Chapter 32: The Sun Through the Lattice
The sun poured through the latticed windows of the breakfast room, a soft golden haze that dusted the polished floor in dappled light. Eva sat at the corner of the long table, her legs swinging under her seat. She held a mug in her hands, its surface warm against her small palms. The tea inside—chamomile, as her mama had called it—remained untouched. Eva was more interested in how the steam curled up like the tail of a tiny dragon.
Her fingers traced the rim of the mug, enjoying the warmth, her gaze drifting between the dancing light and the quiet hum of the house around her.
Two months had passed since they moved.
The city beyond their gated estate was vibrant and fast, its skyline a mix of glass and greenery, punctuated with the flitting hum of drones and quiet electric cars. Their new neighborhood was wealthy but understated. No one wore tiaras or silk gloves—just designer shoes and timepieces that said everything without saying anything at all.
Her family had changed their last name. For safety.
She was no longer Evangeline Claire Lioré.
Now, she was Evangeline Claire Ainsley.
It didn't matter much to her. Names were just shells to put meanings in. What mattered more was the way her papa kissed her forehead before work, or how her mama still tucked the blanket right up under her chin. The people stayed the same, and so the world felt mostly steady beneath her feet.
Still, things had… shifted.
*****
Her papa now spent most of his days in a building with dark glass walls downtown. He came home smelling faintly of toner and espresso, his eyes tired but smiling. Her mama had started working with an international organization—something to do with sustainability, trade, and international conferences. She had calendars filled with red lines and circles, and sometimes spoke in three languages during dinner.
Even her aunt—once a constant presence of cheek-pinching and garden strolls—had taken on a new role as a gallery consultant. Her schedule was full of museum openings, art fairs, and train rides to nearby cities. She still visited. She still hugged her tight and left lipstick kisses on her forehead.
But it wasn't quite the same.
Eva noticed all of it. She was still a genius, after all.
But she didn't resent it.
She was two. She had known loneliness before—real, hollow loneliness in a life that hadn't offered softness. This… this was not that. This was life changing, stretching, adapting. They always came back. And when they did, they loved her just the same.
That was enough.
*****
Her days were full in a quiet, sweet way.
She woke to the soft chimes of her moon-shaped clock. She brushed her teeth with strawberry toothpaste and combed her hair with a tiny pink brush. She wore dresses with stitched daisies and read books beside the wide bay window in the sunroom. The housekeeper, Miriam, who had thick arms and a laugh like wind chimes, would sometimes sneak her an extra biscuit with jam.
The gardener, Mr. Leo, would wave to her through the hedges. On rare days, he'd lift her onto his shoulders and let her point to which flowers should be trimmed.
The cook, Alina, let her sit on the counter while making pasta, tying her hair back with a handkerchief and giving her dough to squish in her fingers.
The house loved her, and she loved it back.
Sometimes, when the sun was just right, she ran barefoot through the halls just to hear her laughter echo back at her.
*****
It was during one of those afternoons—when the air smelled like baking and new lavender—that she sat cross-legged on the drawing room floor with a set of storybooks fanned out around her.
Her favorite was a picture book about the sea. Not because of the plot, which was meandering and rather boring, but because the illustrations were watercolors that spilled across the pages like real waves. She pressed her fingers to the blues and purples and let herself drift.
"Eva," came a gentle voice.
She looked up. Miriam.
"Snack time," she said with a smile, holding out a little plate of grapes and cheese cubes.
Eva blinked slowly. "I'm not hungry," she said politely. Then, because she'd been taught not to be rude, she added: "But thank you."
Miriam laughed softly. "You're such a little lady."
Eva tilted her head. "Is that good?"
"Very good," Miriam said, setting the plate down anyway. "But little ladies still need snacks."
Eva gave the food a skeptical glance. Then, very slowly, she reached for a cube of cheese.
"One bite," she negotiated.
"Deal."
*****
Later that evening, her mama returned first.
She entered the house in a rush of perfume and paper rustling, her heels clicking down the hallway until she spotted Eva perched on the stairs, humming softly to herself.
"Hi, baby," her mama whispered, rushing forward to sweep her up.
Eva wrapped her arms around her neck.
"You smell like taxis," she murmured into her shoulder.
Her mama laughed. "That's because I took three today. One in the rain."
Eva leaned back. "Was your umbrella broken?"
"Worse. It was in the other bag."
"I told you to put it in the red one," Eva said primly.
Her mama kissed her cheek. "You did. And you were right."
That earned a small, satisfied hum from Eva.
She was set down at the kitchen counter while her mama poured herself a cup of tea and leaned against the island, just watching her for a moment. There was something behind her eyes—tiredness, maybe, or guilt.
Eva noticed.
"I'm not mad," she said quietly, nibbling on a biscuit.
Her mama blinked. "Mad?"
"That you're busy."
Her mama's throat worked. "Oh."
"I know people do important things."
Silence stretched between them. Then:
"I love you," her mama said. "Even when I'm not here."
Eva reached out, her small hand finding hers. "I know."
They stayed like that until the tea grew cold.
*****
That weekend, the whole family made pancakes together.
Her papa wore a ridiculous apron with a cartoon egg on it. Her mama tried flipping a pancake and almost hit the ceiling. Her aunt arrived halfway through with a bundle of tulips and lipstick already smudged, and kissed Eva five times on the cheek.
She was hoisted up, carried around like royalty, and pinched until she squealed.
That morning, the house was loud. There was flour on the floor, syrup on her toes, and laughter echoing off the walls.
She didn't want it to end.
But it did, as mornings always do. Her papa left first, then her mama. Her aunt lingered a little longer but soon vanished behind a text message and a call about a gallery mishap.
Eva sat in the quiet kitchen, sticky-fingered and thoughtful.
She looked around.
And then she picked up her sketchpad.
If they were all building things outside the house, she would build something here. A little world of her own.
*****
The next few weeks passed in small, bright bursts.
Eva took to rearranging the family bookshelf in alphabetical order, then by theme, then by spine color. She created a catalog of her plush animals, complete with check-out slips and membership cards. She began collecting leaves from the garden, pressing them between pages with careful notes on color and texture.
The housekeeper was amazed.
The gardener kept bringing her new leaves on purpose.
The cook started baking her leaf-shaped cookies.
Her mama, papa and aunt Vivienne " sometimes" tried to come home earlier.
Her aunt started keeping weekends just for Eva.
But none of this was born of loneliness.
It was joy.
The joy of being loved, yes—but also of loving herself, her space, her days. She laughed more now. She forgot to stack things perfectly. She sang nonsense songs while brushing her teeth. She kicked her feet at dinnertime. She interrupted her mama's phone calls to ask if rain had feelings.
She was becoming a child.
A real one.
A happy one.
*****
One night, as her papa carried her to bed, she rested her head on his shoulder and asked, "Was I always like this?"
He paused. "Like what?"
"Light."
He blinked. "You've always been light, sweetheart. We just had to give you the space to shine."
She smiled sleepily. "I think I'm forgetting things."
"Like what?"
"I don't know," she said honestly. "But it doesn't hurt anymore."
Her papa kissed her forehead. "That's good, baby. That's very, very good."
*****
And as he tucked her in, placing the moonlight nightlight beside her and brushing the hair from her temple, Eva smiled to herself.
Not because she remembered her past.
But because, for the first time, she didn't need to.