Chapter 102: The Birthday Sonata
The grand hall of the Wycliffe estate shimmered under a canopy of crystal light. The chandelier spilled gold across the gleaming marble floors, mirrored walls stretching the splendor into something otherworldly. Guests murmured behind polished glasses of rosé and sparkling elderflower, laughter punctuated by the soft clink of silver trays and porcelain.
Servers moved with quiet precision, threading through clusters of well-dressed adults. A string trio played a light waltz near the central fountain, the notes rippling over the surface of water like silk.
At the entrance stood Evangeline "Eva" Claire Ainsley — small, immaculate, discontent.
Her ivory dress shimmered faintly with pearl undertones. Her curls, brushed with patience by both Maman and Mère, framed her face in soft spirals. She held her violin case close, not for comfort — but with a kind of proprietary determination. She did not like this noise. She did not like the artificial laughter or the way other children pointed or whispered with giggles behind lacquered punch cups.
She looked around once — twice.
Seraphina wasn't there.
Her brows, small and expressive, knitted. She shifted her weight impatiently.
Mère bent down. "Sweetheart," she murmured, brushing a curl from her cheek, "you remember why we're here."
Eva didn't glance at her. "To play."
"Yes. To be gracious. To show your gift. Even if the boy is…"
"A fool?" Eva offered flatly.
Mère stifled a snort. "Not the word I'd use in public. But — yes. Try to be polite."
Eva gave a regal nod, though her eyes continued to scan the crowd with visible disinterest. She found the birthday boy easily.
Adrian Wycliffe.
He was twelve. Tall for his age. Bone-pale and knife - angular, like a porcelain sculpture meant to be admired but never touched. His suit was flawlessly tailored, but it only exaggerated the chill that clung to him like perfume.
He met Eva's gaze and smiled — but it was not a warm smile. It was rehearsed, as if he'd been trained to smile when looked at, like a museum exhibit aware of its plaque.
Eva blinked once.
Then looked away.
Unimpressed.
Later, as the chatter dulled and guests gathered near the performance area, Eva's name was called. The room hushed. Even the children, too sugared - up on candied nuts and mini éclairs, fell still.
Eva stepped onto the raised platform, violin in hand, dress catching the chandeliers' light like a melted star.
She did not look nervous.
She looked… eternal.
The bow met strings.
From the very first note, the air shifted.
It wasn't a recital — it was invocation.
The haunting melody, stitched from a poem she'd written in Seraphina's absence, moved like incense. Each note unfurled longing, devotion, a grief too ancient for a five - year - old — but it was hers.
Then she sang, her voice clear and strange in its purity.
"Solum Illa Caelum Movet"
(Only She Moves the Sky)
Auburnae fluctus capillorum,
et oculi nocte pallidiores,
Splendet ut stella super firmamentum,
nulla nisi illa movet caelum…
Waves of auburn hair,
and eyes paler than night,
She shines like a star in the firmament,
none but she can move the sky.
Unica, dominatrix viae lacteae,
cuius oculi — venena dulcissima —
trahunt me sub undas abyssorum,
ubi lumen ipsa est et tempestas…
The only one, ruler of the galaxy's path,
whose gaze — sweetest poison —
pulls me beneath ocean's abyss,
where she is both light and storm.
O quam micat in tenebris,
illa — lux mea, perditio mea —
meum cor in chordis tremit,
ubi ipsa canit: Solum Illa Caelum Movet.
Oh how she gleams in the dark,
she — my light, my ruin —
my heart trembles on the strings,
as she sings: Only She Moves the Sky.
By the final note, the room had forgotten to breathe.
Then—
Applause exploded.
Eva blinked once, curtsied deeply, and left the stage with silence stitched around her like a cloak.
As the party buzzed back to life, Adrian found her by the garden door, tucked half out of sight behind a potted lemon tree.
"You play well," he said coolly.
"Thank you," Eva replied without looking at him.
"I liked your poem. It sounded… I don't know. Strange. But kind of good."
Eva turned. "It wasn't for you."
He blinked. "What?"
"It wasn't meant for you. You weren't supposed to understand it."
He stiffened. "Want to see my koi pond?"
"I saw it when I arrived."
