Chapter 7: Velvet Petals and Cookie Crumbs
At two years old, Evangeline Claire Lioré had memorized the layout of the manor's west wing, could differentiate Bach from Vivaldi by the fifth note, and had already begun categorizing her thoughts in layered mental folders—color-coded, no less.
But she still couldn't reach the cookie jar on her own.
It was a curious tension—being so self-aware, so intelligent, and yet… undeniably tiny. Her hands were small and chubby, unable to grip anything wider than her wrist. Her tongue struggled to pronounce certain syllables. She'd stopped babbling by the time she was one, opting instead for a crisp and eerie silence that made the maids nervous.
Until she asked for her first book.
Not a storybook. A book. A real one. Hardcover, gilded spine, the works.
"Pi…ano," she had said quietly one rainy afternoon, pointing at the sheet music stacked beside the grand piano in the parlor. Her voice was a whisper—hoarse from disuse, and clumsy with baby softness. But she had said it clearly.
Her mama, seated nearby in a pale blue gown, had frozen mid-stitch.
"You… want the music, darling?"
Eva had nodded once. And then added, softly, "And Bach."
From that moment, they knew she was different.
*****
By the time her second birthday passed, the household had adopted a kind of quiet awe around her. The nannies whispered that she had "old eyes." The butler treated her like visiting royalty. The cooks, unsure whether she'd approve of their menus, kept them as simple and elegant as possible: jasmine rice, soft poached eggs, steamed vegetables—never seasoned beyond a pinch of salt.
But Eva wasn't cold.
She was… adjusting.
*****
She liked the garden best.
It was where the chaos of rebirth felt the least strange—where she could remember her old world without mourning it too deeply. The Lioré estate's garden sprawled like a tamed forest: rose arches, lily ponds, tiny fountains that bubbled like secrets. Butterflies made regular appearances. The occasional fox wandered close to the hedges.
That afternoon, she sat cross-legged in the grass, a wide sunhat slanted over her dark head, small fingers plucking wild clover and soft violets into her lap.
She wasn't wearing shoes. She hated shoes.
The grass tickled her feet, and the sun was warm on her back.
For a long time, she did nothing but stare at the petals in her lap. Her breath was slow. Her eyes, half-lidded. One violet petal stuck to her finger, and she watched it cling like static. There was a sense of… gratitude. Quiet, aching gratitude.
In her first life, she had died in a white room that smelled of bleach. No one had held her hand. No one had noticed the moment her pulse dipped below measurable. And now—here she was. Bathed in gold light, with flowers in her lap and warmth on her skin.
"I'm glad I got to come back," she whispered.
The wind picked up gently, brushing her hair from her cheeks.
*****
Inside the manor, her mother peeked from behind the parlor curtains, watching her daughter in the sun.
"She's not like the others," she murmured.
Vivienne, seated beside her with a half-embroidered handkerchief in her lap, gave a small amused snort. "No. She's far too elegant to be two. You'd think she's plotting a hostile takeover of the cosmos."
"She is. Of our hearts," Evelyn whispered. Then added with a shaky smile, "But I still worry. She never cries. She rarely tantrums. I've never even seen her pout."
"She will," her aunt replied. "Even perfect little creatures throw fits eventually."
"Maybe," her mama said softly. "But she shouldn't have to be perfect."
*****
The tantrum came later.
It began with a cookie.
Eva had been seated in her favorite high-backed chair, velvet-cushioned and too large for her, at the breakfast veranda with her mama and aunt. Sunlight filtered through the draped vines, and porcelain clinked softly.
A plate was set before her. On it, three small cookies: pale, crumbly, dusted with sugar. She stared at them suspiciously. Then picked one up with extreme delicacy—like a priceless artifact—and bit.
And then she froze.
The flavor hit her like a lullaby: butter and almond, with a warmth that reminded her of things she didn't remember having. Her hands trembled slightly. She looked up at the adults. Her lips were still parted.
Her aunt raised a brow. "Do you like it, darling?"
Eva blinked. Then, very solemnly, she said: "More."
The plate was empty. She had finished the last cookie without realizing. Her small hands reached forward instinctively—expecting another to appear.
But her mama placed a soft hand over hers. "Sweetheart, that's enough for now. Too many will upset your stomach."
And for the first time in her new life—Eva pouted.
Her lips curled slightly downward. Her brows pinched. She did not cry, but her eyes filled instantly with indignant tears. Her tiny hand trembled against the table. The betrayal of it. The denial. It wasn't rage—she didn't scream, didn't slam her fists—but the disappointment radiated off her like heat.
Then she sniffed. Once.
Her lips trembled.
Her eyes locked on the cookie tray just out of reach.
"Oh, dear," her aunt murmured, covering her mouth with a hand. "She's going to—"
"I told you," her mama whispered. "She has feelings too."
And then, like a storm passing, Eva sighed.
The tears stayed in her eyes, but she leaned back in her chair with exaggerated calm, as though composing herself for a press conference. She folded her small hands in her lap and blinked very slowly.
Her mama and aunt nearly lost it.
"She's… she's too cute," her aunt whispered, turning her face away as she stifled a laugh. "She wanted that cookie so badly."
"And she didn't cry. She wanted to—but she didn't."
Eva stared at them. Her eyes were still a little wet, her cheeks puffed. But she'd survived her first real heartbreak.
They let her have another cookie. Just one.
**
That night, her mama tucked her into the silk-soft cradle of her bed, fingers brushing Eva's hair from her temple. The nursery smelled like lavender and linen. A nightlight in the shape of a tiny moon glowed gently beside her.
"You were so good today," her mama whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Even when we said no."
Eva didn't speak. Her hands were tucked beneath her chin, her lashes low.
"Sometimes," her mama continued, voice soft with wonder, "I think you're not really a baby at all."
Eva didn't deny it.
But she did whisper, "Thank you."
Her mama froze.
Then smiled. And for the first time in her life, she whispered back, "You're welcome, darling."
*****
Over the next few weeks, Eva allowed more of her childishness to peek through.
She squealed when a butterfly landed on her hand.
She kicked her legs when she discovered the bell tied to the cat's collar jingled when she tugged it (which resulted in a strict, loving lesson about "gentle hands").
She pouted when the bathwater turned cold, and clung to her towel like a sullen kitten.
These things—small and ordinary—brought visible relief to the adults. They weren't disappointed by her genius. They were delighted when she tripped over her own socks. They celebrated her clumsy watercolor paintings more than her flawless ability to stack blocks by color, size, and frequency of visual exposure.
*****
One morning, she sat in the garden again, this time with a woven basket on her lap. She was picking flowers again, but this time, she made small arrangements. Violets with baby's breath. White roses with fern fronds. Tiny bouquets no bigger than her fist.
When her aunt found her, Eva offered one of the arrangements wordlessly.
Her aunt knelt down, her lavender silk scarf fluttering behind her, and took it with reverent hands.
"For me?" she asked.
Eva nodded.
Her aunt kissed her forehead. "Thank you, darling. This is… perfect."
*****
And in that moment, Eva felt it: a flicker of something warm and unwound. Not duty. Not calculation. Not the cold surge of achievement.
Love. Given. Without needing to be earned.
Her mama and aunt didn't need her to be brilliant.
They needed her to be a child.
And she—Evangeline Claire Lioré, reborn from sterile genius to soft defiance—was finally beginning to understand what that meant.