Chapter 56: The Poem of Ina
Eva's little feet pattered along the polished marble of Ainsley Estate's east wing hallway, her curls bouncing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The light from the high windows danced over her as she hurried, a soft, breathless excitement tugging at her chest. She clutched a folded piece of paper in both hands—thin, almost trembling with the weight of what she'd written. She wasn't sure if she was proud or scared, but she knew exactly who she had to show it to.
There was only one person who ever made the weight of her thoughts feel light, who could hold all her feelings without blinking or brushing them aside. One person who would know what to do with something so full of feeling it made her chest ache.
And that was Mère—aunt Vivi.
When Eva reached the quiet study at the end of the hall, she didn't knock. She didn't need to. The staff knew not to enter this part of the house in the early afternoon—it was always just theirs then. Just her and Mère—aunt Vivi.
She slipped inside with a smile already stretching across her face.
The room was quiet, warm, scented with bergamot and old books. Vivienne sat in her favorite chair by the tall windows, a cream cashmere throw over her lap, a novel in hand and one slippered foot tucked beneath her. A cup of tea steamed gently on the table beside her. Her dark hair was pinned up in a loose twist, a few strands curling around her cheekbones, and her glasses perched lazily on the edge of her nose.
Eva crept up softly, until the edge of her dress brushed the arm of the chair.
"Mère—aunt Vivi?"
Vivienne looked up at once, her expression softening into a knowing smile. "Well, if it isn't my starlight girl," she said, voice low and fond. "You've brought me something, haven't you?"
Eva nodded solemnly and held out the folded paper with both hands. "I finished it."
Vivienne blinked once and set her book aside. "The poem?" she asked gently.
Eva nodded again and climbed up onto the edge of the chair, curling beside her aunt. "For her."
A pause, then Vivienne smiled slightly. "Ina?"
Eva flushed. "Yes."
Vivienne smoothed a hand over her curls. "Still calling her Ina instead of Seraphina, hm?"
"She is Ina," Eva said, a little fiercely. "Seraphina is what other people say. Yue is for when everyone's watching. But Ina is mine."
Vivienne gave a thoughtful nod, her eyes warming. "That makes sense. Sometimes names are too big for someone small and soft and special. You chose one that fits your heart."
"She listens when I say it," Eva said, almost in a whisper. "Like only I'm allowed to."
"And maybe you are," Vivienne said softly.
Eva unfolded the paper carefully. The stationery was slightly smudged at the edges from all her clutching and folding. A little corner had been kissed by chocolate earlier that morning—an accident she hadn't told anyone about.
She cleared her throat, then straightened, her voice tiny but proud.
"Pulchra es, ut luna in caelo,
Oculi tui sunt rubri sicut rosae vespertinae,
Sub lucem, pupillae tuae aureae micant,
Et cum rideas, fit pax in mundo meo."
She looked up to make sure Mère—aunt Vivi was listening, then added her own translation with a shy smile:
"You are beautiful, like the moon in the sky,
Your eyes are red like evening roses,
Under the light, your pupils shine gold,
And when you smile, peace happens in my world."
The room fell very quiet.
Vivienne stared at her niece for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind her sharp eyes. Then she reached out and gently cupped Eva's cheek.
"You wrote that," she whispered.
Eva nodded.
"In Latin."
Another nod.
"You, my love, are going to make hearts tremble one day."
Eva flushed pink to the ears and tucked her face against her aunt's side. "It's not that good."
"It is," Vivienne said simply. "And more than that—it's yours. No one could've written that but you."
Eva closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of bergamot, ink, and something soft like sandalwood. She felt safe here, tucked beneath Vivienne's arm, tucked inside this moment.
"I wanted it to sound like Ina feels," Eva murmured. "Like the way she watches things quietly. Like the way she listens to me without ever saying I talk too much."
Vivienne's lips curled faintly. "Mmm. So you wrote her soul down on paper."
"Yes," Eva whispered. "That's exactly it."
Vivienne adjusted her glasses and glanced toward the window, where sunlight shimmered across the glass like ripples on a pond. "There are grown women who've never been able to name a feeling like that. But you? You capture it like breath in a jar."
