Chapter 43: A World of Small Joys
The morning light poured in through the bay windows, casting long golden beams across the drawing room floor. Dust motes danced in the hush of the quiet hour, drifting like stars in a soft, domestic universe. Eva sat cross-legged on the window seat cushion, her small fingers tracing the outline of a pressed flower between the pages of her journal. Her slippers had fallen off long ago, left in a heap near the fireplace, and her toes curled absently against the embroidered fabric of the seat.
She had not yet seen Seraphina today.
For the past three mornings, the girl had not appeared in the garden across the hedge. It was possible she was away—on holiday, perhaps, or simply too busy to be outside. Still, Eva checked each morning, peeking through the glass as the sun rose, waiting for a flash of that familiar movement—a turn of Auburn hair, a glint of sunlight off bright fabric. But the yard remained empty, and so Eva returned to her world of paper, flowers, and silence.
A soft knock came at the door before it creaked open. Vivienne entered, wrapped in a pale cardigan and wearing slippers far too plush for someone as elegant as she was. Her steps were light, her expression unreadable, but her eyes softened the moment she saw Eva curled by the window.
"There you are," she said with a small smile. "I've been looking for you."
Eva looked up but didn't speak immediately. She merely tilted her head slightly, the way she did when listening to birdsong or poetry.
Vivienne crossed the room, her long skirt whispering around her ankles. "You've gone quiet again," she murmured, sitting down beside her niece—her daughter—and smoothing Eva's hair behind her ear. "That means you're thinking."
Eva nodded.
"Would you like to tell me what you're thinking about?"
After a pause, Eva answered in a hush. "I haven't seen her today."
Vivienne blinked. "Her?"
"The girl," Eva said softly. "The one next door."
A flicker of understanding passed through Vivienne's features. "Seraphina."
"She glows," Eva said simply. "But she hasn't come back."
Vivienne wrapped an arm around Eva's small shoulders and pulled her close, pressing a kiss into the crown of her head. "People come and go," she said gently. "Especially the ones who glow."
Eva sighed, leaning into her. "But I didn't even say hello yet."
"You will," Vivienne whispered. "One day. You're growing bolder every day. I can see it."
Eva thought about that, then nestled her head beneath Vivienne's chin and closed her eyes. For a long while, they sat like that—quiet, warm, still. The world moved around them in invisible rhythms, but inside this moment, time felt held.
The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Ainsley estate, dappling the floors with soft gold. Eva sat curled on the edge of a wide velvet armchair in the sunroom, knees tucked beneath her, a pale blanket draped around her shoulders. Her hair was mussed from sleep, her cheeks still pink with warmth, and in her hands, she clutched a half-open picture book—not quite reading, not quite lost in thought.
Vivienne sat across from her, legs elegantly crossed, a steaming cup of jasmine tea held between her hands. Her dark eyes flicked toward the girl with quiet fondness. Eva had been up earlier than usual, awake before the maids even stirred, and instead of calling out or seeking attention, she had made her way here—to her sunroom, as everyone had started to call it—where she waited in silence for someone to join her.
Vivienne was always the first.
"Would you like toast with raspberry jam this morning or?" Vivienne asked gently, setting her cup aside.
"Would you like to come to the kitchen with me?" Vivienne finally asked. "Alina made those almond biscuits you love."
Eva's eyes opened. "The ones with the cinnamon sugar?"
"The very same."
Eva smiled.
Down in the kitchen, the light was warmer and more alive. Alina greeted them with a knowing grin, placing a plate of biscuits on the counter along with a pair of small porcelain cups—one filled with milk, the other with tea. Vivienne sat at the breakfast table while Eva climbed into the cushioned chair beside her, her feet still too short to touch the ground.
They ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the clink of china and the soft crunch of biscuit. Occasionally, Vivienne would glance over and wipe a bit of sugar from the corner of Eva's mouth, her fingers light and practiced. Eva liked the way her aunt watched her—not too close, not too far. Just enough.
"You know," Vivienne said, after a sip of tea, "when I was your age, I used to think the world was too quiet. I thought it meant something was wrong."
