Chapter 12: Petals in Peril
The days following the banquet were unusually quiet in the Lioré household.
Evangeline Claire Lioré—just two years old, reincarnated genius or not—had cried for the first time in this new life. Not the tantrum-pouting or teary-eyed sulking her family sometimes saw, but something deeper. Raw. A full-bodied trembling, the quiet sobs of a child who didn't yet know how to scream. Her chest had heaved until she couldn't breathe, her soft fingers curling tightly against the sheets as her aunt rocked her in silence.
Her parents, once informed, had returned home within the hour.
Her mama had rushed up the staircase, abandoning her shoes at the landing and not bothering to contain the tears streaking her cheeks. Her father arrived a few moments later, jaw tight, his hands clenched so hard his knuckles paled.
And Eva—already asleep, breath shallow but even, eyes puffy from crying—never heard the moment her mother sank to her knees beside her crib and wept.
They never spoke of that night in front of her again. But something changed.
*****
The morning light was soft and gold. Dew glittered like scattered glass over the hedges. Eva was back in the garden again, her basket resting lightly on her forearm as she moved slowly across the flowerbeds. Her steps were small, careful, and her face was serene in the way only small children could achieve—serious, but bright-eyed.
She plucked a daffodil.
A white violet.
And then paused at a particularly stubborn stem of lavender, grunting softly as her tiny hands tugged.
She didn't remember what had happened at the banquet exactly. The man's face had hovered too close. His questions too pointed. The room had felt small, the air thick. Then he was gone—but the panic had stayed.
For the past three days, her aunt hadn't let her out of sight.
But this morning, the staff had been coaxed into giving her a moment to herself. Just a moment, they promised. She's only in the garden. She'll be fine.
Eva leaned in to sniff the lavender, her lashes fluttering as the scent curled in her nose. She smiled faintly and tucked it into her basket. She didn't hear the slow crunch of gravel behind her.
"Hello, sweetheart," said a warm, too-familiar voice.
She turned.
The man knelt down—broad-shouldered, smiling gently. His hair was silver at the temples, his eyes a polite blue that didn't quite reach the corners.
"I met you at the party," he said. "Do you remember?"
Eva tilted her head. Her instincts twitched, but her toddler brain hadn't fully formed the connection. She nodded slowly.
"Good girl," he said, reaching into his coat pocket. "I brought you a present."
Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of the toy rabbit he held out. She didn't take it.
He leaned in.
"It's okay," he whispered. "You don't have to be afraid. You're very special, you know. And there's a place that can help special little girls like you. A school. A lab. You can learn so much more."
Eva didn't understand all the words—but something inside her recoiled.
She stepped back.
The man's smile faltered. "No, no. It's alright. Here—just hold still a moment."
Her vision blurred suddenly. The air smelled like something sweet and metallic. Her limbs went loose. The basket slipped from her fingers.
He caught her before she hit the ground.
*****
She was halfway to the front gate, slumped over the man's shoulder, when the shouting started.
"Hey!" a voice shrieked across the garden.
It was her aunt. A whirlwind in a flowing coat, hair pinned messily, eyes wide with horror.
Behind her, Eva's mother emerged from the side of the house, barefoot and breathless. Her expression stopped the head maid mid-step.
The man turned, tightening his grip.
"It's not what it looks like," he began.
But her aunt was already sprinting.
It all happened in moments. A blur of motion, a flash of rage. The man tried to run. Eva's head lolled gently against his back, the drug strong enough to sedate but not harm.
A vase—flung from the veranda with desperate precision—smashed against his shoulder, causing him to stagger.
That was all her mother needed.
She lunged, catching him by the collar, dragging him backward as her sister grabbed Eva from his arms. The man didn't fight back—he simply froze, dazed and stunned, before dropping to his knees.
Security rushed in seconds later.
Eva's aunt held her gently, cradling her like spun glass, whispering her name as though it alone could shatter the spell. Her mother hovered behind them, a trembling hand over her mouth.
"She's breathing," her aunt whispered. "She's just… asleep."
Her mother knelt and touched Eva's cheek. "Call the doctor. Now."
*****
The man, as it turned out, was an old family acquaintance. A close friend of Eva's maternal grandfather. He had visited often in her mother's childhood. He had dined at the estate more times than they could count.
Which made the betrayal worse.
"He wanted her brain analyzed?" her father asked hours later, his voice low and dangerous.
"Worse," her aunt replied, voice tight. "He wanted to register her in a foreign lab. Their 'Gifted Child Project.' He thought no one would miss her for a few days."
Eva lay in the next room, curled on the couch with a quilt around her shoulders. She had awoken drowsy, confused. Her mother hadn't left her side since. Her aunt remained close, watching the door like a hawk.
"I want him jailed," her father said.
"He will be."
They sat in silence for a moment, the gravity of it settling.
And then her mother said, "I want to leave."
Her husband blinked. "Leave…?"
"This country. This city. I want to move. Somewhere no one knows her. Somewhere safe."
Her aunt looked up. "We'd have to pull strings. Find a place with protection but no spotlight."
Her father exhaled slowly. "She's only two."
"She's already been targeted," her mother whispered, looking through the door where Eva now giggled softly at the house cat. "She's not safe here. Not even in our home."
No one disagreed.
*****
The next morning, the house was busy with whispers. Plans were drawn. Luggage quietly packed. A handful of trusted staff were informed. Others were given notice.
Eva, still too young to understand the full weight of it, sensed the shift.
She sat on the floor of her nursery, lining up plush animals in a perfect arc. Her mother sat beside her, brushing her hair with slow, even strokes.
"Mama," Eva asked quietly, "was I bad?"
Her mother froze.
"No, darling," she said at last, scooping her into her lap. "You were very brave."
"Then why are we leaving?"
Her mother looked toward the window, where dawn was just beginning to color the sky. "Because some people don't understand the meaning of love," she said softly. "And we have to go where they can't hurt us."
Eva leaned against her.
"Will you be there?"
"Always."
"And Papa?"
"Yes."
"Auntie too?"
Her mother smiled. "Yes. All of us. Always."
Eva closed her eyes. She didn't need to understand everything. She just needed to know that the arms around her would stay.
*****
Later that afternoon, they left the manor.
No press. No fanfare. A quiet black car pulled to the edge of the estate, and the small family climbed in with only their most essential belongings.
Eva clutched a small basket in her lap. Inside were a few fresh flowers, a note she'd scribbled for the butler ("thank you"), and the rabbit the man had tried to lure her with—now tied in a small child's scarf, like a prisoner awaiting judgment.
She looked back at the manor only once.
And though she was only two, her memory—immaculate and strange—would hold the image of that day forever: the way the wind lifted the ivy from the balcony. The curve of the sun through the hedges. The cat watching solemnly from the gate.
A childhood left behind.
And the promise of safety ahead.
*****
They didn't tell her everything. Not the full reason. Not the danger.
But when they reached their new home—far quieter, smaller, nestled into a countryside so green it looked painted—Eva took a deep breath and turned toward the garden.
There were flowers here too.
And maybe, just maybe, enough peace to bloom.