Chapter 51: The Garden of Whispers
The morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the Ainsley Estate, casting soft, fluid patterns on the oak floor as it filtered through pale linen sheers. The air smelled of lilacs and moist earth, drifting in from the garden through a slightly ajar window. Spring had arrived—not with the bravado of calendars and parades of color, but gently, in silence and light, as if whispering a secret only a few could hear.
Eva sat cross-legged on the woven rug near the east-facing window, the one edged with faded reds and greens. It reminded her of old libraries—ones she hadn't seen but somehow remembered, full of forgotten things and silent knowledge. Her pale fingers traced the embroidered hem of her dress, following each petal like it was a riddle to be solved.
She was thinking—not with the aimless drift of a child's thought, but deeply, strangely. Her mind was tethered to the window, to the garden beyond it, and yet adrift with a feeling she could not name. It pulsed somewhere beneath her ribs, fluttering when she remembered—
The door clicked softly. Vivienne entered with a woven basket brimming with mint, rosemary, and thyme, their stems still glittering with dew. Her hair was twisted into a loose coil at her neck, with chestnut strands falling free like wild grass at the edge of a clearing.
"Bonjour, petite fleur (Good morning, little flower)", Vivienne greeted, her voice a kind of music that only Eva ever seemed to understand.
Eva looked up, and her face lit like paper held to the sun. "Bonjour, Mère (Good morning, Mother)", she murmured, quietly but with great importance, using the name she had assigned Vivienne in secret—her own invention of truth.
She lifted her arms without speaking. It wasn't a request so much as an expectation.
Vivienne chuckled. "Comme toujours (As always)", she said, setting the basket down and gathering Eva into her arms. The child curled into her shoulder with the ease of someone returning to the beginning of a story.
With Vivienne, she was allowed to remain soft, allowed to be little. With Evelyn, she was curious, precise, and solemn—sometimes even startling in the way she saw things too clearly. But with Mère, she could be messy and tender, a bloom in mid-wilt, clinging to warmth and touch.
Down the hall, Evelyn's voice drifted like wind over water. "Are we ready for the garden?"
Eva stirred in Vivienne's arms. "Yes! I want to see the butterflies. And the talking flowers."
Vivienne arched an eyebrow, amused. "Ah, of course. Ainsley's flora are known to be terribly chatty."
They stepped onto the terrace together, the morning sun turning the slate underfoot to silver. Before them stretched the gardens—part formal, part wild—designed like a forgotten lullaby. Lavender spilled along the borders, and roses curled around trellises in shades that made Eva want to name new colors. Somewhere, a blackbird sang like it was trying to imitate a violin.
Eva walked between them, clutching Evelyn's and Vivienne's hands. She liked the swing of their arms and the sound of three sets of footsteps. Each corner of the garden held a story she remembered—or imagined. This was the path where the fox had smiled. That was the gate where moonlight lingered.
Then she saw her.
Seraphina.
Across the hedge that marked the end of Ainsley and the beginning of Langford, a girl knelt in a patch of roses. Her auburn hair shimmered like copper threads in the sunlight, half-shadowed by the wide brim of a pale hat. She wore a soft blue dress with little shell buttons. Her dark red eyes, so unusual they seemed unreal, caught the light like garnets pulled from the earth.
She looked like she belonged in a painting that whispered when you weren't looking.
Eva stopped. A gasp caught in her throat, so quiet it barely existed. She stepped behind Vivienne's leg and peeked out as if the air had become too sharp to breathe freely.
Vivienne glanced down with a smirk she didn't hide. "What's this? One of the roses caught your heart?"
Eva flushed and shook her head with almost violent urgency. "No."
Evelyn, smiling to herself, murmured, "Maybe another day."
But Seraphina looked up.
Her gaze crossed the garden. For a moment, she seemed to look past everything—flowers, sky, even hedge—until her eyes met Eva's. And then, her expression softened. It was barely there, but to Eva, it felt like the air changed shape. Seraphina smiled—small, perfect, unreadable.
"Hello," she called. Her voice was smooth, clear. It rang like porcelain held to the ear.
Eva squeaked. An actual, high-pitched squeak. Then she turned and ran behind a tree, pressing her palms to the bark like she might disappear into it.
Vivienne knelt beside her. "Mon trésor," she whispered, brushing a dark curl from her temple. "She's very pretty, isn't she?"
Eva stared at the ground. "She's just… interesting. Her face is like a storybook."
Vivienne's mouth twitched. "Mm. Of course. Nothing more."
Across the hedge, Seraphina returned to her roses, but not without another glance.
The rest of the morning passed in shadows and dappled sun. Eva wandered deeper into the garden, telling stories to lavender sprigs and confiding in the peonies. She found a cluster of bluebells and whispered to them as if they were tiny bells waiting to sing. But her eyes kept straying to the hedge, to the ghost of Seraphina's smile.
After lunch, the estate quieted. Evelyn retired to her office. Vivienne took to folding linens in the sunlit hallway.
Eva stood at the window of her bedroom, forehead pressed to the cool glass. Langford's gardens lay just beyond the hedge. No movement. Seraphina had vanished—but the world still felt changed.
The door creaked. Vivienne entered.
"You're still watching," she said, approaching gently.
Eva didn't look away. "The roses aren't the same without her."
Vivienne sat beside her. "Without who?"
"La fille aux yeux brillants," Eva said. The girl with shining eyes.
"Ah," Vivienne whispered, brushing a thumb under Eva's chin. "The roses are jealous, I think."
Eva finally turned, face serious in that unnerving way only she managed. "Mère?"
"Yes, chérie?"
"Kiss me like this morning."
Vivienne smiled and kissed her temple. "Toujours."
Eva lifted her arms. "Carry me. Just a little."
"You're growing too fast," Vivienne said, but picked her up with no complaint. Eva wrapped herself around her, limbs like vines curling for comfort.
"I feel strange," Eva murmured. "Inside."
Vivienne tilted her head. "Strange how?"
"Like my bones are made of feathers. Like… I'm floating even when I'm not."
Vivienne's breath hitched, just slightly.
Eva's eyes wandered. "Mère, am I broken?"
"No, my love," Vivienne said softly. "You're blooming."
Eva blinked. "But it feels like wilting."
"Ah," Vivienne whispered. "That's how it begins."
Eva sat up straighter in her arms and whispered, almost reverently:
"Mon cœur s'éveille sous les roses,
Un nom murmuré dans la brise—
Seraphina, lumière douce,
Qui fait danser l'âme éprise."
("My heart awakens beneath the roses,
A name whispered in the breeze—
Seraphina, gentle light,
Who makes the soul dance with longing.")
Vivienne was quiet for a long moment. "Where did you hear that?"
"I didn't," Eva said. "It came to me."
"You're three," Vivienne reminded, breath catching.
Eva nodded solemnly. "That's what admiration does."
Vivienne held her closer, a little too tightly. "Oh, mon cœur."
That evening, Evelyn found them curled together on the window seat. Eva was asleep, one hand tangled in Vivienne's, the other resting above her heart.
"She saw something in that girl," Vivienne murmured.
Evelyn looked down at her child, her miracle. "Or maybe something in herself," she said.
Night came like a hush.
Later, in the glow of her nightlight, Eva stirred. "Manman?" she whispered.
Evelyn smoothed back her curls. "Yes, darling?"
"Do you think Seraphina would play with me tomorrow?"
Evelyn kissed her brow. "I think she's already hoping."
Eva smiled, eyes fluttering shut. "Maybe tomorrow."
She dreamed of sunlight, lavender, and a hand reaching just past the hedge. A voice like wind, and eyes that glowed like the last sliver of dusk.