Eva tilted her head. "Does that mean I'm strange?"
"No, sweetling," Vivienne said. "It means you're rare."
They sat like that for a while, the late light casting golden streaks across the room. Vivienne didn't press her to explain more, didn't laugh, didn't tease—not like she might have with anyone else. Her hand only drifted slowly over Eva's curls, smoothing down the little tufts that never stayed still.
"Does Ina know?" Vivienne asked softly.
Eva stared down at the poem in her lap. "No."
"Why not?"
"I don't think she would laugh. But I don't think she'd know what it means yet."
"And that worries you?"
"No… not worries. I just… I want her to feel it the way I do."
Vivienne took a slow breath, looking at the child beside her as though she were watching a rose unfold in reverse—something so delicate, too lovely to blink at.
"Then maybe it isn't time yet," she murmured.
Eva nodded. "I think I need to write another one. A real one. Something even better."
Vivienne arched a brow. "And this one?"
"This one… I'll keep. Just for me. Just in case she ever wants to know what I felt the very first time."
Vivienne let out a quiet hum of agreement. "You're far too young to be this poetic."
Eva smiled into her lap. "I think it's just how I see things."
Vivienne tilted her head. "Maybe so. You've always seen the world in a way most people don't."
After a moment, Eva swung her legs over the edge of the chair and let her toes brush the rug. "Do you think Manman will want to read it?"
Vivienne smiled. "Your mother will melt."
"And Papa?"
Vivienne laughed softly. "He'll pretend to understand the Latin, then ask me for a translation."
Eva giggled, curling closer.
Then she grew quiet again. "Mère—aunt Vivi?"
"Yes, sweetling?"
"Do you think Ina will still want to see me when I'm older?"
Vivienne's expression turned thoughtful. "I think she'll never stop."
Eva considered this, her hands pressed to the folded poem. "Even if I grow up different?"
Vivienne turned to look her in the eye. "You'll never grow out of being you. And Ina… well, she seems like the kind of girl who'd notice that before anything else."
Eva's throat felt full. Not with tears—just something too big to name. She didn't cry. Instead, she leaned her head against Vivienne's arm and closed her eyes.
"I hope she does," she whispered.
"Would you like to write another poem now?" Vivienne offered, her voice as gentle as a page turning.
Eva thought for a moment. "I think I want to draw her first. Then I'll know what kind of poem to write next."
Vivienne reached for the drawer in the side table and produced a small leather-bound sketchbook and a set of charcoal pencils. She placed them in Eva's lap without a word.
And Eva began to draw.
Line by line, curve by curve—she traced the image of Ina from memory. Not just the sharpness of her eyes or the way her auburn hair shimmered when she turned, but the quiet things: the tilt of her head when she listened, the softness that bloomed on her lips when she smiled only for Eva.
She drew the garden in the background—roses curling upward like they'd been pulled by Ina's presence alone. And she labeled the corner of the page in small, neat cursive: For Me. Not Yue. Ina.
Vivienne watched her for a while before returning to her tea and her novel. But every so often, she'd glance sideways and catch a glimpse of the child's devotion carved in black and white.
By the time Eva finished, the sun had shifted lower, casting honey-colored shadows on the floor.
She held up the sketch, cheeks flushed. "Do you think she looks like that?"
Vivienne nodded slowly. "That's her heart on paper."
Eva blinked, unsure whether to smile or cry.
"She's going to love you for a long, long time, Eva," Vivienne said gently.
"How do you know?"
"Because I've watched her watch you."
Eva smiled, and this time, she didn't look away.
She tucked the poem and the drawing into the folds of her dress, like treasures for another day. Perhaps she wouldn't give them to Ina just yet. But someday… when the moment was soft enough, maybe she would.
For now, she had this—the warmth of Vivienne's hand, the scent of tea and old books, the way golden light curled over their shoulders like a hush.
She didn't know what all her feelings meant, not really. Only that they glowed inside her like a candle lit with Ina's name.
And in the quiet afternoon, with her poem pressed close and Vivienne beside her, she understood one thing completely:
She didn't have to know what it would grow into. She only had to let it bloom.
And today, it had begun.