"Want to play something else for me?"
"No. I'm tired."
Adrian's jaw twitched. "Why'd you come then?"
"I came to play. Now I want to go home. And see my Ina."
"Ina?" he echoed, confused.
"Yue," she corrected firmly. "She's my favorite."
Adrian laughed suddenly — too loud. "You mean Seraphina Langford's pet? That's what you are, isn't it? A Langford lapdog. If I were you, I'd follow someone with real power. Someone like me."
Eva's eyes sharpened. But she didn't cry. She didn't even flinch.
She curtsied.
"Well," she said sweetly, "you're very good at pretending to be impressive. But you're not kind. And cold boys aren't beautiful, no matter how many suits they wear."
He stepped closer and reached for a strand of her hair.
She stepped back. "Don't."
"You don't tell me what to do."
"I just did," Eva said coldly. "Don't touch me. You're not allowed."
Then she turned her back and walked away — leaving Adrian standing alone, frozen in a maze of gold and embarrassment.
By the time the Ainsleys returned home, night had fallen. The Langford estate glowed softly beneath warm lights. Inside, the world was still. Seraphina lay curled on the couch, wrapped in a knit blanket with a book in hand.
She looked up when the front door opened—
And Eva launched like a comet.
"Inaaaaaaaaaa!"
She flung her tiny body forward. Seraphina dropped her book just in time to catch the blur of white and curls that hurled into her lap.
Eva clung.
Seraphina steadied her with both arms. "You're back early."
"I hated it," Eva said dramatically. "It was horrible."
"Did you play well?"
"I was divine."
"Of course you were."
Eva pressed kisses to Seraphina's cheeks between words. "I — missed — you — so — much — please — never — leave — me — again."
Seraphina laughed through the barrage. "You're being clingy."
"I want cuddles."
"You always want cuddles."
"I want your cuddles."
She wrapped herself tighter, resting her head under Seraphina's chin. "Ina. There was a boy. He was handsome."
"Oh?"
"But he touched my hair. And he called me a pet."
Seraphina stilled. "He what?"
"I told him no. I left. Then I composed a song in my head about how his eyes were like dead jellyfish."
Seraphina burst out laughing.
Mère walked by with tea and gave a knowing look.
"She's rewriting Ode to a Cold Fish as we speak," she murmured.
Seraphina carried Eva upstairs piggyback, the little one humming lazily.
"Ina," she said sleepily as they reached her room, "that boy said I was weird."
Seraphina kissed her forehead. "You're extraordinary. Weird just means the world can't catch up to you."
"Do you understand me?"
"Better than anyone."
"That's why I'll marry you."
Seraphina smiled. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
Once nestled under the covers, Eva pulled her closer. "You have to sleep with me tonight."
"Bossy."
"Desperate."
Seraphina slid in beside her, wrapping her arms around her like a living blanket.
Eva whispered something then.
A poem. Again.
Right against her ear.
"Solum Ina caelum movet…"
Only Ina moves the heavens.
The next morning, Eva sat at the kitchen table, lips pursed dramatically.
"What's wrong now?" Seraphina asked.
Eva pointed at the cookie tin.
Mère raised an eyebrow. "You've already had two."
"I want three."
"No."
Eva folded her arms. "Ina will give me one."
Mère smirked. "Ina, don't—"
Seraphina pulled out a single cookie and placed it dramatically in Eva's palm.
Eva blinked. Then smiled.
She kissed Seraphina's hand. Then her cheek. Then her nose. "You're the only one who loves me," she murmured, eyes watering with performative betrayal. "The only one."
Mère rolled her eyes. "This child needs theater camp."
Seraphina just kissed her temple.
Eva hummed and leaned her head against her shoulder. "I should've taken you to the party instead of Maman. You'd have thrown that cold boy in the fountain."
"Maybe."
"I'm your princess," Eva added.
"You're a menace."
"I'm your menace."
And Seraphina could only laugh.
From the hallway, Mère watched the two of them. She lifted her phone, recording again.
This time, she sent the video to Maman with a new caption:
"I don't know if we're raising a poet or a tiny empress."
Maman replied: "Both. God help whoever she marries. Or Ina. Probably Ina."