Eva blinked up at her. "But you're never quiet now."
"No," Vivienne said, smiling over her cup. "Because I learned that quiet means I'm listening."
Eva considered that.
"I think you're listening too," Vivienne added, brushing her fingers against Eva's. "And the world is trying to tell you something beautiful."
Eva didn't respond with words. Instead, she reached out, took another biscuit, and gently broke it in half—offering the larger piece to Vivienne without a word.
*****
Later that day, while Eva was in the sunroom working on a watercolor of lilies from the garden, Evelyn stopped in. Her heels clicked against the marble before she paused, setting her briefcase near the wall. She looked tired—there were faint smudges beneath her eyes, and her blouse had a barely noticeable coffee stain near the cuff—but her expression softened the moment she saw her daughter.
"My artist," Evelyn murmured.
Eva glanced up with a smile.
Evelyn crossed the room, knelt beside the table, and studied the painting. "These are beautiful," she said softly. "The petals look like they're dancing."
"They are," Eva said. "They were swaying in the wind this morning."
Evelyn leaned in and pressed a kiss to Eva's temple. "You see everything," she whispered. "Sometimes more than we do."
Eva tilted her head. "But you see too. You always know when I'm hiding something."
Evelyn chuckled. "Mothers have a secret radar for those things."
For a moment, Evelyn didn't move. Her hand came to rest on Eva's back, her thumb brushing small circles across the fabric. Then, she rose slowly and brushed the hair from Eva's forehead. "I'll be in the study if you need me."
"I always need you," Eva replied.
Evelyn smiled, quiet and full, and left without another word.
*****
That evening, the house dimmed with the fading sun. Long shadows pooled along the baseboards, and the scent of something roasting filled the halls. Eva wandered barefoot across the hall toward the music room, where she found Reginald standing by the grand piano, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled.
He glanced up when she appeared and offered a half-smile.
"Come to check on the old man?"
Eva giggled. "You're not old."
He sat on the piano bench and patted the space beside him. She climbed up, her legs dangling over the edge, her hands folded in her lap.
"Want to hear something?" he asked.
Eva nodded, and he began to play—a simple, lilting tune, one she remembered from a lullaby Vivienne had once hummed. His fingers moved with ease, calloused yet graceful, and Eva found herself swaying slightly, her head tilted toward his shoulder.
"You're very quiet today," he said softly.
"I'm thinking."
"Ah," he said. "Another thinker in the house. Dangerous combination."
Eva leaned her head against his side. "Do you think… people like glowing girls?"
Reginald's fingers faltered, just slightly.
"What do you mean?"
Eva shrugged. "I mean… do people always like the bright ones best?"
He was quiet a moment, then let his hands still on the keys. "I think the world is big enough for all kinds of people. Some shine on the outside. Some glow quietly. Doesn't mean one is better than the other."
Eva looked up at him. "Do I glow?"
He glanced down at her, and for a rare moment, the mask dropped. There was something tender in his eyes—unguarded.
"You," he said, "glow like a star that hasn't even realized it's burning yet."
Eva's heart fluttered.
They stayed there, side by side, long after the music had stopped.
*****
As night fell, Eva found herself in Vivienne's room. The fire was low in the hearth, casting a soft glow across the walls. Vivienne was seated at her vanity, brushing out her long, dark hair. She caught Eva's reflection in the mirror and smiled.
"Couldn't sleep?"
Eva climbed up onto the bed and curled into the comforter. "Can I stay here?"
Vivienne stood and crossed to the bed, crawling in beside her. "Of course you can."
They lay in silence, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the hush of distant wind.
"Do you think stars get lonely?" Eva asked.
Vivienne stroked her hair. "Sometimes. But they always find each other. Even across the black."
Eva yawned. "I think… I'm finding my way."
Vivienne kissed her forehead. "You are, my darling. And you don't even know how much of the world is already yours."
Eva closed her eyes, safe in the warmth of her other mother's arms, her body relaxing with each soft breath. Outside, the stars flickered gently above the garden hedge. And somewhere out there, the girl who glowed would return.
But for now, Eva didn't need to chase light. She was already bathed in it.