Chapter 148: Beneath the Same Sky
The jet's engines purred in a distant, regal hush — a sound Eva had long since learned to ignore. She sat by the window, chin propped on a gloved hand, watching clouds unravel into fine silver strands below. The sky was a flat pale blue, nearly white, as if the horizon had lost its color waiting for her to return.
The lavender ribbon Seraphina had given her — faintly scented, now slightly frayed at the edges — remained tied around her wrist. She hadn't taken it off. Not once. Not even during showers or sleep. It was no longer just a ribbon. It was her compass.
As the jet descended toward the private airstrip nestled in the forested outskirts of the Ainsley estate, Eva's breath hitched. The sweeping pines, the slate rooftops carved into the hills, the glinting surface of the estate lake — it was all still here. Unchanged.
But she had changed. And not in a way she could explain.
The stairs descended before the wheels had even cooled. Eva didn't wait for the crew. She stepped down alone, black boots striking the tarmac with purposeful rhythm, her long coat flaring behind her like the wing of a raven.
And there —
Auburn waves caught the sun like firelit silk. A slate-blue coat. A silhouette standing alone, as poised as ever — but her eyes, dusk - colored and vivid, widened with unguarded emotion as they met hers.
"Ina!" Eva cried, voice high and raw with joy.
Seraphina's arms opened without hesitation.
They collided like two halves of a sky pulled together. Eva clung to her fiercely, burying her face in the hollow of Seraphina's shoulder, breathing in bergamot, ink, and something deeper. Something uniquely Seraphina.
"I missed you," Eva whispered.
"I missed you more," Seraphina murmured, tightening her hold.
The world hushed.
The estate stood like a dream reawakened — roses still defying the season in bloom, gravel crunching beneath her boots like fine sugar. But Eva no longer drifted through it like a girl. She moved with knowing — like someone who now carried a sharp and shimmering secret beneath her skin.
The staff welcomed her like a long - lost masterpiece returned to its rightful gallery. Aunt Vivienne kissed her hair and murmured, "Little lady of the house has returned to us."
But Eva's eyes barely left Seraphina. At tea, she spoke little. Beneath the linen tablecloth, her fingers curled tightly into Seraphina's.
When it was time to sleep, she asked — no, insisted — on sharing a room again.
They curled into the same bed as before. Seraphina read from a beloved worn book while Eva tucked herself into her side, cheek pressed to the curve of her waist, her heartbeat syncing to the rhythm of Seraphina's voice.
"I thought the house would forget me," Eva said quietly.
Seraphina closed the book. "The house remembers you. Every corner."
"Even the piano?"
"Especially the piano."
The next morning, it came.
Not a guest. Not a summons. A letter.
Hand - delivered, in heavy cream vellum, sealed with a wax crest that shimmered faintly gold beneath the chandelier light. The Lioré crest. Cold, precise, absolute.
Vivienne handed it over with a knowing smile and a fresh slice of apricot tart.
Eva accepted it wordlessly and retreated to the sun-drenched divan. She read it slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. Her fingers didn't tremble — but her eyes deepened with each sentence.
Seraphina watched her. "What is it?"
Eva didn't answer. She simply held the letter out.
Seraphina unfolded the thick stationery, reading aloud.
"Miss Evangeline Claire Ainsley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been formally invited to attend the Académie de l'Étoile in P•••• this July…"
Her voice slowed.
"…An opportunity to present your original musical compositions and theoretical essays to the international academic circle for prodigies under the age of twelve…"
She paused again, glancing up. "At six years old…"
The rest of the letter read like myth.
The Académie de l'Étoile. A name that rang through the highest halls of aristocracy, genius, and art. It was not a school in the conventional sense. It was a proving ground — a summit of youth intellect and vision. A place where prodigies were not only honed but crowned. Even royalty, with all their power and patronage, struggled to earn entrance. Nobles waited years for interviews that never came. Monarchs privately petitioned its cloistered board. And most of them were refused.
Admission was not based on wealth or title, but brilliance — rare, fierce brilliance that could not be faked or trained into existence.
And somehow, Eva had been chosen.
Seraphina blinked. "Eva… this is…"
"I know."
Eva's voice was quiet. Flat.
"It's not a request," she added.
"No. It's an honor," Seraphina said softly. "But…"
"It's two months," Eva said, her voice cracking. "Away. Again."
Seraphina exhaled.
"I don't want honors," Eva said. "I want you."
Aunt Vivienne, seated across the room, gracefully stood. "I'll let you two talk."
The door clicked shut.
Eva sat, stiff, unreadable. Her ribbon fluttered at her wrist.
Seraphina moved closer. "My little moonbeam. This isn't exile. It's acknowledgment. You're being recognized for something extraordinary."
Eva didn't meet her eyes. "What if it takes something from me?"
"Then you'll take something back."
"But what if I come back different?"
Seraphina smiled softly. "You will."
Eva flinched.
Seraphina cupped her face. "But I'll know you. No matter what you learn, or become — I'll know your eyes. I'll know your heart."
Eva stared at her. Then, suddenly, wordlessly, climbed into her lap and buried her face against her side.
"You don't have to go," Seraphina murmured into her hair. "Not for me. Not for anyone."
"But you're proud," Eva mumbled.
"I'm awestruck," Seraphina corrected. "Of course I'm proud. But I'd still be proud if you stayed in this room and read fairy tales for the rest of your life."
Eva's eyes welled. "They called me a musical theorist."
"You are."
"A composer."
"You are that too."
"Genius."
"That was clear when you were three."
Eva's breath hitched. "What if… What if they make me choose between being a genius and being yours?"
Seraphina's voice was steady, low. "Then you don't belong there. But I don't think that's what this is."
Eva pressed her forehead against her chest.
"I don't want to be lonely."
"You won't be. I'll write. With real ink, since you're such a purist."
"I am."
"I'll send letters. With pressed violets, and my marginalia, and notes on everything that happens here. You'll hate how I describe the garden."
Eva smiled faintly. "You always do too much metaphor."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
"Liar."
That night, Eva stood by the piano.
She didn't play at first. Just watched.
Seraphina waited on the couch, silent and still.
"I'm afraid," Eva said. "Afraid of becoming… too much."
Seraphina stood and walked to her. "Too much for whom?"
"For anyone."
"I'm not just anyone."
Eva's hands hovered above the keys.
"If I go…"
"I'll be waiting."
"And if I forget who I am?"
"I'll remember for you."
Eva nodded.
Then she sat.
She played a new piece. Soft. Searching. A minor - to - major shift like the moment before a child says goodbye.
When she finished, she looked up. "It's called Ad Lunam."
Seraphina didn't speak.
She just knelt beside the bench, kissed Eva's hand, and said, "Then I'll play it until you come home."
The days that followed were full and fleeting. Eva poured herself into preparations — editing compositions, annotating her essays in neat, looping cursive. She studied F••••• idioms and R•••• tempo markings. She drafted scales and counterpoint, and submitted early works for faculty review.
The school sent a personal note back.
"We have not seen such elegant density in harmonic narrative since the works of young Bartók. Her modulation study alone is cause for celebration."
Vivienne read it aloud with a pride she didn't bother hiding.
But every night — no matter how full her days were — Eva returned to the sanctuary of Seraphina's lap. Curled small, listening to poems read aloud, playing with the ends of her ribbon, she whispered all her truths between half - dreams.
"You're my home."
And Seraphina, voice unwavering, would reply:
"You're my heart."
Let the world turn.
She would always return again.