Chapter 49: When the Night Trembled
The house slept.
Outside, moonlight spilled across the hedges like milk, and a wind rustled quietly through the trees. The sky was clear—no storm, no rain, not even the hush of clouds—but inside the nursery, Eva trembled.
She didn't know what had awakened her at first. Her breath came fast, shallow. The shadows in the corners of the room had shifted—grown teeth. The light from her little reading lamp flickered once, as if unsure whether to stay.
Then it came back.
Not in full color, not even clearly—but the dream.
A room not hers. A cold one. White walls, wires. Machines that beeped without kindness. The smell of antiseptic and metal.
She had been in that room. Not in this life. Somewhere else.
Something in her chest ached sharply. Eva clutched at her nightgown. Her throat felt too tight to breathe, her eyes burned, but no tears fell—not yet.
She slid out of bed, bare feet padding silently against the rug. Her bunny plush was forgotten. Her small body moved on instinct, ghostlike in the half-dark, her heart thudding in her ears. Down the hall, past the quiet guest room, around the corner—
She didn't knock.
Vivienne was reading in bed, still half-dressed in her silk nightgown and robe, glasses perched on her nose as she pored over a mystery novel. A candle flickered beside her. She heard the faintest creak and looked up—
Just in time to see the door open.
"Eva?"
The child stood there, pale as snow, her hair tangled from sleep, her lips trembling. She didn't make a sound—but her eyes were glossy with unshed tears, and her small hands were clenched at her sides.
Vivienne was out of bed in two strides.
"Sweetheart?" she said gently. "What's wrong, my little mouse?"
Eva ran to her.
Vivienne caught her in her arms, lifting her easily. And now, finally, Eva broke.
No wail. No shriek.
Only a soft, choked sound, as if she couldn't remember how to cry aloud. Her little chest heaved, but her sobs were silent. Her cheeks were damp where the tears had finally escaped.
"Eva—darling, you're shaking—" Vivienne pressed her hand to the back of Eva's head and kissed her forehead, her nose, her cheek in rapid succession. "Oh, my love. My sweet girl. What happened?"
"I—" Eva clung to her tightly, burying her face in her aunt's collar. "I don't want to go back there."
Vivienne felt a chill. "Back where, darling?"
Eva's voice cracked. "A room. With wires. I was all alone. Machines. Cold."
Vivienne tightened her hold. "Shhh. It's not real. You're here, little mouse. You're home."
But Eva only sobbed harder.
"I don't want to be hooked to machines," she whispered. "I don't want to be alone again. I don't want to be clever anymore if it means that."
Vivienne's throat tightened. "Oh, sweetheart. You're safe now. You'll never be alone again, I promise you."
She carried Eva to the bed and climbed in with her, wrapping both the blankets and her arms around the trembling child. Her lips brushed Eva's hair, soft and wild, her fingers gently stroking down her back.
Eva curled close.
Her voice, quiet and raw, reached Vivienne's heart like a prayer.
"I don't want to be in a room where I'm not loved."
"You are loved," Vivienne whispered fiercely. "You are loved more than anything in this world."
There was a long silence, broken only by Eva's slowing breath. Then—
"I want you to be my other mother."
Vivienne froze.
Eva's voice was barely audible. "Please?"
Vivienne pulled back just enough to see Eva's face—still tear-streaked, flushed from crying.
"Eva," she began, her own voice cracking. "My little moonlight…"
"I don't want to call you Aunt Vivi anymore," Eva murmured, pressing her face into Vivienne's chest. "I want to call you Mama too."
And then the tears started again—not Eva's this time.
Vivienne kissed the top of her head. "You already are my child. Always. From the first moment I saw you."
"Really?" Eva looked up, her eyes big and shiny.
"Really," Vivienne whispered. "You're mine as much as you are Evelyn's."
"Then can I call you Mama?" Her voice caught on the word. "Please?"
Vivienne nodded, unable to speak.
And then—
The bedroom door creaked open again.
Evelyn stood there in her robe, barefoot, her hair loose and shadowed by candlelight. Her face softened the moment she saw them curled up together.
"She had a nightmare," Vivienne said quietly.
"I heard something," Evelyn murmured. She crossed the room and sat beside them, brushing a gentle hand down Eva's back. "Oh, my darling."
"She remembered something," Vivienne said, her arms still tight around Eva. "From before. A hospital or something like it."
Evelyn closed her eyes briefly. "I was afraid this might happen."
Eva stirred. Her voice was hoarse but steady.
"I told Mama "mere" Vivi I want her to be my other mother."
Evelyn blinked.
Then smiled—tender and sad and luminous.
"You have the best taste," she whispered, leaning in and kissing Vivienne's lips gently.
Vivienne's eyes fluttered shut.
When she opened them again, she saw Eva watching them—calmer now, no longer crying, just tired and small and held.
"Someday," Evelyn said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind Vivienne's ear, "we'll tell her everything."
Vivienne nodded. "Someday."
Eva yawned.
Then she stretched out a hand, patting the bed between them.
"Mama "manman" sleep with us," she murmured. "I want you too. Not just Aunt Vivi."
Vivienne smiled through another wave of tears. "She's not Aunt Vivi anymore, remember?"
Eva nodded, her eyelids fluttering.
"She's my Mere too."
And then she dozed off, nestled between them, one hand still holding tightly to Vivienne's sleeve.
Evelyn lay down on the other side, curling protectively around them both.
For a long while, the room was silent.
Only the soft breath of sleep, the warmth of skin against skin, and the unspoken promises that hung in the dark like constellations—
You are safe.
You are home.
You are ours.
*****
The next morning, Eva awoke in the nest of blankets and limbs, her bunny plush somehow having made its way into her arms during the night.
She didn't speak right away.
She only looked at Vivienne—no, Mama Vivienne now—and traced her finger along the line of her jaw while the woman slept.
Evelyn stirred beside them, blinking into the morning light. She smiled.
"She stayed with you," she whispered.
"She always will," Eva answered quietly.
Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, painting the hedges gold. The birds sang.
And from the window, far in the distance, a girl in white sat again beneath the tree—book open, hair bright, eyes distant.
Eva watched her without fear this time.
She didn't try to run. She didn't tremble.
She only whispered to herself:
"One day. I'll walk to her. I'll say hello. I'll tell her my name."
Behind her, Vivienne stirred and pulled her close again without opening her eyes.
And Eva—safe between two mothers, no longer alone—rested her head back on the pillow.
The dream still lingered.
But it no longer ruled her.