Chapter 135: The Art of Care
Morning came like breath on glass — quiet, slow, soft at the edges. When Eva stirred, the sheets were still warm from where Seraphina had been, her scent — a hint of rose conditioner and clean cotton — lingering on the pillows. The sunlight filtering through the curtains hadn't brightened fully yet, still pale and silver, but Eva's mind was already spinning — focused, precise, calmly alert.
There was a rhythm to mornings like this, a quiet kind of ritual stitched with care and intention. She slipped out of bed without a sound, barefoot on the hardwood, her movements clean and practiced — not out of fear, but reverence.
In the kitchen, Eva moved like a concert pianist — deft, precise, deliberate. Today wasn't just breakfast. It was a thank - you. A balm. A small monument to Seraphina's quiet courage the night before. To how she'd listened. To how she didn't flinch when Eva opened the door to the life she wasn't meant to share.
She began with the base: a double - layered bento box lined with dark plum lacquer and compartments like secret rooms. Each section would be curated with care.
Grilled tofu slices, seared with tamari and ginger. Thinly - sliced roast duck, nestled beside a miniature bouquet of microgreens. A salad of watermelon, cucumber, mint, and shredded almond — light, refreshing, anchored with a dressing she mixed by hand from pomegranate vinegar and pressed basil oil. Along the edge, she fanned out slivers of yellow peach, fig, and dragonfruit. She added a wedge of nut cheese and a rolled portion of brie — two contrasting flavors Seraphina had liked last week.
Next came the parfait: layers of dairy - free coconut yogurt, slow - roasted granola, blackberries, honeycomb, and a single edible flower pressed gently into the top like a stamp.
Two insulated drink flasks were added — one with chilled jasmine white tea and one with hot barley miso broth. Each had a matching cork sleeve and a small note tucked beneath.
She made two desserts last, and only after staring at the clock for ten minutes to calculate digestion spacing. One was a soft rice cake filled with lemon cream and elderflower; the other, a tiny tart with blueberry compote and thyme, topped with a shard of sugar glass.
Everything was arranged not just for taste but for harmony. There was balance: flavor, color, temperature, scent. Her fingertips lingered on the placement, adjusting the angle of a fruit slice, realigning the tofu by a single degree. She wiped the box clean with a linen cloth, then tied it with a patterned ribbon — the same she and Seraphina wore yesterday.
Finally, she slid in a card she'd inked that morning with delicate calligraphy:
For my wife, my Ina
Who listens like the moon listens to the sea.
Thank you for staying when I unraveled.
I will make you a thousand meals before I run out of ways to say I love you.
— Eva, your little moonbeam
When Seraphina came down to breakfast, her hair still damp, cheeks warm with sleep, Eva looked up and smiled faintly. "I made your lunch."
Seraphina blinked. The box looked like a museum piece. "Eva…"
"Don't cry," Eva said lightly. "It'll ruin the palate."
Seraphina nearly did anyway.
They ate breakfast together — simple eggs and toast, fresh plums. When it was time to leave, Eva carried her school bag to the gate for her.
As Seraphina turned to go, Eva took her hand and whispered, "Have a good day, Ina." "My moon"
Seraphina froze for half a second. That name — Ina, calling her moon or wife - name — came rarely , her sacred nickname. Only when they were alone. Only when Eva's heart trembled with feeling too deep for her age.
"You too," Seraphina murmured, squeezing her hand. "Don't overdo it."
Eva's smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
At school, Seraphina quickly learned the limits of discretion.
Her lunchbox made her infamous by second period.
Three girls from the advanced science stream cornered her in the hall with wide eyes and envious smiles. "Who made that for you? Is it from Langford? You're family must have hire a new professional private chef."
One boy tried to sneak a picture. Another offered to trade his entire lunch for one bite of her salad.
Seraphina flushed. She shook her head. "It's… not from my place," she said, quiet but proud. "It's from someone very, very close to me."
She didn't say Eva's name. She didn't need to. The warmth on her face said enough.
She sat alone during lunch by the west window, unbothered by the buzz of gossip. Unwrapping each layer of the box felt like reading a love letter. The flavors were precise, thoughtful, full of notes only she could hear — Eva's unspoken language, written in fruit and texture and scent.
But even as she chewed, her mind drifted.
To that room.
To the hidden door in the east wing Eva had shown her just last night. The way it clicked open only under Eva's thumbprint, silent and smooth, revealing a chamber that did not belong in any child's world.
Books older than their country. Maps of wars she didn't recognize. Languages she'd never seen. Models of cities and color-coded diagrams of political alliances. And war games — massive, frightening, elegant in their complexity.
She'd seen one parchment spread across the desk — a diplomatic scenario where Eva was tasked with defusing a trade war between imaginary coalitions. Eva had solved it in two languages and three strategies.
Eva. Six years old. Learning what some diplomats didn't grasp in a lifetime.
Why?
