Chapter 8: The Kingdom of Spines
The east wing of the Lioré estate was a quiet place—tucked away behind white hallways, tapestries embroidered with stories older than the empire itself, and doors that whispered secrets when they opened. Most of the household staff rarely ventured there unless summoned. It was lined with unused drawing rooms, guest chambers filled with ancient perfume, and the manor's greatest treasure: the private library.
No one expected a two-year-old to find it.
Yet, one bright morning, after breakfast and a short adventure prying open the locked cabinet of jam jars (which resulted in her hands being gently wiped clean by a very patient butler), Eva discovered it.
She'd been chasing a sunbeam.
It filtered through the tall windows, landing like a golden trail along the polished marble floor. Her bare feet padded after it, the hem of her dress brushing her ankles as she turned a corner she hadn't explored before. A left, then a right, then down a short hall lined with stone busts of long-dead relatives she refused to greet. The hallway ended in a tall, arched door with iron handles shaped like curling vines.
And when she tugged—just enough to widen the gap—a smell wafted out.
Leather. Ink. Dust. Time.
Her breath caught. The sunbeam curved toward the door, inviting her in. She accepted.
*****
The Lioré library was not just a room—it was a world. Floor-to-ceiling shelves wrapped in dark walnut, ladders on wheels, globes that spun with a whisper. Every surface was carved or gilded or worn smooth with age. Books filled every crevice. Some were bound in cracked leather, others in silk. Some were ancient and gold-edged, others stuffed with folded notes and pressed flowers.
Eva stood at the threshold, her little hands fisting her dress, and her eyes—oh, her eyes.
They glittered like glass marbles in the sun.
Her mouth fell open, not in a grin, but in sheer reverence. No words escaped her, not at first. She simply stepped forward, one small foot at a time, as if afraid the room might vanish if she moved too fast.
She wandered toward the first shelf and reached her arms up instinctively—then let them fall. She was too small.
But the books didn't mind. They loomed above like giants, old and waiting. She circled a globe twice, ran her fingers along the polished frame of an armchair, and then—spotted a book on a lower shelf. Within her reach.
It was clothbound, emerald green, no title on the spine. She crouched, grasped it gently, and pulled.
It slid out with a satisfying hiss of age.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
She plopped down on the rug, laid the book in her lap, and opened it.
The words were in an old script—not one she knew—but the illustrations glowed. Dragons. Maps. Mountain passes and shipwrecks. Her tiny fingers traced the lines, her brow furrowed with a concentration that seemed far too large for her frame.
That's how her mama found her.
*****
"Eva?"
The voice echoed gently through the hall. The door creaked wider.
Her mama's eyes adjusted to the dim gold light—and there, at the center of it all, was her daughter. Curled on the rug like a tiny scholar. Book open, expression severe, back straight as a ruler.
A few steps behind, her father appeared, straightening his waistcoat. "Is she in—ah."
They both stared.
Eva didn't look up. She turned the page.
Her papa chuckled under his breath. "She's already studying."
"She found the library?" her mama whispered.
"She found the library," he confirmed, awe shading his voice.
Then, as if remembering her manners, Eva looked up.
"I like it here," she said.
Her voice was still soft—measured. The Lioré hallmark. But there was something in her tone that made her father rub the bridge of his nose and her mother sit down beside her in silence.
"We're glad, darling," her mama said after a moment, smoothing the folds of Eva's dress. "But how did you get here?"
Eva blinked. "I followed the light."
*****
From that day on, the library became hers.
The staff learned quickly to keep the door unlocked between nine and noon. A small footstool was added near the lower shelves. A miniature velvet seat was delivered by the end of the week, just her size. A lamp—child-safe, warm, and golden—was installed near her usual spot.
When the workers passed by, they often peeked in.
And every time, they found her seated like a princess of intellect—tiny hands turning oversized pages, her face alight with concentration or wonder or mild confusion (which she often voiced aloud, usually with a very polite: "This word is silly.")
The butler, old and stoic, began slipping bookmarks into his jacket pockets—just in case she left one askew.
The kitchen maid, who once had no interest in literature, began leaving snacks on a little silver tray near the door. Carrot sticks. Biscuits. The occasional apple slice with a toothpick flag.
And Eva?
She thanked them all.
Every time.
"Thank you very much, Mister Alton," she would say, bowing slightly to the butler. "I won't bend the pages."
And to the kitchen maid: "That was very good. The biscuits weren't dry today."
The workers whispered about her in the halls.
"She's like a doll come to life."
"With a professor's mind."
"And the manners of a duchess."
**
Her mama was careful to balance pride with restraint.
"You may visit the library each morning," she told Eva, "but only after breakfast, and only until noon."
"Yes, Mama."
"And you may choose only three books per day. Your eyes are still very small."
"Yes, Mama."
"And if you leave them lying on the floor—"
"I won't," Eva said quickly, hands behind her back.
Her mama smiled.
Her papa, ever watchful, added, "And you'll still have playtime with your aunt after lunch. No arguments."
Eva hesitated.
Then nodded, lips tight.
"Good girl."
*****
Her aunt adored her.
She was older than her mama by some years, often smelling of mint and silk and sun-warmed perfume. Where her mama was graceful and composed, her aunt was laughter in motion.
Every afternoon, she swept Eva off her tiny feet.
"Come here, you divine gremlin," she'd laugh, hoisting Eva into the air. "Have you been breaking the laws of physics again?"
"Just reading," Eva said solemnly.
"Same thing."
She carried Eva on her hip like a prized satchel, pinched her cheeks without mercy, and called her "my little empress of ink."
Eva pretended to scowl—but always melted under the attention. Her aunt's arms were warm. Her voice was gentle. She didn't demand anything, just delighted in her presence.
Sometimes, her aunt would bring her soft crayons and paper.
"Draw me the castle in your mind," she'd say.
Eva did. The towers were uneven. The dragons had tiny wings. But she showed them with quiet pride.
Her aunt framed them.
*****
One afternoon, after a particularly triumphant morning in the library (she had discovered a book on astronomy written for noble children, which she declared "acceptable"), she sat in the garden under her favorite parasol, sipping cooled juice from a porcelain cup.
Her papa joined her, a book in hand.
He watched her for a moment, then asked, "Are you happy here?"
Eva looked up.
The question stilled her.
She thought of the books. The quiet. The biscuits. Her mama's gentle rules. Her aunt's laughter. Her papa's rare but thoughtful conversations.
"Yes," she said. "I think I am."
He smiled.
"Good," he said, reaching over to adjust her sunhat. "You don't need to be anything more than that."
Eva didn't answer. But she leaned her head gently against his arm.
*****
That evening, as her aunt carried her toward the nursery, Eva yawned and curled into her shoulder.
"She's heavy," her aunt murmured fondly.
"I'm growing," Eva mumbled.
"Scandalous."
When they reached her room, her aunt tucked her in and kissed her cheek.
"I'll bring you a new book tomorrow," she whispered.
Eva's eyes fluttered. "With dragons?"
"With dragons."
And with that promise stitched into her heart like a lullaby, Eva drifted off.
Surrounded by velvet blankets and a kingdom of stories just waiting to be opened.