyn — her Maman — would stay for tea, sharp - eyed and amused, lingering just long enough to observe. Sometimes she'd leave with a fond sigh and a warning: "Only an hour." But she knew. We both knew. That hour would be extended by clever kisses, theatrical pouting, and promises she might or might not keep.
Eva arrived that afternoon in a flurry of chaos and sunlight, her hair windblown, her cheeks pink with spring chill. She had too many things in her arms — her tablet, a book of Latin riddles, her rabbit plushie, a velvet pouch with a locket she claimed was ancient, and a half-eaten mango wrapped in beeswax paper. She dumped them all in a heap on my carpet like a miniature queen shedding her spoils of conquest.
Then, without ceremony, she kicked off her shoes and climbed straight into my lap, twisting sideways so her cheek pressed against my collarbone. Her arms slipped around my waist. She sighed — long and theatrical — before melting into me like soft wax.
And maybe my lap was her rightful throne.
I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed the top of her head. Lavender and rosemary. Aunt Vivienne's doing, no doubt.
"Do you know what Mama — Maman — said?" she mumbled into my dress, muffled and indignant.
"No. What did she say?"
"She said we have to go to another one. Another "boring grown-up thing". A banquet or whatever."
She groaned like she was being sentenced to exile. I smoothed my fingers along the arch of her spine.
"I don't wanna go," she huffed again, puffing out her cheeks like a sulking cherub. "They talk and talk and everyone's hands are cold and I have to wear shoes with buckles. And they don't like me. They always say 'that Ainsley girl.' Or worse. 'Seraphina's pet.'"
Her voice trembled on the word pet, and her nose wrinkled in disgust.
"I'm not a pet, hmmph." She sat up a little and took my face in both hands. Her eyes were wide, dark, and fierce. "I'm your Eva. And you're my Seraphina. My yue. My Ina."
She kissed me between every word—cheek, lips, chin, eyelid. Her arms wrapped tighter around my neck, fierce as ivy.
"You wore buckle shoes for my party," I reminded her gently.
"That was different." Her voice dropped into a soft, reverent hush. "That was for you. You're the only one that matters."
I didn't answer right away. I was too busy memorizing the look in her eyes—like I was the moon in a sky only she could see.
Then she curled back against me and whispered into the hollow of my throat, "I don't wanna go. I only want Seraphina. I only want Ina."
Her voice cracked. Melodrama? Maybe. But sincerity hummed underneath like a bowed cello string. She pressed her nose against my cheek, seeking shelter like a frightened kitten.
I lifted her chin and kissed her—slow and soft, lips to lips. A steadying kiss. A promise. A butterfly brushing between heartbeats.
"It's alright, little moonbeam," I whispered against her mouth. "I'll be there too."
Her body stilled. Her breath caught. She blinked slowly, the storm behind her eyes beginning to clear.
"As long as you're there… I'll be fine," she murmured, barely audible.
She curled even closer, her arms a chain of stars around me. I stroked her back, slow and rhythmic, tracing the knobs of her spine. She fit perfectly. Not too heavy. Not too small. Just right.
When did that happen — this alignment of limbs and hearts? When had she become the shape I didn't know I was missing?
"Don't forget to kiss me again," she said, her voice still thick with pout.
So I did. Forehead. Nose. Lips. Cheek. One after another, like a rain of petals.
My little moonbeam. Her soft star.
*****
Later, she insisted we move to the window bench. The light was soft, dust dancing in golden shafts. She tucked her legs beneath her and pressed her face into my shoulder. I read while she flipped through a book about the life cycle of swans.
"They mate for life," she whispered, running her finger along the image of two swans forming a heart with their necks. "That's nice, right? Always together."
"Not always," I said gently. "Sometimes one dies."
She stilled. "But if they don't die… they stay?"
"Yes. Usually."
"I want that," she said softly. "I want us to be swans."
She didn't look up. Her fingers traced the wings like a map she intended to follow.
I didn't say anything. Because I knew. I knew that wings tear, winds shift, lakes dry up. Even love could fall apart.
But not for her. Not yet.
So I leaned down, kissed her hair, and whispered, "Then swans we'll be."
We moved to the music room after tea. The marble floor was cold but she danced barefoot, spinning and skipping until the peridot in her ring flashed like a tiny sun meeting its moon. Her bracelet jingled with every twirl.
"You're not watching!" she cried.
"I am watching."
"You missed the leap!"
"I saw it."
"Describe it!"
I raised an eyebrow. "It was a magnificent, soaring leap — part gazelle, part phoenix. Your landing, however…"
She squealed with laughter and raced back to try again. This time, she flung herself toward me, arms out, a flying meteor in tulle.
I barely caught her in time. Her momentum nearly knocked me off balance.
"Caught you," she whispered, triumphant and breathless.
I kissed her cheek. "You always do."
*****
Evening crept in, turning the windows to gold.
We curled on the chaise now, a shawl draped over our legs. Eva lay sprawled across my lap, sketching in her notebook with intense focus.
"New design?" I asked.
She nodded without looking up. "You'll wear this one when we're swans."
It was a hair ornament—gold, with stars dripping like icicles. A sun nestled in the center, flanked by twin crescent moons. A secret hinge would make the stars shimmer when I walked.
"Promise to wear it?" she asked.
"I promise."
"Even if I'm still little and you're grown up?"
"Yes."
"Even if I make a prettier one later?"
"Especially then."
She closed the notebook and grinned, a light so bright it hurt. "Will you sit on my lap next time?"
I raised an eyebrow. "I think you'll need to grow first."
She pouted. "I'm very strong."
"Of course you are."
"Maman said I'm getting heavier."
"You are."
"Is that your polite way of saying I'm fat?"
I laughed. "It's my polite way of saying you're growing."
She considered that, then rolled onto her back and looked up at me with a grin. "As long as I still fit on Ina."
"You always will."
*****
Later that night, Evelyn arrived.
Eva had hidden behind the chaise, giggling. When Evelyn called her name, she sprang out, leapt into my lap again, and wrapped herself around me like ivy.
"I'm staying forever," she declared. "I'll hide in the laundry chute. You'll never find me."
"I will," Evelyn said calmly.
"I'll change my name. You won't even know it's me."
Evelyn smirked. "I think I'd recognize you, even if you changed your name to Captain Mango."
Eva turned to me and whispered, "If I run away, will you come with me?"
"Yes."
"You promise?"
I kissed her. "I always do."
She kissed me back — once, twice, three times — and then slowly, with great dramatic flair, slid off my lap and allowed Evelyn to take her hand.
As they walked down the corridor, Eva kept looking back.
"Ina! Blow a kiss!"
I did.
"Again!"
I did again.
"Last one!"
I blew a final kiss.
She caught it midair with both hands, held it to her chest, and whispered, "It's mine forever."
The house grew quiet.
But not empty.
She'd left her bracelet on the windowsill, the one with the black diamond and star chains. Not forgotten. Left on purpose—a secret signal. A promise.
I slipped it onto my wrist and held it close.
I was hers.
And she was mine.
Even if just for now. Even if just until the wind changes. Even if only for this age where kisses still mean forever.
And for tonight, that was enough.