Why did the Ainsleys — who claimed no royal title, who lived quietly, who sent polite letters to my parents about education and tradition — have archives like that?
And why was Eva — her Eva — being molded into something so sharp, so fragile?
The thought turned her stomach. The food still tasted like love, but it caught in her throat.
She hated Uncle Reginald. Hated him with a slow, seething fury she'd never known she was capable of.
He called Eva pathetic. She had heard the edge in Eva's voice when she recited the memory. Heard the old wound behind her eyes. Her Papa, Eva called him still. Not father. Not Reginald. Papa, like she was still begging to be loved.
Seraphina closed her lunchbox gently. She wanted to scream.
She wanted to run to the Ainsley estate and shake that man by his collar and demand — why are you doing this to her?
But she couldn't. Not yet.
So she wrote Eva a letter during her last class.
Dear my Eva,
Your lunch is a poem, and I read it with every bite. I think I tasted trust in the dressing, and something like hope in the tofu. The parfait made me miss you so much I nearly cried into my thermos. I didn't. But I wanted to.
I don't know what you're becoming. I don't understand half the things in that room. But I understand you. And you are good. You are gentle. And I will not let the world turn that into something they use.
I love you.
Always.
Your Ina.
She folded it small and tucked it into her ribbon pocket.
Back at the estate, Eva had completed morning drills, fencing routines, and two hours of tactical instruction. She was drenched in sweat by noon, her small frame trembling from push - ups, brain churning through geopolitical riddles.
When the last tutor left the hidden room, she remained behind. The quiet soothed her. She walked the rows of books like she always did when she needed grounding.
She picked one: On the Ethics of War, written in a forgotten dialect of Lioré.
She wasn't supposed to read it yet. It was coded above her level. But she sat down and opened it anyway.
The words unfurled like a secret whisper. She didn't understand all of them, but enough.
"The sword that defends must never forget the weight of peace. A warrior without sorrow is not a protector. He is a weapon."
Eva closed the book.
She missed Seraphina.
She missed the ribbon on her wrist. The softness of their nights. The way Seraphina said "absurd" like it meant "mine."
She stood, walked to the training desk, and pulled out a blank sheet.
Eva began to write.
If I had a kingdom, it would be you.
No lands. Just rooms. Each one filled with your voice.
The war would be over.
And the crown would be soft.
And no one would ever call a child pathetic again.
She folded the poem. Sealed it. Slipped it into her own ribbon pocket.
When Seraphina finally arrived at the Ainsley estate that evening — fresh from changing and grabbing a few things at home — their eyes met across the front hall.
No words. Just two smiles that understood everything.
"Welcome home," Eva whispered.
Seraphina stepped forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I saved you a piece of your tart."
Eva grinned. "Liar. You ate every crumb."
"…I might have."
They both laughed.
Later that night, beneath shared blankets and the hush of a world that had finally gone still, ribboned hair undone and strewn across pillows, Seraphina held Eva tighter than usual.
Eva nestled closer without a word, her cheek pressed against the crook of Seraphina's shoulder. The quiet between them wasn't empty. It was full — thick with everything they didn't need to say.
"You're warm," Eva mumbled sleepily, voice muffled against her. "Like a walking heated blanket. But prettier."
Seraphina let out a soft laugh, low and fond. "That's the bar now? Heated blanket?"
"You're elite-tier," Eva murmured. "Limited edition. Softness: 10 out of 10. Smells like jasmine and old books."
Seraphina brushed her fingers lightly through Eva's hair, untangling strands that had curled from sleep. "And you," she whispered, "are trouble."
Eva tilted her head up with a teasing glint in her eyes. "Trouble with snacks. Trouble who likes wearing your shirt and writes you haikus on napkins."
"That's true," Seraphina conceded, smiling as she tugged the blanket higher around them. "You're an excellent kind of trouble."
There was a pause, full of breath and comfort.
"Why'd you hold me tighter tonight?" Eva asked softly, not accusing — just curious, in that way she had when her heart peeked out from behind the walls.
Seraphina's hand stilled for a second, then resumed its gentle rhythm. "Because I missed you all day," she said quietly. "Because I keep thinking about the weight you carry that no child should."
Eva's voice was smaller now. "But I'm not just a child."
"I know," Seraphina whispered. "But you still deserve to be held like one, sometimes. Just because."
Eva blinked quickly, then buried her face back into Seraphina's shoulder. "You're going to make me cry on your sleep shirt."
"Then I'll wear your tears like medals."
"That's dramatic," Eva sniffled, smiling.
"So are you."
Eva gave a quiet giggle and nuzzled in closer. "I love you," she whispered.
"I know," Seraphina whispered back, "and I love you more."
"That's debatable."
"It's not."
Their pinkies found each other beneath the sheets, curling together like a promise in the dark.
And Eva didn't ask anything else.
Because some promises are silent, but loud in the way they hold you.