Chapter 31: A Quiet Return
Eva's POV
The days settled into a gentle rhythm, the kind that wrapped around the household like a familiar blanket. The sun rose and set with predictable grace, and the world outside the estate walls seemed content to let them be. Their new home, nestled among manicured hedges and tall iron gates, no longer felt foreign. It breathed with their patterns now—soft footsteps, whispered lullabies, and the scent of Vivienne's tea steeping in the late afternoon.
Reginald, ever the composed figure, remained a part of the household's architecture more than its heart. He was there—sharp suits, polished shoes, and watchful eyes—but his presence was defined by distance. He spoke to Eva with a cool politeness, nodding when she entered the room, offering gentle corrections if she wandered too close to the glass displays. But warmth eluded him.
Evelyn observed this distance with a mix of relief and guilt. There was safety in Reginald's detachment; it allowed her to live without the constant threat of scrutiny. And yet, every time she saw him stiffen as Eva laughed too loud or clung to Vivienne's skirts, a pang of longing twisted in her chest—not for him, but for something simpler, something whole.
Vivienne was the opposite. She flooded the rooms with color and breath and sound. She didn't walk so much as dance through the halls, her voice rising in song as she carried baskets of fresh herbs from the kitchen garden, or balanced Eva on her hip as she read ancient poetry aloud.
"Eurydice was not the fool," Vivienne had declared one evening, thumping the book shut. "She simply knew when not to turn back."
Eva clapped delightedly, not entirely understanding, but intoxicated by the certainty in her aunt's voice.
One afternoon, the house hummed with a hush, thick and golden in the late sunlight. Eva sat in the drawing room, arranging her colored pencils by hue—crimson to vermilion to burnt umber. The hush was soothing, but her ears perked at the sound of laughter—muffled, intimate, and close.
She padded toward the hallway, curiosity tugging at her like a ribbon in the wind. Around the corner, she paused, peeking out just enough to see them—Evelyn and Vivienne, standing close. Their foreheads nearly touched, and Vivienne was saying something that made Evelyn laugh—really laugh, the kind that bent her body and lit up her whole face.
Vivienne reached up, brushing a lock of dark hair from Evelyn's cheek, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Something fluttered in Eva's chest. She didn't have the words for it, not yet. But she felt the weight of it, the importance. Something sacred was unfolding, and she was seeing it from behind a curtain.
Then Vivienne's eyes flicked up. She spotted Eva, and her expression shifted—surprise, affection, playfulness all at once.
"Little spy," she called, her voice warm and teasing. "Are you on a secret mission?"
Eva giggled and stepped fully into the hallway. "No, Auntie. Just exploring."
Evelyn straightened, smoothing her blouse, her eyes softening as she extended a hand. "Come here, darling."
Eva ran into her arms, burying her face in the space between Evelyn's shoulder and neck. The scent there—lavender and ink—felt like home.
The moment between the adults shifted, folded into the familiar patterns of their trio. But the warmth lingered like the last rays of afternoon light on the windowpanes.
That evening, after dinner and bath time and a lullaby whispered in harmony by two voices she loved, Eva drifted into sleep. Or at least, they thought she had.
Downstairs, in the dim cocoon of the library, Evelyn and Vivienne curled up together on the velvet chaise, the fireplace casting low amber light across their faces. A single lamp glowed on the side table, illuminating the half-empty bottle of wine and the two glasses between them.
Vivienne let her head fall against Evelyn's shoulder. "She's growing fast."
Evelyn nodded, fingers idly playing with the edge of Vivienne's sleeve. "Sometimes I catch her looking at us like she's trying to remember something. Something from before."
Vivienne didn't speak at first. Then: "Maybe she is."
A silence settled over them—not cold, not awkward, but deep. Evelyn turned, her gaze tracing Vivienne's profile. "Do you ever think about the future?" she asked softly.
Vivienne turned to her, their noses nearly touching now. "All the time," she said. "Especially when it involves you."
Their eyes held for a long moment.
Then Evelyn leaned forward, and Vivienne met her halfway. Their lips touched, slow and tentative at first, a kiss that asked rather than assumed. But it deepened quickly, unspoken questions giving way to answers only the body could give.
Vivienne's fingers threaded through Evelyn's hair, pulling her closer. Evelyn let out a soft gasp as their mouths met again—this time with purpose, with the weight of all the years they had spent circling each other. The kiss tasted like wine and longing, like a promise too long postponed.
The blanket slipped to the floor as Evelyn climbed into Vivienne's lap, straddling her with trembling legs. Their hands roamed with quiet hunger—familiar territory made new by permission finally granted.
Vivienne's voice broke the hush, low and reverent. "I've wanted this for so long."
Evelyn cradled her face, eyes shining. "Then take it."
They sank into each other, shedding layers of pain and restraint like old skin. Lips on collarbone. Hands beneath silk. A gasp swallowed into a kiss. The room became their sanctuary, time bending around them like soft glass.
And so they didn't hear the soft creak of a door opening upstairs.
Didn't hear the sound of little feet on carpet.
It was only when the library floorboard groaned that Evelyn froze, pulling away slightly, breathless.
Vivienne blinked, hair tousled. "What—"
Evelyn sat up, listening. "Eva?"
No answer.
They rushed to the hall, searching room by room. Panic stirred, slow and sharp. But before fear could blossom fully, they heard it—soft humming, barely audible, floating in from the back garden.
They stepped outside, hearts still racing. The night air was cool, the moon silver and full.
And there she was.
Eva sat cross-legged on a blanket, surrounded by a sprawl of paints and brushes. She dabbed her brush into the deep blue, painting the twilight sky with a child's devotion.
"There you are!" Vivienne exclaimed, breath catching in her throat.
Eva looked up, eyes wide and calm. "You left me."
Evelyn dropped to her knees beside her. "Oh, darling, we didn't mean to. We were just… talking."
Eva didn't reply right away. Her tiny hands dipped into the red, swirling it onto the canvas in slow arcs.
"You owe me," she said finally, very seriously.
Vivienne crouched beside her. "Owe you what?"
"Ten kisses. Each."
A beat.
Then laughter broke—low and musical, rolling through the garden like wind chimes.
Vivienne scooped her up, spinning her once before showering her cheeks with kisses. "One, two, three—"
Evelyn joined in, holding both of them as she pressed kisses to Eva's forehead, nose, hands. "Four, five, six…"
Eva wriggled in delight. "Too many!"
"Not possible," Vivienne whispered, wrapping her arms around them both.
For a long moment, they simply sat there—three hearts beating close, three shadows in the grass. The stars above winked slowly, as if pleased.
Later, when they carried Eva back inside and tucked her into bed a second time, she stirred only slightly, murmuring, "Don't leave next time."
"We won't," Evelyn whispered, brushing hair from her face.
"Promise?" Eva asked, eyes closed.
"Promise," Vivienne echoed.
They lingered in the doorway after the light was out, holding hands.
"She's more than I ever dreamed," Evelyn said softly.
"She's everything," Vivienne replied.
They stood there a while longer, shoulder to shoulder, watching over the girl who carried both their hearts in her tiny, mysterious hands.
And then, without a word, they returned to the library, the scent of jasmine still clinging to their skin, and the night—still young—waiting to finish what had begun.